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SCL Chapter 35: Narrow Streets, Broad Risks
🕑 Added 2025-04-15 20:35:32 +0000 UTCBy 8 a.m., the forward-most resocialized regiment had already advanced several kilometers toward the city center, losing all contact with the rear units. Warfield’s First Company, after entering the urban zone, had chosen to regroup with several of its sibling companies before taking the lead again.
Augustus’s squad was moving alongside an Arclite Tank, advancing along a four-lane east-west highway designated Route 30. They entered the city through the Dunlin District in the northeast of Polk’s Pride, then pushed westward in a straight line toward the central command center and orbital satellite communications hub in the heart of the Kel-Morian-controlled zone.
In the rainy season of Turaxis II’s northern hemisphere, a fine drizzle fell steadily. A layer of white steam clung to the cooling tower behind Augustus’s powered armor. Rainwater slid down the edge of his visor as the devastated street ahead became increasingly shrouded in mist.
Thanks to the efforts of the resocialized soldiers, Warfield’s forces had encountered no resistance from the Kel-Morians along the highway. Only the destroyed barricades—and the intermingled corpses of resocialized troops and Kel-Morian fighters—offered any clue as to the brutal battles that had taken place here.
With each mile they advanced, more bodies littered the road. Rainwater mixed with blood, flowing into the still-unclogged storm drains. Rodent-like creatures scurried about, slipping into shattered helmets and chewing indiscriminately on human remains.
By counting the corpses of the resocialized soldiers, Augustus could estimate that this charging regiment had already lost more than half its numbers.
Augustus’s squad had yet to encounter any organized Kel-Morian forces. In open areas, the tank could still provide them with cover.
Only now and then would Kel-Morian labor auxiliaries—hiding in buildings, sewers, or garbage bins—suddenly charge out, their bodies strapped with explosives and electromagnetic grenades, desperate to take down a Federation tank with them.
But with the wide-open visibility on the road, these unarmored Kel-Morian fighters were gunned down the moment they showed themselves.
Among them, Ryk Kydd—the squad’s sniper—had the highest kill count. His aim was both precise and lethal, every shot a headshot. The sheer force of the naval-grade sniper rifle he wielded could shatter a skull even if the bullet only grazed it.
Their good fortune ended about 5 kilometers from the city center. Due to the many artificial canals crisscrossing Polk’s Pride, rivers separated the different districts. On the way from Dunlin to the main urban center, the Federation troops had to cross dozens of bridges.
Most of the bridges had already collapsed, the signs of sabotage clearly visible. Only the giant Goliath war machines could wade through the swollen, rain-fed artificial canals. The number of viable routes left to the Federation was quickly dwindling.
The disaster struck as they were crossing the last river bridge in the Dunlin District. At that moment, an entire platoon of marines and an Arclite Tank were moving across an unscouted white bridge ahead. Augustus’s squad was just 800 meters away—at their current pace, they would have reached the bridge in less than a minute.
Suddenly—BOOM!
It felt as if the ground had shifted by twelve centimeters. The thunderous explosion could be heard from kilometers away.
Augustus’s first sensation was like being slapped across the face. Amid the ringing in his ears, he watched in shock as a section of the bridge exploded into the sky before his eyes. Twisted bodies, shrapnel, and blood rained down onto the canal below.
The shockwave kicked up a wall of earth. The squad closest to the bridge slammed into the lateral air blast as if hitting a dense wall. Even with powered armor, they were crushed like soda cans. More than twenty soldiers were sent flying like ragdolls.
Once hailed as a masterpiece by architects and artists alike—with its white jade railings carved in the likeness of the gods—the bridge had now become nothing more than a graveyard.
“You bunch of idiots! Why didn’t you wait for the demolition team?!”
The one shouting was the commander of the Fifth Battalion. He didn’t use the comms channel—he ripped off his faceplate and yelled directly at the marines preparing to cross the bridge.
Augustus didn’t know which unit was currently on the bridge, but there was a good chance it was First Company. The command channel displayed Warfield’s static-laced voice giving orders—he and Second Platoon had been among the first to step onto the bridge and cross safely. Clearly, the explosive device had been set on a timer rather than any proximity or remote trigger.
Because Augustus had stayed back with his squad to escort the tank, they had naturally fallen behind. Ironically, that delay had saved their lives.
“Well, great. Now we’ll have to wait ages to get across.”
Josephine spoke with thinly veiled schadenfreude. He had no love for war—unlike Warfield, who always pushed to be at the front lines, deep in enemy territory. Josephine’s philosophy was the opposite: stay alive, stay low, don’t stick your neck out.
“That’s not good news,” Augustus said. The ringing in his ears had finally begun to subside, but he was far from as relaxed as Josephine. “I looked earlier—this isn’t the only route across the river.”
“Of course it’s not. But it’s the most direct one—according to the satellite maps, it leads straight to the Kel-Morian command center. And it’s the only road suitable for convoys and tanks. Sure, we can detour, but only through side streets—residential zones and shopping districts next to the highway. Trust me, Josephine, those are way more dangerous than a wide, open road.”
“Augustus is right,” Ward chimed in. “Out on the main road, at least the tanks are with us. No Kel-Morian bastards jumping out of nowhere.”
Ward tended to talk a lot during combat. The moment he laid eyes on a Kel-Morian, he entered a kind of avenging angel frenzy.
“This is so screwed,” Omer muttered gloomily.
“The real trouble’s just beginning,” Augustus warned his squad. “Just like I said before the mission—if anyone goes down, no matter what, we bring them back.”
So far, Augustus’s squad hadn’t suffered any losses. But now, it looked like he would have to lead them deep into enemy territory.
Just as he’d expected, with Warfield out of the picture, command of Augustus’s platoon had passed to the Fifth Battalion’s acting officer—a hawk-nosed lieutenant colonel—who ordered them to move as separate platoons, bypassing through an abandoned commercial zone to reach a different bridge up north.
Since Third Platoon’s leader, Reagan, had already crossed the river with Warfield, command of Squad One now fell to Fourth Company’s commander.
Tanks couldn’t move through the narrow, weight-limited streets of the residential zone. With no other choice, Augustus gritted his teeth and led his squad after Fourth Company, into a commercial district street much narrower than the main road.
This street lay between the three offensive routes of the Fourth Brigade. No friendly forces had entered this area before—which also meant it might be crawling with Kel-Morian troops who had retreated into hiding.
And with two more battalions moving up behind the Fifth, thousands of marines couldn’t just trickle through one commercial street forever. So, in accordance with the battalion commander’s orders, most of the platoons split up—each choosing a different street to circle around.
Augustus, along with two squads from Fourth Company of the Fifth Battalion, moved into a commercial street designated A-220. The lead was taken by Fireteam One: Benjamin, their heavy machine gunner, stuck close to his assistant Omer, who carried the ammo boxes. Behind them were Raynor and Harnack from Fireteam Two.
On both sides of Commercial Avenue A-220 stood rows of ten- to twenty-story high-rises. From the battered and ruined billboards, one could tell that the ground floors of these buildings had once housed restaurants, upscale bars, clothing stores, and the like. Other establishments included banks and hotels.
The street was about 18 meters wide, its surface paved with slabs of marble. On either side of the road, disabled cleaning bots and overturned garbage trucks were scattered everywhere.
This north-south commercial avenue had security corridors connecting to other streets every several hundred meters. In fact, all the streets in this commercial district were interconnected. The entire district was composed of neatly organized rows of high-rise buildings, with a commercial street between every two rows.
Relatively speaking, the distance between adjacent commercial streets was no more than the width of a single building—walking from the front entrance of a bar to its back door would do the trick.
The two squads up ahead had already crossed the first eastward security corridor. But since enemy Kel-Morian soldiers could be hiding in the shops or corridors on either side, Augustus habitually scanned the area as he passed.
Then he suddenly stopped, raising his Gauss rifle to aim at the dim corridor, where both sunlight and artificial lighting were lacking. He switched on the spotlights on both his powered armor and the rifle.
“Hold up!”
Though Benjamin, Raynor, and the others behind him didn’t know what was going on, they obeyed immediately. Everyone came to a steady halt—except Omer, who failed to stop in time and crashed headlong into Benjamin’s back with a loud clang.
“You idiot!” Benjamin turned around, glaring at him.
“He’s just slow to react. He’s always been like that,” Raynor stepped forward to steady Omer.
