02-06-2009, 11:34 AM
The blizzard has been snowing for a fortnight over the irradiated ashen crater that was Home. In the streets boys too young to shave trudge through the sludge, the mud and the blood of their enemies, looking for a fight.
Around the world, talking heads speak of the Storm of the Century and pretend like Home never existed.
At Home, lead armored infantry slowly drudge through the streets of hardened snow on patrol. Out of sight, the ambush party sneaks along the ash-mud caked rooftops, dying of black long desease instead of sacrificing mobility, or a pointless dispute.
Without warning, a Cancer fires a missile at the Golems. The one missile, 1.6kg, levels the building next to the unit of boys no older than sixteen. The wave of rubble crashes across the street and destroys the foundations of the Cancers' ambush point. Three dozen boys die needlessly.
Two dead Gods look at each other from across a chess board.
Around the world, talking heads speak of the Storm of the Century and pretend like Home never existed.
At Home, lead armored infantry slowly drudge through the streets of hardened snow on patrol. Out of sight, the ambush party sneaks along the ash-mud caked rooftops, dying of black long desease instead of sacrificing mobility, or a pointless dispute.
Without warning, a Cancer fires a missile at the Golems. The one missile, 1.6kg, levels the building next to the unit of boys no older than sixteen. The wave of rubble crashes across the street and destroys the foundations of the Cancers' ambush point. Three dozen boys die needlessly.
Two dead Gods look at each other from across a chess board.