Hounds of Orion

The stench of blood and oil filled Logan’s nostrils as he engaged the enemy pilot. His legs felt numb and heavy, straining even more than usual to walk, the uplink screws slotted into his piloting threads demanding more of his strength with every step. It could have been worse though. Crusader’s shield had taken the brunt of his opponents ferocious barrage, letting only a few swings from the berserker’s hand-axes slip past his guard. One had cut deep enough through his armor to shave a chunk of flesh off of his thigh, but not enough to cripple him. The stim delivery system he had installed a week prior had proven to be well worth the silver he spent, pumping adrenaline and pain killers directly into the neural uplink port at the nape of his neck as soon as blood loss had registered. All that was left for him now, was to put the asshole who did this in the dirt.

He looked out across the battlefield, eyes straining to see through the darkness and smoky haze coming from the wreckage surrounding him. He caught an outline of a blocky figure, its metallic shell glinting in the moonlight, and focused on it.

“Vic, give me a vision scan,” Logan said, his voice a deep growl. Almost instantly, his vision was tinted with a slight green hue, as the disembodied voice of the mech’s Virtual Intelligence rang out throughout the cockpit in a posh, dignified accent.

“Right away Sir,”

There was a flash of light as a horizontal beam of infrared light was across the environment. As it did, the outline of his opponent shined with a dull white-green light, giving Logan full view of his adversary. It was a berserker model, boxy in shape and built low to the ground standing only eight meters in height as opposed to the standard ten. It’s legs were long, taking up most of its size, ending with a pair of taloned feet that were dug into the upturned dirt. Boost jets flared around its ankles, signifying its ability for an explosive burst when needed. Its arms hung limp to its side, a hand-ax the size of a small train car in each gauntleted fist.

“Vic, what’s our probability of success here?” Logan asked, taking in a deep breath, steeling himself for the moments to come. The VI was silent for a moment, a sign that Logan knew meant he was working in all possible variables. A few seconds later, he got his answer.

“Depending on pilot rating,” Vic began, “We have a 67.72 percent chance of survival against any pilot Beta rank or lower. Naturally those odds will decrease for any rating above that. Dropping to 15.23 percent for Gamma, and .15 percent chance for Sigma. Omega class ratings are zero of course.”

“Thanks,” Logan said sarcastically, exhaling with an exhausted sigh.

“Naturally Sir,” Vic said, ignorant to his Pilot’s tone. “May I ask, how do you plan to proceed?”

If it was possible, Logan would have shrugged. Instead, he kept his eyes set on the Berserker, and walked towards it. “I’m gonna do what I always do, Vic. Improvise.”

The Berserker was the first to act. The second Logan left the smoke, it dropped its body low, boost jets priming and igniting in an instant as it leaped through the air, closing the space between them in the blink of an eye, as it brought its two axes down in an arc.

Logan cursed and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow as the axes impacted the ground, kicking up dirt and debris, before retaliating with a strike of his own. He swung in a chopping motion, fingers gripping the orange Physilight construct in his hand tight, signaling for Crusader to mimic the motion with its mace as he aimed for one of the Berserkers arm joints. Instead of hearing the dull crunch of a pulverized arm however, Logan heard the sharp clang of metal on metal, felt the aftershock reverberate through his bones and vibrate his teeth.

“What the-” He said, eyes wide. Before he could finish the statement, his opponent countered, pushing off the ground and delivering an iron clad knee strike straight to Logan’s cockpit. Another burst of the mech's boosters multiplied the force from the blow, sending Logan staggering back while the Berserker chased after its prey.

“Shit! He’s fast!” Logan said aloud through gritted teeth as brought his shield up to tank a flurry of swings from his attacker. One strike. Two strikes. Six. Twelve. The barrage seemed to go on forever and Logan could feel his muscles screaming for a reprieve.

“Your right arm is under tremendous stress Sir,” Vic’s voice, as calm and polite as always, rang out through the cockpit, breaking up the muted thuds of ax swings outside. “If it stays in this state of stress much longer, I’m afraid you risk a compound fracture”

“Gee ya think?!” Logan shot back. “I hadn’t noticed!”

He centered his footing, ignoring the pain that shot through his arm as he did so, and leaned forward, pushing his shield into the ax swings, bashing his opponent back and causing him to stagger. Timing his moment to strike in time with his movements he burst forward diagonally, round the Berserker’s side and driving his mace into its hip joint. He was rewarded with the sound of crumpled metal and the feeling of something sturdy giving way.

The mech lurched and jerked awkwardly as the pilot no doubt tried to free himself from the spiked flanges of Logan’s mace. This was the moment Logan was waiting for. He let go of the Physilight rod in his right hand, the construct of orange light dissolving into particles, as Crusader dropped the giant slab shield to the ground. He quickly closed his into a fist, feeling the motion mimicked by his mech, and delivered a devastating haymaker to his opponents head. The sound echoed throughout the battlefield like a clap of thunder, and the Berserker went flying through the air, completely lifted off the ground. And still, Logan had more to give.

“I’m not done with you yet!” He growled out, and used the booster jets on Crusaders back to surge forward like a predator finding its next meal. He shot up to the side of his free falling adversary and brought his mace down hard onto its cockpit, yelling out a battle cry as he forced the Berserker to impact the ground with a powerful slam.

In an instant, everything had stopped. The only sound that reached Logan’s ears was that of his own labored breathing. He looked down, analyzing the damage he had caused, his eyes resting on the head of his mace buried in the cockpit of his enemy. He knew the Pilot was dead, he could see it with his own eyes. Pieces of viscera that looked like they had been squeezed from a tube of red paste oozed out of bent metal seams. He could recall a time, when a sight like this would have made him sick to his stomach. He would have felt a wave of guilt and shame wash over him that wouldn’t come off no matter how many showers he took. He could remember the nightmares that left him shivering in a cold sweat. How he missed those days. To be able to feel… anything. But this was his life, his path. Numbness was both a necessity and a curse. He wouldn’t mourn this faceless pilot, nor did he feel sorry for them. At the end of the day, it was just business.

He stood up straight, yanking his mace free from its resting place in the enemy's cockpit, and looked around. All around him, he saw the destruction that was bought and paid for by people who’d never set foot on this world. Once proud and powerful units and pilots now reduced to crumpled corpses of both metal and meat. He sighed, shaking his head, taking a minute to gather his thoughts.

He couldn’t even recall the name of the planet he was on, nevermind the side he was fighting for. No, the only thing that he remembered clearly, was the pay. Maybe that didn’t justify the things he did today, the lives he took, but they weren’t around to pass judgment. It didn’t matter if they were though, right now, all Logan wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed.

“Is everything alright Sir?” Vic said, interrupting his thoughts almost as if on cue.

Logan could only offer a soft nod, as he flicked a switch on his palm, transferring the controls to the VI.

“Yeah Vic… I’m good. Take us home.”