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SCL Chapter 37: Blood on the Street, Silence in the Heart
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 03:42:31 +0000 UTC“Let’s move on,” Augustus said to Corporal Hope.
“I’ll follow your lead,” the corporal replied.
And so, Augustus’s force had now grown to over forty soldiers—nearly the size of his original platoon back in basic training.
Leading this mixed unit, Augustus continued northward along A-220 Commercial Street. He suspected that a large Kel-Morian force was hiding within this shopping district—because barely two minutes later, they ran headfirst into another squad of Rippers.
A squad of Kel-Morian Rippers, sprinting down the street, suddenly emerged from the side. Their numbers roughly matched a fully manned squad of Terran marines, each clad in jet-black painted CMC-powered armor.
At a distance of roughly 180 meters, the two forces collided head-on. The Rippers and the Terran marines began exchanging fire—neither side seeking cover nor diving for the ground, resembling two lines of 17th-century musket-wielding infantry firing at each other on old Earth.
With both sides standing upright in powered armor, shooting across the street, tactics and marksmanship were irrelevant. What mattered was whose armor was tougher—and who could stay standing longer than the other.
Bullets ricocheted off Augustus’s chestplate, the ping-ping-ping of impacts and the looming threat of death sending his adrenaline soaring.
His HUD showed the ammo counter dropping rapidly—from 360 rounds to zero in just seconds. While he reloaded, two of their own fell, but five or six Rippers were already down.
The remaining Rippers didn’t retreat. They reloaded in sync with Augustus’s rhythm and continued firing—silently collapsing one by one. Augustus couldn’t begin to imagine what faces hid behind those dark visors. So far, he’d never seen a single Kel-Morian retreat, let alone surrender.
“Report casualties,” Augustus ordered naturally, having taken command of this improvised unit. The other two squads seemed perfectly content to follow his lead.
“One KIA from both Fourth and Fifth Squads, Third Platoon, Fifth Company,” Corporal Hope replied with a sigh.
Augustus scanned the area, making sure no wounded had been left behind.
“Check if any of those Kel-Morians are still alive,” he told them.
Almost none of the fallen Rippers had died from a direct armor-piercing hit. Most had been killed by ricocheting spike rounds that slipped through the seams after bouncing off the plates—an indirect shot at the right angle could still kill a man.
Once the squad had regrouped and accounted for everyone, Augustus stepped over the Rippers’ corpses and continued moving forward.
According to the satellite map, they were now just 450 meters from the exit of A-220 Commercial Street. Once they reached the end of that road, they’d be able to rejoin the east-west thoroughfare and link up with the rest of the battalion.
But just as Augustus and the others neared the exit, the light at the far end already visible—
—a massive shadow suddenly loomed up from their left.
To their left stood a skyscraper over forty stories tall, with a private parking garage beneath it. The garage was connected to the surface by a steep ramp, and the entrance had clearly been widened using explosives.
At first, it was just a black dot. But then, two rows of rising missile pods came into view—followed by a T-shaped cockpit that looked just like a Kel-Morian tractor cab.
It was a Kel-Morian Goliath—a bipedal war machine of steel and firepower.
“Left side! Goliath!” someone shouted.
In that instant, the marines turned and opened fire—but the Goliath fired first.
Before it even stepped out onto the street, the twin 35mm autocannons on the Goliath roared to life, sweeping the roadway. The barrels spun with terrifying speed, tongues of flame a full meter long spitting from the muzzles, tearing two blazing trails of bullet craters across the pavement.
At least three men in Augustus’s unit were cut down immediately. He didn’t have time to check if any of them belonged to his squad.
The Goliath that Augustus encountered stood about 4.5 meters tall. Its design philosophy emphasized increased caliber and ammunition capacity, and this was evident in every part of the Kel-Morian Goliath mech. Compared to the Terran Federation's imitation models, the Kel-Morian versions appeared far rougher. In fact, many of these mechs bore clear signs of being retrofitted using parts from civilian mining exosuits.
The paint job was a chaotic mess of blue and green, lacking any coherent lines or patterns—almost as if those two colors had simply been splashed onto the armor surface. Behind the cockpit, a tattered flag flapped weakly, its 'KM' emblem barely recognizable.
Still, there was no denying the truth: the Kel-Morians were the original developers of this powerful all-terrain ground fire support and anti-air mech. And compared to the mass-produced, modular versions used by the Federation, these were far more dangerous.
At this moment, the Goliath was only about 10 to 11 meters from Augustus and his squad. The massive war machine lumbered up the slope toward A-220 Commercial Street. Mounted autocannons on its shoulders swept left and right in sync with the movements of the upper cockpit, opening fire on the unsuspecting Terran marines. In the blink of an eye, two more soldiers were hit.
The marines’ tightly clustered flechette rounds only left rain-like white pockmarks on the mech’s armor and cockpit glass—completely insufficient to damage this steel giant.
“Ward, aim a rocket at the cockpit!” Augustus ordered over comms. “Grenade, now!”
At the same moment, Ward locked on and fired the first shot from the shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. The rocket, equipped with automatic targeting to home in on heat and electromagnetic signatures, slammed directly into the Goliath’s cockpit.
Then, from above Augustus’s helmet, an electromagnetic grenade arced through the air. Upon detonation, it unleashed a pulse wave about 6 meters in diameter, radiating outward like ripples from a drop of water. Crackling tendrils of current slithered across the slope like lightning serpents.
The burst of disruptive electromagnetic energy temporarily scrambled the display in Augustus’s visor, filling it with static for a moment before returning to normal in less than a second.
The EMP blast knocked the Goliath off balance—it staggered backward and fell hard onto its back.
Augustus and several nearby marines sprinted toward the fallen mech. After a few irregular breaths, Augustus slung his Gauss rifle across his back and climbed up the side using the mech’s exterior rungs, making his way toward the cockpit.
The tempered glass had been shattered by the rocket, revealing a cockpit so cramped that it could barely fit one person. The old leather seat inside had clearly been ripped out of a scrapped tractor. An arched console was cluttered with mismatched buttons and various-sized display panels.
Augustus reached inside and grabbed the pilot by the neck. With a mechanical hum from the servos in his power armor, he yanked out a bald Kel-Morian man wearing a black eyepatch.
The man’s face was marked with sun-scorched scars—a testament to years of hardship—and his bulky body was bleeding profusely from wounds inflicted by shrapnel and broken glass. With a thud, Augustus tossed the pilot to the ground, then followed, landing in the Goliath’s shadow.
“Omer and Benjamin were hit,” Zander said, his voice trembling over comms. “Damn it… that bastard was targeting our gunners!”
“You son of a bitch!” Raynor charged forward, grabbing the pilot by the collar. He raised his Gauss rifle and pressed the barrel against the man's nose. “I swear to God, you’re gonna regret ever being born.”
Back in Shiloh-Centerville, Raynor’s hometown, Omer’s family and his own had been neighbors. Their parents were longtime friends, and Omer—whom he’d grown up with—was more than just a friend. He was like a brother to him.
“Leave him to me.” Augustus stepped up beside Raynor.
Raynor looked at him. “Augustus, let me finish him.”
“I said, leave him to me.” Augustus repeated, his expression hidden beneath the visor.
He took the pilot from Raynor’s grasp, seized the man by the collar with both hands, and lifted him high, until their eyes were level. The pilot’s head drooped—as if he no longer had the strength to lift it—but he was still breathing.
“On this street, in this area—how many more Goliaths are there? How many men are lying in ambush here?” Augustus pulled the pilot’s face close to his own.
“What do you want to know, huh?” The Goliath pilot struggled to raise his weather-beaten face, and with trembling lips, he cracked a bloody grin, revealing two rows of bloodstained teeth.
“The only thing I know… cough, cough, is that you’re a gutless Federation bastard.”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Augustus threw him to the ground and stomped on his heaving chest with his boot.
Then, without a word, Augustus unshouldered his Gauss rifle. Gripping it with both hands—one on the barrel, the other on the magazine—he raised it high. With the servos in his armor supplying immense force, he swung it down like an axe straight at the man’s head. In an instant, blood sprayed violently.
“Augustus…” Raynor reached out a hand toward him, but let it fall just as quickly. It was only now that he realized—Augustus, always so calm, could be thunderously furious.
Augustus retracted the rifle with the same swift motion he’d swung it with and began walking back, blood still dripping from the weapon.
No one noticed the object slowly sliding out of the pilot’s lifeless hand—a small, laminated two-inch photograph of a laughing baby.
