As Augustus returned to his men, the comm channel was in chaos. Lundstein was administering sedatives and painkillers to Omer.
"Benjamin's dead." Amy Brandon was kneeling beside Benjamin, who lay on his back. He held his head gently in both hands.
Augustus felt his heartbeat pause for several seconds. He walked directly over to Benjamin's body.
Benjamin's power armor was one size larger than Augustus's. On his chest plate—painted with a white cross—were three holes, each about five centimeters wide. One of them was right above the heart.
For Benjamin, the pain had likely lasted no more than an instant. After the autocannon round tore through his chest, his heart had been shredded by the bullet's high-speed rotation, and it had stopped beating forever.
His eyes were closed. His face held no expression, as if merely asleep. Augustus remained silent, etching the scene into his memory, swearing never to forget it.
"Status report." Augustus turned his gaze away and walked toward Omer, who lay not far off.
"Fifth Company, Third Platoon, Fourth Squad—one KIA, one wounded," Corporal Hope reported, then swore under his breath. "No wounded now."
"First Company, Fourth Platoon, Second Squad—two KIA," said Private First Class Lared, a resocialized soldier.
Augustus knelt beside Omer. His helmet had already been opened by Lundstein, and a waterproof canvas M2 backpack was covering the abdominal armor that had been pierced.
The young man was staring up at the sky, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing desperately as he tried to pull air into his lungs. Each breath came with a wet, phlegmy cough. Blood was flooding his lungs with every gasp.
One of his lungs had been punctured.
"Tom, my boy, don't be afraid. It's not as bad as it looks." Augustus raised the visor on his helmet slowly, letting Omer see his face. "You're going to make it."
"Sergeant…" Omer's voice was hoarse. "My will… it's in my shirt pocket."
"I knew it. I knew it'd come in handy one day."
Raynor's tears nearly spilled.
"It's just a minor injury," Augustus said, though he felt a tightness rising in his throat, making it ache.
"We've got to do something for Tom," Raynor insisted. "We have to take him. Him and Benjamin."
Before Augustus could respond, another Federal unit caught up to them from behind. Roughly a platoon in size, they were led by a lieutenant—judging by the insignia, he was from the 2nd Brigade.
"Who's your commanding officer?" the lieutenant asked as he approached Augustus. His men came to a halt behind him. He had clearly noticed the downed Goliath mech nearby.
"I'm Corporal Mengsk. Whatever the case, as you can see, we need medics. The sooner the better," Augustus replied, standing up to face him.
"Alright. Then tell me what happened here—keep it short, one or two sentences," the lieutenant said after a brief pause, muttering a few things over the comms before turning back.
"A Kel-Morian Goliath was lying in wait in the underground parking structure off this alley. It ambushed us," Augustus explained. "As you can see, we took it down."
"You were in command here? Well done," the lieutenant said, glancing at the Goliath. "Kel-Morian Goliaths have caused us far more losses than their Rippers. No matter how many casualties we suffer, it's worth it to take one of these bastards out."
"Bring your men and follow me. We still have a ways to go before we reach the Kel-Morian command center. This city's crawling with Kel-Morian scum—like rats in a sewer. Too many have already died for this ruined wasteland, for this damned cesspit."
He turned and spat.
"We've got no choice but to go all the way, young Sergeant. No turning back."
"This is war. Goddamn war."
As Augustus was briefing the lieutenant, four medics stepped out of the formation carrying stretchers. With laser tools, they removed Omer's chest and abdominal plating, then quickly disassembled the rest of his armor.
After hastily bandaging his wounds, they lifted the now-unconscious Omer onto a stretcher and began heading back the way they came. As they left, the medics also dropped off several body bags.
"These bags are made from the latest nano-textile materials. They'll preserve the bodies until recycling," came a soft but emotionless female voice from one of the medic's speakers.
"Recycling? Recycling of what?" Raynor asked, picking up one of the bags.
"The powered armor," a medic replied.
"What kind of injury did he suffer? Where are you taking him?" Zander called out, trailing behind the stretcher.
But the medics only shook their heads. None of them answered.
After placing Benjamin and the rest of the fallen marines into the body bags, Augustus led the remaining troops to rejoin the lieutenant's formation. No one spoke during the march. The mood was grim—especially for Raynor, who trembled for quite some time, overwhelmed with grief.
Augustus, too, was plagued by sorrow and guilt. But it didn't crush him. On the contrary—it made his mind sharper than ever. Pain had a way of stripping away distractions.
Bit by bit, they approached the exit of A-220 Commercial Street. Beyond it lay a central plaza surrounded by tall buildings: bookstores, electronics markets, department stores. In the center of the cobblestone square was a fountain—long dry.
Once they crossed this plaza, they'd reach the highway again. The glow of daylight was getting closer. But so too was the sound of gunfire and explosions. Across the commercial zone, every Federal unit that entered was ambushed by Kel-Morian forces.
The lieutenant from the 2nd Brigade took the lead. He was the first to step out of the commercial street. When he reached the edge of the plaza, he turned and waved forcefully to those behind, then pressed forward without looking back.
"Don't stop!" he shouted.
Without warning, the officer suddenly staggered a few steps and collapsed face-first onto the ground. Almost everyone had seen the lieutenant go down. From where Augustus stood, he had a clear view of the bullet hole in the man's helmet.
"Sniper!" one of the lieutenant's sergeants shouted, triggering a chain reaction. With no idea where the sniper was hidden, the marines began blindly spraying bullets into nearby shops and high-rises. Only after shattering the last few panes of glass in the area did the gunfire finally subside.
"Ryk, can you take him out?" Augustus asked over the comm channel.
"I can—but only if we can pinpoint the sniper's location," Ryk replied. "You see those tall buildings surrounding the plaza? He could be in any of them, on any floor, with his sights trained on this street's entrance. By now, he might've already slipped away… or he could still be there, quietly waiting for the next worthy target."
"That last shot might've been all he needed. Maybe he just wanted us to know there's a killer out there watching our heads."
As Augustus spoke with Ryk, the squad leaders under the fallen lieutenant were arguing heatedly over the channel—mostly about who would take over command of the platoon.
"We'll just have to charge through with everything we've got," Harnack said.
"If we don't take that sniper out, the number of shots he fires will be the number of men we lose before reaching the end of the street," Raynor countered.
"What if we take another route?" Zander suggested. "Or wait until another unit pushes through one of the side streets."
"But what if that bastard already has us locked in?" Ward said. "As long as he's still out there, who knows which of us he'll hit next out of hundreds?"
"Ryk, how do we locate the sniper?" Augustus asked.
"I need him to fire again," Ryk said. By now, he had already climbed to the top floor of a department store at the end of the commercial street. From a window at the top, he set up his sniper rifle and aimed it toward the central plaza, moving the reticle slowly from left to right—about 1.25 cm per second.
Ryk's rifle was designed specifically for soldiers in power armor—built for precision killing. The FN-92 had a two-stage trigger system: the first pull preps the firing pin, and the second requires only a feather-light tap to send a round downrange.
After hearing Ryk's response, Augustus went quiet. The rational part of him knew they couldn't afford to stay in this district for long. Who knew when a squad of Rippers or a Goliath unit might suddenly show up?
"Lared," Augustus called out. The squad leaders were still bickering, but he turned his attention to the three resocialized soldiers he had encountered earlier. There were only three of them left now. Without hesitation, Augustus chose what he believed was the most effective solution: he would use them to draw enemy fire—to bait the sniper into revealing his location.
Benjamin's death and Omer's severe injuries were hardening Augustus by the minute.
Private Lared stepped up to his side without a word.
"Ryk, you'll get three chances," Augustus said.
"One will be enough," Ryk replied. "What's your plan?"
"We're going to provoke him—but nothing too reckless."
"Then from this moment on, Augustus, I'm all eyes. I'll find him. And before he gets away—I'll put him down."
With that, Augustus cut the comms.
"Private Lared, come here."
Augustus was already standing close to the soldier. He found a tiny ID code etched on the man's helmet. After inputting the code into his HUD, the soldier's profile came up on the internal database:
Lared Gane. Killed ten adult men. Ate six of them. Pickled the rest in salt.
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