Sergeant Walsh dragged himself down the stairwell into the sublevel, shoulder scraping along the wall for support. His boots left streaks of blood as he limped past broken pipes and shattered glass until he reached the fuel room—rows of red barrels gleaming under the emergency lights.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor behind him. Heavy. Metallic. Getting closer.
Walsh flicked his lighter and lit the cigarette still clinging between his lips. The flame briefly revealed his tired face—sweat, blood, and grit. He took one last drag, then jammed his combat knife into a red barrel.
The fuel began to spill, spreading like dark water across the concrete floor. The faint blue light around the stairwell flickered and then froze.
The sergeant smirked. "Come on then. I'm right here, shitbox." He could see it now—that eerie glow creeping closer, the reflection of twin blue eyes cutting through the darkness. The mech's flashlight came on, revealing its towering frame and the corridor it had just stalked through.
The sound of steel feet striking the floor grew louder and faster.
Walsh exhaled, the cigarette burning low between his lips. "This is for my boys."
He spat the cigarette out—it hit the fuel-soaked floor with a hiss.
FSH—BOOM!
Outside, Brian sprinted through the burning wreckage, lungs on fire, heart pounding like a drum. Ahead, a military truck was already revving up, soldiers shouting from the back.
"Run, Brian! Come on!"
The sound of their voices—their desperation—blended with something else in his head. A roar of a crowd, the stadium, the cheer of thousands. He could hear it as clear as day.
"Fight on! Even if you lose—never give up! Keep your spirit rock! Together we'll rise!" Tears welled up in his eyes as he ran. Every step felt like pushing through his past, through pain, through fire.
"YAAAHHHHH!"
Dan reached out from the back of the truck, rifle in one hand like a lifeline. Brian grabbed hold—the hands of his brothers-in-arms pulled him up as he stumbled into the cargo bay.
"Where's Simon?!" Dan shouted.
Brian didn't answer. He just lowered his head, wiping the dirt and tears from his face. That was all the answer Dan needed.
Dan gave a small nod to the driver. "We're all here. Fucking go!" The truck lurched forward, speeding away into the desert night. Brian knelt down in the back, gazing out at the spotlights still flashing behind them. The roar of the engines faded—replaced by silence. He looked up toward the rising sun. His face was smeared with the blood of his comrades, and for a brief, impossible moment… the world stopped.
Birds hung motionless in the air. The truck's wheels froze mid-turn. The flames behind him burned without moving. Everything, absolutely everything, stood still. Brian clutched his head, panting. It felt like his mind was collapsing in on itself. He reached for the pistol holstered at his side, trembling. "Please… just end this nightmare." He pressed the barrel to his chest and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Not even a single shot fired. Even the air was frozen. He stared at the weapon in disbelief, then stumbled out the back of the truck. His boots hit the sand. And there—atop the dune—stood a woman. Her long blonde hair shimmered in the desert light, waving softly as she raised a hand and smiled at him.
"Hey! Who are you?!" Brian called out. "Hello?!" The woman didn't answer. She just turned—and gracefully slid down the far side of the dune, vanishing behind it. "Hey~" Brian ran after her, scrambling up the sand, but when he reached the top—she was gone. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction.
Then—something cold brushed against his neck. A woman's voice whispered by his ear, soft and melodic, but with a unique dialect unlike any he'd ever heard:
"Step thou with both thy feet into the river warm, wherein the eldest son's salt tears do flow. They fall upon the golden earth forlorn, beneath the desert's sky, where none may go. There shalt thou dwell, unseen by mortal eye. Let me trace the sorrowed path thou tread'st, And hand in hand, ascend we to the sky—the sun our crown, our griefs at last redress'd. Lo, I am come—as was foretold of old—when time hath ripened, and the tale is told."
"What? Wait—!"
Before he could turn, something seized his legs, dragging him down into the sand.
He screamed, clawing at the ground as the desert swallowed him inch by inch.
And through it all—that same voice sang, sweet and haunting, echoing through the stillness of the world.
"Awake thee now~~Lift thy head, rise and take thy part~~ open thine eyes~~ and dream no more~~Let slumber's veil fall silent~~, my sweet soul~, awake~."
Brian's hand shot up from the sand—trembling, veins bulging as he struggled to hold on.
Then—a delicate hand reached down, soft as a feather, and touched his fingertips.
"Awake now," she whispered, her voice fading like a lullaby. "The nightmare is over."