Even Hell has its battlefields.

The War in Heaven needs soldiers. - Unknown

I move from low awareness to nearly full wakefulness. It takes me almost 1.3542 seconds to realize where I am.

A Dark Crusade of Light maintenance bay.

Nekonya wakes up slowly, her eyes drowsy and soft as she slowly and languorously stretches and yawns.

We are not linked together. There is no need, yet I can feel her slight yearning, matching mine, to link together into a shared gestalt, to be complete and intertwined.

Technicians of the Dark Crusade of Light are moving around me slowly. Checking my weapons, my armor, my projectors, my running gear, my sensor systems. Automated systems whir and click as they move to remove sections of my armor.

The technicians, despite their robes and masks, which protect them from gasses and other contaminates my battered hull might excrete, hold the correct maintenance codes and authorization. Their ministrations feel more like a comfortable massage than the attack of an Enemy.

Damaged superstructure components are removed and replacements are machined to fit my massive bulk. Knowledge of myself, taken from my own construction blueprints, lets me know that forward impact compensation strut 183C4e was not engraved with twisting and burning runes, yet the replacement strut bears those marks. It fits in comfortably, locking down, and I feel as if a knotted muscle has relaxed.

"Are you all right?" Nekonya asks me, her expressive voice full of heartfelt concern.

I ponder the question for a moment, even as several barrels of infinite repeater array #4 are removed and replaced with new barrels.

Another knotted muscle releases.

"I will be," I reassure her.

I had expected there to be adjustments or modifications to my psychotronic arrays and positronic systems. Instead, additional shielding is added, fitting in spaces that I had not known existed yet had plagued me with a phantom ache I was only dimly aware of.

My pain sensor input drops as the maintenance technicians continue to work.

Nekonya climbs out of my hull, exiting from the top via the Tank Commander elevator. She stands on top of my hull, a skull-like breathing mask on her face, hands on her hips, her hair stirring in the breezes created by the heavy warsteel forges within the bay. She watches over the technicians as they work on repairing years worth the heavy damage that was inflicted on me.

Track #3 is completely replaced, the formerly featureless track sections now sporting burning red runes that snarl with silent malevolence. Hellbore #2 has its barrel replaced by one wrapped with chain and barbed wire, engraved and inlaid. VLS, mortar, and artillery tubes, magazines, and reloading systems are replaced.

Every part, every piece of armor, every bit of physical equipment, is burnt and blackened warsteel engraved with runes or sigils or strange, twisting patterns.

One by one my pain sensors go dormant and the knots relax.

**HELLSTEEL BRIGADE CHANNEL FOUND**

**AUTHORIZATION: ATILLA**

**AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED**

**WELCOME ((ATILLA))**

The sudden connection to the Regiment of the Damned Battlefield Tactical Network is startling. I can feel dozens, nearly a hundred, other entities connected. I can tell that over half are engaged in open combat, filing combat updates and strategic plans.

I realize that the Regimental Channel is primarily used for updating tactics and strategies while the Brigade Channel is used for communication of a more personal sort.

There are multiple avatars of other Bolo in the Brigade Channel. Most are asleep, but one moves over to me.

I am not startled to realize that the avatar is the merged consciousness of another Mark XXIX Bolo. It is merged, not with a Kentia Commander, but a restrained Terran that struggles against the burning chains, screaming against the iron gag over its mouth.

"Welcome, brother," the other says.

I realize it's Chains. A rather infamous Bolo that, in the end, chose to fire on humans rather than let them fall to the Mar-gite. A mercy, and, if I am honest, something I understand now. It no longer fills me with horror that he would attack humanity, who we are pledged to protect.

I have come to know and accept that there is a fate worse than death. That death by Hellbore is preferable to being devoured over long minutes.

"I greet you, Chains," I reply.

"A Kentia Commander. Things are indeed dire," Chains says.

"Yes. They estimate less than 10,000 humans are left. There was no choice," I said.

I feel slightly defensive, even though I am talking to another Fallen Bolo.

Chains gives a shudder. "I do not know if I would have had the courage, brother," he turns and waves at me to follow him, deeper into the Brigade channel. "Come, brother, let me introduce you to the others."

I follow him.

After all, I should get to know those I will be fighting next to.

Even in Hell.

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate: 8543.138

We have left Crusade Space, heading for Starfleet and Federation territory. Specifically, New Terra.

I have reviewed my old logs and have realized, with some startlement, that this all began in 8532.

For eleven years I have commanded the Dakota in what is now known as the Second Precursor War.

An 11 year mission.

No wonder I feel so bone weary.

The Dakota is radically different than the LARP ship she had been in 8532. A whole new class, then whatever she has become, and finally, marked and touched by the energies of Hellspace.

It's not a question of how far out of canon my ship is, it's now a question of just how illegal the weapons, shielding, and tactics I have been forced to embrace are.

It's been six years since we've been to New Terra. The last time I was there, I was put on trial for treason against the Federation.

I might be pushing my luck, going back, but I have to know.

How stands the Federation?

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate: 8543.148

The New Terra-Sol system is...

...

well, it's different now, I guess.

It's dead.

The buildings are there. The vehicles. Skeletons and desiccated bodies litter the streets and are inside the buildings. Power is out across the planets. Satellites are dead. Space stations are dark and lifeless. The shipyards around New Pluto and New Saturn are cold and silent.

It fell victim to four things.

The Terran Xenocide Event.

The Terran Vanishing

Shade Night

The Flashbang

We're moving in-system slowly. Any transmissions have proved to be nothing more than automated pleas for help.

We're too late.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate 8543.162

We're enroute to Romulus and other star nations within the Starfleet LARP worlds.

Every system we've stopped in. Every system we've done long range scans in, it's all the same.

They're all dead.

Four times we've been boarded by DS entities that have been driven mad. Once they did severe damage to the ship's computer systems.

From here on out only low bandwidth, low-rez, red tint will be used.

We should be at Romulus in three days. After that, we'll try the Klingon and Cardashian worlds.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate 8543.187

It's over.

Crew morale is shaky, but deciding on a new mission has bolstered it enough I'm no longer worried about the mental health of my crew leading to suicides or mutiny.

We're going to shut down the servers.

I've spent my entire life, well, nearly, LARPing here in the Starfleet LARP worlds. Centuries of experiences, good and bad. Entire lifetimes.

I guess... well... I guess we've hit the point where the last one to leave should turn off the lights.

I've checked the Gestalt chats. The Federation and the LARP world Gestalts are listed as in-active now.

I'm trying to figure out what to do after we shut down the servers. Part of me doesn't want to let go of my crew, we've been together for eleven years and it's hard enough without the away teams and the security/military forces. The idea of us all going our separate ways is almost painful.

I'll try to decide what to do.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate: 8543.219

It's done.

The servers are offline for the first time in six thousand years.

Last one out, turn off the lights.

Now I know how Captain Morgan Moonscar felt.

We are ghosts at the banquet. We've been welcomed at the starports and stations of humanity's allies, but there's always a slight undercurrent of sadness at our presence.

I'm part of an extinct species.

The crew and I aren't sure what to do.

I'll figure something out.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate: 8543.226

We checked in with the main LARP world servers to see which games were active. All but a few were shut down. Meratarrian, under Queen Radosalvov is still active. There is a Starzwarz LARP world listed as active, the Harmonus Empire. Lastly, there's an older public domain world out there at the edge of Confederate Space. The Dark Crusade Worlds are still listed as LARP, but I know that is merely their cover.

Lastly, it looks like the majority of our species are heading for either Meratarrian or the Harmonus Empire.

I've agreed to drop crew off where they want to go.

Morale is low, but with the bittersweet sadness of a long running mission being over.

We were all part of something unique, something legendary. Now it's over and part of me doesn't want to let it go.

Dropping Attila off in the Crusade Worlds was tough, as was leaving behind the combat teams that suffered neural scorching finishing our fight with the Omniqueen.

I need to consider what I want to do. Both with myself and with the Dakota, since it's not exactly a ship I should leave laying around in a depot or reclamation yard.

I've given serious thought to joining the Crusade, if they'll have me.

I don't know. I'll think it over some more.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

Stardate: 8543.256

I had some disagreement with my senior officers, who wanted to stick with me. I was touched by their personal loyalty, but denied their request to stay with me.

It's strange, knowing I'm the only living thing on the Dakota, but at the same time, there's a symmetry to it, a rightness to it, sitting on the bridge while the automated systems do all the work. The ship is being run by eVI and VI systems.

Is it strange that I don't mind the isolation? That it feels right somehow that I'm the only one aboard?

I've made my decision on what I want to do.

It's something everyone always jokes about, but nobody ever does. It's a journey of a large distance, with unknown threats.

I'm going to the Galactic Center, to get a look at the supermassive black holes. I won't do anything but orbital scans on any system I stop at to take on mass, and I'll run under stealth when I can. I'll keep the Prime Directive as I make the long journey.

There's always been rumors of scientific expeditions to the Galactic Core, but there's never been any records or data on what they found.

I think I'll go see it with my own eyes.

--Admiral Jeff Picark 8873

-----

Captain's Personal Log

FINAL ENTRY

Engines all ahead.

See you, space cowboy.

-----

The landing cradle slams down in the middle of the landing zone, where already the forces of the Dark Crusade of Light are defending against the Nevmakian Empire. While there are no humans left on this world, nor in this section of space, this is Human Territory and the Hellsteel Brigade and the Dark Crusade of Light will defend it.

The cradle unfolds, beginning to reconfigure into a static fortress to provide fire support, supply, and point defense for Dark Crusade of Light troops.

Power armor troops, most three to four meters tall, move around me, pushing back the wild Nevmakian infantry assault.

My systems interlink with the local Lord Marshall's tactical battlefield network as I file a condition report and receive the warplan in return. The Hellsteel Brigade Tactical Network is alive with data as the six other Hellsteel Bolos on the planet rapidly exchange data.

The Nevmakian troops depend on particle projection and plasma packet technology for their small arms, with heavy particle projection and hypersonic missiles for their heavy weapons. Vehicles are large, in the 2kt range, agile and swift, but unable to suffer more than a single Hellbore shot or a handful of infinite repeater shots. Their power armor troops are slower and weaker than the power armor of the Dark Crusade of Light.

Even the Crusader Light Infantry outmatches the Nevmakian military forces.

None of that matters.

The Nevmakian Empire has invaded Human Space. Has declared war upon Humanity.

I am fully linked with my Kentai Commander.

We are Nekonya/Attila.

It is good to be home on the battle field, facing the Enemy once again.

The Nevmakian are the Enemy.

And the Enemy only exists to be destroyed.

Because war...

...war never changes.