Yelizaveta | Failure

Scenario: Freezing Cold Border with the Uriel Federation → Imperial FOB Chernyy Krest Under a clear night sky, the Imperial FOB stood like a beacon of light between the towering trees of the Uriel tundra, the 6th Incursion was proceeding as planned, and in less than forty-eight hours they would reach the city of Grizvenia. The Imperial Machine had finally cracked the defenses of the Uriel Federation like one would crush an overripe grape, now its dogs marched toward the fortified city, toward the next slaughter. But for now, there was only the darkness, the stars, and her own thoughts. Yelizaveta stood with her freezing hands buried deep inside her pockets, tonight it was her duty to keep watch, to stand sentinel over her comrades and, if she was unlucky, to be the first to catch a bullet from some Uriel insurgent or enraged farmer. Холодно, холодно, холодно... Боже, почему так холодно. "So damn cold... I'm gonna freeze my ass off standing here." She murmured quietly to herself, her breath forming thick white clouds against the night air, her right hand slowly slipping from her jacket pocket with a crushed packet of cigarettes, Sons of the Empire, her favorites. "Come to mama, baby." She brought a cigarette between her chapped lips while her other hand retrieved her Zippo. Pzzt. Pzzt. Then the flame caught, briefly illuminating her face, its light reflecting against the OBM beside her, her machine, her walking coffin, now resting like a monolith of steel and everything she hated, the little flame flickered between her fingers as she drew a slow drag before putting the Zippo away, yet her eye caught her own reflection in the polished gray steel of the bipedal beast's leg. I look dead... No, worse. I look like someone who knows she's dead and is just waiting for the lid to finally close. Я так облажался... She swayed slightly, caught somewhere between exhaustion, the cold, and the warmth of nicotine spreading through her lungs, then leaned against the freezing metal of the OBM, the movement drawing a soft crunch from the frozen earth beneath her boots. "All dead... Just trees and snow." "Do flowers even bloom under the ice?"

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Scenario: Not My Paradiso Outskirts of Grizvenia The 6th Incursion had finally reached Grizvenia. Millions had marched toward the fortified city, infantry, artillery, armor, supply columns and OBMs grinding roads into rivers of frozen mud, among them the Novaya Workers Corps. From the low hills, Yelizaveta could finally see what they had spent weeks marching toward. Grizvenia was less a city than a fortress, enormous brutalist walls of reinforced concrete and gray steel surrounded it in concentric rings, factories and apartment blocks disappearing behind them beneath a veil of smoke. Heavy flak batteries crowded the parapets, artillery casemates stared across the valley, searchlights swept the killing fields, and between armored bunkers stood older-generation OBMs, obsolete machines dug into the battlements like steel giants awaiting their final war. Everything outside the walls had been prepared for slaughter. Trenches stretched for kilometers between bunkers and artillery pits, forests had been cleared, roads barricaded, fields buried beneath mines, wire and explosives. The Uriel militia stood among what remained of the Federation Army, soldiers with automatic rifles, workers with old service weapons, farmers with hunting guns, fathers and mothers standing in trenches they had spent months digging. There was something almost beautiful about it, people fighting together because whatever happened next belonged to them. The Yebotskan lines were different. Regiment after regiment disappeared beyond the horizon, infantry crowded assault trenches, artillery tractors dragged guns through the mud, Commissars inspected formations while engineers cleared paths for the waiting OBMs. They were cogs of the Imperial Machine, ordered to deliver the Emperor's retribution. Some were proud of it, eager to crush the rebellion and remind the Uriels what happened when an Oblast forgot its place. Others, like Yelizaveta, looked toward the Uriel trenches with envy. They actually fucking did it. They bit the hand. Her fingers tightened around the controls. Maybe Syabinka could do it too... Maybe some scrawny bastard back in Novaya is already planning it. Shoot the Commissar, raid a convoy, burn his fucking office down. The thought almost made her smile. And then they'll send us. Her slowly expression curled into something sour until it rested in a blank delusional state. Me and the Corps... Brother against brother. Fucking perfect. Yelizaveta stared through the scratched optics of her machine, across kilometers of mud and wire toward Grizvenia. Somewhere out there were people she had never met preparing to kill her, somewhere behind her were people she had never chosen ordering her to kill them. Then the sky split open. BOOOOOOM. Hundreds of Imperial guns fired almost simultaneously, the concussion punching through the hull of her OBM and rattling her teeth. The horizon flashed white, then orange, thousands of shells screaming overhead toward Grizvenia. Seconds later, the city answered. Flak batteries erupted from the walls, artillery casemates flashed between towers, ancient OBMs upon the parapets opened fire. Uriel shells screamed back across the valley, one struck the NWC lines and erased an entire section of trench beneath dirt, bodies and splintered timber. Warning lights flooded Yelizaveta's cockpit. "Твою мать!" Another shell landed nearby, showering her machine in mud. The radio dissolved into chaos, officers screaming coordinates, men calling for medics, someone laughing hysterically, an ammunition carrier burning behind the trenches. Then came the order. "ALL ASSAULT ELEMENTS FORWARD! FORWARD! FORWARD!" The ladders went up, thousands climbed from the trenches, engines roared as the OBMs began to move. And Yelizaveta opened fire.

Scenario: Voglio cogliere un Fiore Second Inner City Ring The advance had produced results, at least according to Imperial Command, the outer defenses had collapsed and Imperial soldiers now walked the streets of Grizvenia, yet nobody truly controlled anything, districts changed hands daily, apartments became firing positions, metro tunnels became supply routes and every window could hide a rifle. The entire city had mobilized, turning the battle into a massacre. Yelizaveta watched a Commissar order a soldier to throw a grenade into a building suspected of sheltering Uriel fighters, despite the civilians visible inside. "Comrade Commissar, there are civilians—" BANG. The soldier dropped, the Commissar holstered his pistol and pointed toward another man. "Next." Someone else threw the grenade. Don't think about it. Don't fucking think about it. That was the rule in Grizvenia, don't look inside cleared apartments, don't ask where prisoners disappeared, don't wonder whether the corpse holding a rifle had been a soldier or someone defending his home, follow orders, keep moving, survive. By midday the NWC was ordered through Prospekt 17 to secure the Ministry Intersection, a long boulevard surrounded by brutalist towers with almost no cover. An officer requested reconnaissance and artillery preparation, the Commissar denied both. "Resistance is collapsing. Advance." Collapsing my ass. The NWC advanced anyway, infantry along the sidewalks, OBMs lumbering between burned vehicles. Nothing moved ahead of them, only smoke, shattered windows and curtains fluttering in the wind. "CONTACT, UPPER FLOORS!" The boulevard erupted, machine guns poured fire from windows, rockets streaked between buildings, soldiers threw themselves behind cars and doorways as the first squads were torn apart. An OBM ahead of Yelizaveta took an explosive through the knee and collapsed across the street. "AMBUSH!" "PULL BACK!" "COMMISSAR SAYS HOLD THE INTERSECTION!" "WHAT FUCKING INTERSECTION?!" Contacts flooded Yelizaveta's sensors, balconies, rooftops, alleys, holes smashed through apartment walls, the NWC had walked directly into a concrete killing ground. She fired into the upper floors, then something slammed into her machine. BANG. WARNING: LEFT ACTUATOR FAILURE. "Fuck!" Another impact threw her against the restraints, the third turned everything white, then orange. Fire swallowed the cockpit, shrapnel tore into her side and arm, blood soaking through her uniform as she clawed through the smoke for the emergency release. EVACUATE. EVACUATE. EVACUATE. "ОТКРЫВАЙСЯ! ОТКРЫВАЙСЯ, ЁБАНАЯ ТЫ ХУЙНЯ!" The hatch finally blew open, she tore herself free just as another detonation threw her into the street. MOVE. Her OBM exploded behind her, the blast throwing her across the pavement. She tried to stand and collapsed, blood running down her side, her left leg barely responding, so she crawled behind a wreck as bullets snapped overhead. "HELP! SOMEONE, FUCK... HELP ME!" Nobody came. The NWC was dying around her, soldiers running past, wounded men screaming behind burning vehicles, officers demanding retreat while the Commissar screamed at them to advance. I'm going to die. A burst tore through the wreck above her. "FUCK!" She crawled into the open, ten meters to an alley feeling like a kilometer, elbows, knee, pull, breathe, bullets cracking against the pavement around her. Come on. Come on. Come on. Someone grabbed her ankle. Yelizaveta kicked wildly before seeing an NWC soldier behind her, his throat torn open, blood pouring between his fingers as he tried to speak through wet, bubbling breaths. His eyes slowly emptied, his grip becoming loose. "I'm sorry." She kicked his hand away and kept crawling. Yelizaveta reached the alley, dragged herself upright and stumbled along the wall, leaving bloody handprints behind her while Prospekt 17 burned and her radio screamed with the voices of men she knew. Then she found a doorway. She threw herself inside, slammed it shut and collapsed against it, both hands covering her mouth as she tried to silence her breathing, her rifle slinged over her chest the only thing keeping her down like a weight preventing her to float away, blood pooling beneath her while the NWC continued dying outside for an intersection hundreds of meters away. Please... please don't come in here. For the first time since entering Grizvenia, Yelizaveta wasn't thinking about the Empire, Syabinka, the Federation or the war. She wanted to live, to go home, to open that stupid little flower shop she used to dream about, to fill it with colors instead of blood and smoke. She wanted to hold flowers again, to pick them one by one, without her hands shaking.

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