Once he was human, but that was several lives ago. How many — this comrade didn't remember, losing count after the tenth death. The white skaven remembered only his name from his human life. His name was Michael Stockhausen.
From his first life, he remembered only vague images, but he remembered very clearly how it ended. A mercy bullet. Suicide. Escape from stagnation in solitary confinement.
Then the man didn't die, or rather — not entirely. Although his brains were scattered all over the room, it wasn't the end for his mind. The consciousness of the deceased body was carefully preserved by the "Collective" and directed towards rehabilitation.
Michael relived the events of his life again and again, changing the prism of his perception with each iteration, until he finally forgave himself. At that moment, the citizen who had atoned for all his crimes was faced with a choice of what to do next. Live or continue to exist as a data packet?
He chose life in a new body, consciously rejecting a human one, although no one limited him or even dissuaded him from such a step. The former German scientist, without coercion or threats, chose to live in the body of a skaven. A short but bright existence in the body of a sentient rat.
Elevated to sentient beings by the Fourth, ordinary laboratory rodents, like their wild brethren, experienced fear. Having gained the ability to realize themselves, becoming something more than just animals, they experienced horror… which overshadowed the large, warm, and affectionate image of the Motherland, the collective consciousness of the entire USSR.
Rats, who were prone to defending their nest, saw it in the collective mind. Moreover, the neural network took away their fear of death, which weighed on every rodent. Logical beings simply understood in a moment of enlightenment that there is no death.
This led to the formation of skaven as a race. They lived life to the fullest, dedicating themselves entirely to their chosen cause, enjoying all the colors of existence. If it was creation, then the rats, if there wasn't enough material, would throw their bodies into the conveyor without hesitation. The same was true for military craft. What did they have to fear now?
Therefore, the former scientist, driven by ambition and an idea to achieve great things, realizing his mistakes, chose reincarnation as a skaven. He also feared death in his first life and was close to it more than once, as was the whole world.
His second life did not last long. Only three years, a battle — and he found himself again on the endless virtual fields, not regretting his death. It turned out that living a short life to the fullest without fear of death is almost comparable to a drug. Although many believed that skaven were made this way on purpose, the sentient rats themselves knew the truth, readily taking on the role of cogs in the system, facilitated by their fertility.
The former scientist knew that someone was even prosecuted when the citizens of the USSR understood what kind of people had been raised by science, but all the hastily conducted research showed the randomness of the result. That is why, after completing the project, Soviet science no longer elevated animals. The brains of living beings stored their secrets too well. Moreover, the ethical aspect had not been canceled, as scientists had already dangerously approached the line where they were playing God, even if it was justified by the desire to survive in the approaching storm. People created companions for themselves, not slaves, so the fanaticism of the skaven and their attitude to life was sometimes frankly frightening.
The skaven themselves did not bother with this and did not strive to change the state of affairs, despite all the attempts of society. They liked to live short but bright lives. They were the embodiment of the explosions they so loved. Every sentient rat was this fleeting beauty of a moment. Therefore, as soon as new flesh withered, the scientist, without further thought, chose such a birth again, dismissing the Motherland's warning…
He created and built this moment, only to die for it a minute later. With each reincarnation, his fur became whiter, becoming a visible imprint of his past lives, which he remembered only vaguely. Birth, short nurturing, training, life, and death formed an endless cycle.
Few could withstand such a fate. Personalities, to finally become an archive of data, only needed three to four quick reincarnations, but there was one who, with each reincarnation, was purified of all superficiality, and therefore rushed to be reborn again in an instant. The Motherland still joyfully welcomed him into a new life, only to mourn him when he died, trying to dissuade him, but if he faltered, and others after him, then who would protect the Great Mother in the end?
When his fur completely turned white, it became a new milestone. The gray worker became the elite of his people. The memory of past reincarnations already made him special, and reinforced by a resilience that even eternity could not break, it made him not just an elite, but a living banner. A banner that would lead his gray brothers and sisters into the very hell of the approaching storm, to flash there with a blinding, fleeting, and beautiful burst that saved hundreds of others. Life is nothing if the native nest stands…
He knew how this day would end. He knew it exactly when the scout ship changed course. He knew it when he poured a mixture of vodka and brake fluid for his soldiers from a frozen crowbar, a hundred grams each. Death awaited them, and it was wonderful!
"For the Motherland!" the gray host roared, fearlessly rushing at the enemy.
Hundreds and thousands of paws raised a cloud of dust, and the clatter of claws was deafening. Ahead, the enemy was tearing apart the barricade with fire. The skaven rushed under bullets, and they were led not by the gleam of awards, but by the gaze of the Great Mother.
A step with an iron clang. The steel armor, cast in Soviet factories, reflected the enemy's weapon fire. The united formation of the pack began a mortal battle, raising scarlet banners.
A wave of sentient rats surged over the Geth and Collectors, engulfing them, sweeping them from the streets of the Citadel. A storm of claws and teeth tore at any semblance of resistance. Nowhere on the ancient station was there anyone more ferocious and enraged than the Skaven.
The Reapers' puppets were a crowd, but the gray host's warriors were an horde. For either side, the price of victory was irrelevant.
The first strike. His chain axe flung a synthetic aside, only to cleave a effeminate humanoid from head to groin. The puppet emitted no cry of pain, simply falling at the feet of the armored white giant.
Alien blood flowed in streams, but his cast-iron armor plates repelled it. He was the steel tip of the horde, the apex of the formation. The white one led his still-gray kin forward, directing their fangs and claws.
The outwardly chaotic flow of gray bodies of fighters in gas masks, trembling with nervous, joyful laughter, surged forward, knowing what awaited them. The lenses of their gas masks glowed red. If the enemy could feel fear, they would have howled in terror already, seeing thousands of eyes burning in the darkness of war.
The Skaven rushed in all directions, striving to outpace the cybernetic units, to be the first to strike the enemy or to take the blow intended for the state-sanctioned technology. Floors and street coverings collapsed under the invading forces, dragging them into abysses teeming with open jaws and honed steel. Walls fell, revealing previously hidden or newly made passages. Wounded Skaven fell from ventilation shafts, covered in explosives, to boost the morale of their comrades with the beauty of self-detonation. The gray wave truly overwhelmed position after position.
But more and more often, shots pierced shields and bodies, only making the comrades of the fallen rush into battle more fiercely than rabid beasts. His anger erupted into a roar, breaking into almost insane laughter when a Prime, with a well-aimed shot, ripped open his chest cavity. Only upon tasting his own blood, on the verge of death, did the former scientist understand that he was truly living, a real life!
His strength was enough for one last, righteous, proletarian surge of fury. Under the angry howl and laughter of his gray brethren, he was ready to depart again in honor and glory!
"For the Motherland!!!" - a cry full of malice stopped the heart of the Collector standing in his path and, it seemed, tore through the smoke of fires with its sheer force.
Catching the shaft of a thrown banner with his massive paw, the white one surged forward even more powerfully. The scarlet fabric swirled above him like a red eagle. The stance of the formidable warrior, towering two heads above his kin, became even more majestic.
"Follow me, comrades!!!" - he shouted, blood bubbles escaping his lips, finally reaching the enemy again.
He managed to take three more synthetics with him, besides the one that struck him down. "A good exchange!" - the white one thought, admiring the Red Banner sticking out of the machine's chest, before beginning to fall backward. A dead body landed on the ground with the frozen, joyful smile of a creature who died with a sense of a job well done.
The "Collective" met him with a warning about the personality core being close to critical condition, but he brushed it off, just as he did the suggestions to choose another race. The former scientist was already eager to be reborn to repeat the cycle, to taste such a short, but such a bright life.
A bright flash of explosion illuminated the Citadel level. With a hiss, two broken, smoking fangs embedded themselves in the wall of a building, leaving a smoky trail in the air, as if from a tracer. Naga, past whose head such original shrapnel flew, mentally paid tribute to the mad warrior, turning one of her eyes towards the explosion for a whole second.
"Four kilos of explosives," - the intelligent snake replied in passing, continuing to fire with all six of her hands. Using the peculiarity of her physiology, the Naga directed each pair of limbs in its own direction without shifting herself, which from the side looked like a bizarre spinning top. This allowed her to fire in all directions simultaneously with astonishing accuracy, as she didn't need to see the target to hit it.
"Breath for ten," - two pairs of hands turned, enviously of an owl, unleashing a hail of bullets on the Reaper's puppet.
"Synthetic for four," - feeling the electromagnetic oscillations, she placed two more bullets directly into the processor of the heretical Geth, her movements being unnaturally smooth and graceful.
A lightning-fast lunge became an almost dance-like step, accompanied by the crunch of metal as the rings of her mighty tail squeezed and cut through the hull of another machine with its scales. A little more effort - and the muscles of the warm-blooded snake simply crushed the opponent, throwing it into a heavy machine, knocking off its aim.
Performing an elegant pirouette, the Naga knocked the Geth off its feet with a tail strike, simultaneously closing the distance. She decided to bestow her mercy upon him.
Her lips lightly touched the synthetic's armor. From her stomach, under pressure, a liquid erupted that was hotter than napalm and more corrosive than sulfuric acid. Like a cumulative projectile, it burned through the super-strong alloy, instantly incinerating all the delicate electronics...
Next to her, her fellow countryman continued to hum his part with the rustle of steel swords. His six blades painted an intricate, beautiful picture of blood and steel. The last thing the Collectors saw in their mortal existence was a nimble shadow, before falling in a neat pile of flayed flesh.
Two, whose people had sworn allegiance to the cause of communism in gratitude for their salvation, having made unbreakable vows, were about to fulfill their assigned task. To hold the crossroads at any cost!
They praised their spirits, dancing among bullets, crawling over the heads of those who decided they could reap life in the galaxy...
The spirit of excitement compelled the felinid to seek out new targets. Her natural agility and composure granted her astonishing accuracy, befitting her arrogance as a superior race. Hitting a gap in the armor from six hundred meters and eliminating an enemy who had flanked the Nagas could only be done by an ace.
Gliding over roofs, ceilings, and ventilation shafts, the sentient cat became like a phantom, materializing only for another shot. Instead of a loud roar, the rifle emitted an almost silent exhale. The reactive bullet hissed through the air, finding its weak spot like the sharp claw of a predator.
An ambush, a calculated attack, and only spent casings remained at her chosen lair, chosen with the love only a superior and most successful hunter could possess, one who was so perfect from the start that evolution couldn't figure out how to improve her.
The cat chased her prey with all diligence, breaking the pattern of the fight with a single shot, striking only when necessary, dooming the enemy to defeat. But it could have been otherwise. The felinid could unleash a whole barrage, developing an astonishing rate of fire as if wielding a claw-adorned paw. In fact, the cat didn't shy away from using her fangs either, sinking them into an enemy's neck if they carelessly approached the proud predator's position. Some even had the honor of being disemboweled by her manicure, its sharpness rivaling a razor.
Having finished shooting once again, she, with a malicious flick of her magnificent and well-groomed tail, disappeared into the maw of a ventilation shaft just before the return fire caught up with her, showing everyone a clear combination of bionic finger-claws as a parting gesture. Not out of rudeness, but out of natural mischief, doing it all with aristocratic dignity. Shouldn't there be beauty and grace in the USSR in its true understanding?
The raw, unadorned power of heavy weapons, like a hurricane, descended upon the entrenched Collectors. The dwarf directed a deadly barrage at the enemy, regretting only one thing. A misplaced anecdote made her pause for a second, wondering if it was true that one could press the trigger with that part of the body that glorious warriors pressed, if one took their tales seriously.
This was what the descendant of glorious warriors regretted: that she didn't have as many hands as the snake-women, and everything else was just a consequence of her bravado. She had only managed to take two multi-barreled machine guns, a flamethrower, a grenade launcher, and a rocket pack on her back, and that was criminally insufficient! How would she win the bet with the Krogan with such a meager arsenal?
"If only I could hide in the shadows like those cats, for the complete set!" - she thought sarcastically, tearing apart another group of enemies with concentrated fire, noting the movement of a nimble phantom with her peripheral vision. In her people's understanding, the enemy should not die from a neat little hole between the eyes! One small hole is not as impressive to enemies as a broken and bullet-riddled corpse. Therefore, like the dwarves, she had only one caliber: heavy!
The Krogan, with whom the heiress of an ancient lineage had made a bet, reasoned differently. For him, it made no difference how the one who pointed a gun at him died. "Why limit and weaken yourself? You can turn a moron into puree with a toothpick, though it will take a million strikes! He won't care at all whether a thresher maw or a wooden splinter got him. The result is the same! So if you're already a warrior, your enemy will get it like a Vorcha in a space bar after the fifth drink, or you'll die yourself!" - he liked to philosophize about the sublime after a couple of thermoses of something stronger.
Today, the Krogan wasn't overthinking it. He didn't have to guess who his opponent was, which he loved. He had enough of guessing games during his mercenary days, before he accepted USSR citizenship. In particularly difficult times, the ancient warrior had even learned a counting rhyme to make the particularly stupid employers move their asses if those incestuous Varren forgot to clearly write down the contract. The mercenary didn't care at all, just like any other Krogan, who to feed to the shotgun.
Therefore, today he indulged himself, completely surrendering to the process of destruction. Fist, hammer, biotics, or shotgun... the Reaper's puppets didn't much care what the ancient warrior used to reach them. He made no mistakes, ensuring reliable results.
The Wulfhednar also didn't overthink it. The sentient, exalted dogs had an order, and they intended to follow it. Hunters from their kind scurried between the cybernetic troops' machines or covered the Doloks, who towered over the battlefield, sowing death with the power of weapons taken from vehicles. Where the living, armored tanks couldn't reach, the pack's fangs did.
If the sharks instilled terror by suddenly leaping and tearing with their shark-like jaws, the Wulfhednar announced the enemy's fate with a howl. Knock down, pin, tear apart. Repeat exactly as many times as needed for victory!
They remembered their exaltation and their shame... The second beings to be given reason by humans, hoping for the help of their first friends, but the dogs answered them with fear. Half of the dogs refused reason, frightened, because humans, in their wisdom and not wishing to be hypocritical, hid nothing from those they made sentient. Only primates responded less to the call! This shame is now carried by every member of their kind. Therefore, for the Wulfhednar, there is no greater insult than mentioning kinship with these cowardly quadrupeds!
Even if no one reminded them of this, highlighting them against others for their bravery and diligence, they themselves could not forget the viscous feeling of shame, multiplied by the sad, dark disappointment of humans that fell upon their entire kin through collective connection. Now the Wulfhednar strove to prove, first and foremost to themselves, that they were worthy. Therefore, they did not grumble, honorably carrying out any work, any order, but not recklessly. Discipline, even stricter than that of the Skaven, turned the pack into a force on the battlefield.
Again, the howl of hundreds of throats echoed over the Citadel levels, frightening its Security Service employees once more. Citizens of Space could not see the full ardor of this impulse, as they were not connected to the collective consciousness, so they were only allowed to see the external.
Turians, Batarians, Salarians, and Asari saw only a chaotic horde of rats and drones flooding the enemy from every crack, mad dogs that fiercely rushed forward, the rage of Doloks and sharks, engulfed in flashes of dwarf fire, and amidst all this chaos - the clear order of the Red Army's combat units.
And they also saw monsters born from the dark genius of Soviet science. At the tip of the attack, breaking through positions like a spear, the "Argentum" detachment fought, rushing after the Ghost. Under the operatives' hands, the Reapers threw more and more of their puppets, but the warriors, looking boldly into the abyss, moved forward.
The best of the best broke through. The combined might of all sentient USSR waited and watched, acting as a single organism, to strike the ancient machines...
As if mocking the operatives, the last barrier of the Reapers was their distorted copies! Broken, crude bodies with implants, in which even the tactical computer of the spacesuit could barely recognize their former comrades. Three torn, broken, and crudely stitched figures froze in their path. Fallen heroes of the past, like their fallen commander, were now toys in the hands of ancient machines and the best illustration of what awaits the USSR if their enemy wins.
Instant adjustment, and by collective decision, the operatives changed tactics. A dozen warriors who sacrificed their humanity rushed at the crooked freaks, allowing Lieutenant Colonel Pastukhov to continue pursuing the Ghost.
Shep only had to nod mentally, accepting the plan, activating his jetpack and soaring upwards. Making a loop, dodging the random fire, he saw the flashes of his comrades' fight and the monsters, but the thirst for revenge and duty drove him onward. He would fulfill the squad's promise to his former commander long ago!
"Don't spare bullets..." - the last words of Kuznetsov, who was deceived, betrayed, died defending the country, and was resurrected by the Ghost, thundered like a cannonade in his head. The understanding of his mentor's fate, who had largely replaced his father, simply made his heart burn with rage. The Lieutenant Colonel would grant him peace and punish that creature, who in its arrogance had chosen the path for everyone, with the utmost severity of the law...
Landing, he ran, shooting from his trusty sniper rifle on the move at anything that could hinder him. Hits hammered against the spacesuit's armor. A plasma curtain flickered incessantly. Everything that could shoot fired at him, but could not stop him.
Obeying his mental command, drones covered the enemy positions, suppressing firing points, opening a direct path. A jet-powered dash, and he saw the Ghost!
"Slowly," - the living dead man stated, knocking the Lieutenant Colonel back with a telekinetic blow and throwing him back into the crowd of arriving Husks.
Still in flight, Shep summoned his sword from his spatial backpack, immediately dividing it into two parts. He fell into the horde with a polymer weapon engulfed in flame. The miraculous composition echoed his mood, igniting at the slightest opportunity.
With a click of the blades, the paired weapons separated into segments. Two fire-breathing whips lashed the front line. The techno-zombie bodies flew to pieces, but the Lieutenant Colonel did not hold himself back in defense, rushing into the attack himself...
Scattering the pressing dead, he saw that the Ghost had already disappeared into the tower, over which a Reaper had already loomed.
"Everything is going according to plan!" - he thought grimly, taking off. His armor systems and intuition located the fallen hero's signature almost instantly. Ignoring the armor systems' warnings, Shep gave the command for full throttle, simultaneously directing the drones into the wall.
In a flash of explosion, breaking through the fireball of detonation with his body, the operative found himself inside, immediately striking telekinetically at random. Now the Ghost's figure flew away like a feather. The maneuver threw him away from the holographic terminal.
"As before, persistent," - the dead man stated again, taking two shots on his shields.
In biotic light, he unleashed a warp where the Lieutenant Colonel was. Shep launched the pack again, but that was what the fallen one had counted on.
Limiting his opponent's maneuverability, forcing him to rise into the air, dodging, he unleashed the invisible power of telekinesis upon him, trying to crush him.
The operative almost dodged and with a counterattack managed to destroy the effect, but his pack fell into the affected area. The man's back was burned by the explosion of a malfunctioning device, although it had managed to eject from the armor in an emergency.
The automation immediately injected a painkiller while the body began to heal the wounds, but a moment of weakness gave the Ghost another opportunity. The dead man with an unnaturally stony face closed the distance in one lunge, activating his polymer shredders.
The Lieutenant Colonel, realizing that in close combat at extremely close range his former mentor would simply tear him apart, threw away his rifle, shooting from the hip with a pistol. The plasma volley did not allow the opponent to get close completely, but that was all he needed.
A stream of lightning danced across Shep's plasma curtain, piercing it. The armor beeped, registering system failure. Mechanisms failed one after another, but they performed their duty to the end, not allowing the destructive energy to reach the spacesuit pilot's body.
Pushing himself away with telekinesis, the operative broke the distance, moving away from the dead man's boxing punch, continuing to shoot. The man understood that if two more experienced fighters with a partner couldn't defeat the fallen one last time, then his chances were vanishingly small. Even though he wanted to end the mortal path of the dead shell that disgraced the hero's memory, the plan was not that. The Reapers were supposed to do what they wanted. Everything had to be authentic...
The man stepped on his reflexes' throat, taking the next blow with its full force. The spacesuit buckled, and after the armored blow, it reached the body. The Lieutenant Colonel was as if shot from a cannon.
Already thrown back, he was hit by two more blows, breaking bones, incapacitating him for precious seconds...
Seeing that his enemy was not getting up, the Ghost did not finish him off, but returned to the terminal. The will of his masters compelled him to perform the necessary action to begin the Harvest.
"You lost, primitives," - the Sovereign himself condescended into his puppet to state the obvious.
Driven by his intellect, the dead man approached the operative, lifting him by the neck with a jerk, but instead of the horror of realization, he saw an expression of mockery and triumph.
"Oh, screw you," - the wounded Shep said, not ceasing to smile, even despite the pain. "You just closed the trap yourself! Your friends missed a bit..."
The Sovereign felt other Reapers moving towards the Citadel to begin the invasion according to standard tactics, but here's the catch, the Citadel was not the right one! Instead of the intended ones, the invasion forces finished in the territory of the USSR, to be met with a salvo, aimed fire, falling into an artillery bag right away, but, even worse, in the darkness of space, the ancient machines were also attacking!
The Geth, drifting in the void until now, loyal to the treaty with the Union, attacked the Reapers who did not expect this! In just a couple of moments, the ancient synthetics suffered losses that collectively exceeded the damage from a good dozen of the heaviest harvests!
Even though the transition immediately stopped, and there weren't many synthetic ships of this cycle, and they simply couldn't pose any further threat, the damage had already been done! The organics had outsmarted the Sovereign, and now they would have even more time to prepare.
"We just needed your codes, and redirecting the signal was easy," - the wounded man mocked him. "Bite on it and choke on it, bastards!"
"Unexpected, but pointless," - the machine replied indifferently, throwing the operative back with a blow. "You just made us act with full power. Now your agony will be short. You simply cannot comprehend the inevitable. Your pathetic mind..."
"I screwed over smartasses like you..." - was his reply. The man, wounded, in pain, had the audacity to interrupt the perfect mind that was superior to him in all parameters.
"We are higher than you on the evolutionary ladder!" - the Sovereign roared.
"Then you'll fall harder," - the operative said, not without difficulty, getting up. "Maybe you'll even defeat us... There are really a lot of you, but you personally will die now!"
"It's time!" - the Motherland commanded herself, seeing through the eyes of her children. The loving mother in the digital space transformed into a merciless judge.
"Rise! Push back the enemy!" - her rallying cry spread through the neural network, instantly picked up by all connected. At that moment, the USSR became truly united. The collective mind reached its peak power.
In the embassy quarter of the Union on the Citadel, in the center of its luxurious park, it suddenly became hot. The Pantheon, where the Eternal Flame burned and the Fountains of Sorrow poured their waters, was enveloped in unbearable heat.
The statue of the Motherland, in front of which tourists loved to take photos, ceased to be just a sculpture. The decorative marble cladding melted and fell off, revealing actuators and joints. The Avatar of the collective mind rose from its knees, resolutely taking a two-handed sword. Straightening up, which brought down buildings, the Motherland began to run, rushing straight at the Reaper that had wrapped its tentacles around the tower.
The inhabitants and guards of the Citadel merely watched the heat-enveloped figure with incomprehension, as they were distracted by the soldiers of the Union. If before they were an embodiment of chaos for them, then with the appearance of this mechanism, which radiated power and from which it was almost impossible to look away, they now turned into machines. And, acting as a single organism before, they became even more coordinated, which seemed simply unreal and impossible!
The simultaneous use of a colossal amount of polymer, which was neuroactive by definition, allowed even those not connected to the neural network to hear the thoughts of the "Collective"! The substance, born of scientists and become the magic of the working people, now showed that when citizens spoke of the Motherland, they were not quoting a myth. They knew it was possible!
Red Squadron, which until then had been engaged in a desultory firefight with the attacking ships, began to operate on a unified target designation, shredding one pennant after another. The Red Army soldiers, not only feeling the gaze of the collective mind projecting all those who remained at home behind them, but they felt that the Motherland had stood with them in one formation! A humane artificial intelligence will strike down an ancient mechanism.
The Reaper, realizing the threat, opened fire on the figure rushing towards it, but the polymer-infused mechanism dodged the orange beams like a leaf in the wind. Pushing off from the Citadel, the avatar descended upon the ancient squid, striking it with a sword.
The synthetic immediately released the tower and rushed into space, where it had an advantage, but this did not confuse the collective mind, but only made it hack at the hull even more fiercely...
With a screech, Shep blocked another attack from the Spectre. Only ruins remained of the man's armor, which miraculously provided a semblance of protection. The pistol was broken, and the sword showed nicks, but the operative continued to hold on. He felt that help was already on the way.
The dead man methodically smashed his suit and body. The fallen hero was too strong and fast, but all his brute force was not enough to crush the wounded man.
"You're buying time," the obvious dead man noted, breaking the lieutenant colonel's arm again with a blow.
"The squad will fulfill its promise today, and death will not stop us!" Shep spat blood into the Spectre's eyes, momentarily blinding the hesitant dead man.
The man's sword left a diagonal wound on the dead torso, from which not a drop of blood appeared. The counter-attack was terrible. The operative's body pierced the floor of one level, embedding itself into the covering of the next. Miraculously doing a somersault, Pastukhov avoided being beheaded by a fist.
Rage had long since given way to perseverance. The man suddenly realized that he had been living all this time by inertia, but now he had something to stand and die for! In the "Collective," a familiar mind shone steadily.
"Get up!" Miranda's voice jerked him to his feet and gave him the strength to block a slap.
"We will kill you, commander!" the lieutenant colonel roared, feeling that his squad mates were already here, simultaneously preparing to take a new blow on the block...
The Spectre froze absurdly. His entire figure trembled slightly. Slowly, as if in jelly, the dead man lowered his trembling fist. The dead mask cracked...
"I can't hold him for long!" shouted... not the Spectre, but Kuznetsov. "Shoot."
Seeing the operatives frozen in shock, the colonel took command: "Squad, aim!" The sharp command brought the "Argentum" fighters back to their senses. The elite of the USSR raised their weapons, taking aim. "Fire!"
The Spectre flinched, but it was too late. His body was pierced by several dozen shots. The dead man fell to his knees.
"Thank you for not sparing the bullets," Argon said, smiling at the muzzle of Shep's sniper rifle.
The lieutenant colonel pressed the trigger with difficulty, and the wounds were not the cause. The shard of his mentor's essence finally melted away, taking the Spectre with it...