The hot steel and iron. “Every fucking thought…” He grits out the words; he can’t tell what is going on beyond mind static. The large machinery encompasses him, melting and cooking gut-inspired instincts; drowning in mean time alone; sinking down further inside.
Open wounds sticky red and bitter concrete taste; never hurting through skin tingles. Speeding flashes encircle the green iris. Reflections of stone rumble past and off of a burnt amber visor, where the pupils of a shocked and struggling anger brows.
Escaping cries from the armor, “I can’t fucking stand this!” Volume struggles, pushing hard in primal screams and jolting machine shoves against burial of a collapsed building.
The colossal weight of stone rubble pushed off him now, falling across in many directions away. Thudding rumbles spread with smoking concrete dust jumps. Clouds of cement destruction bloom with a glowing gold sunset break across the many hues of red, orange, purple, and pink through the skies.
Warrior eruptions, as he rages aloud to himself in frustration at every layer of resistance. His mech, more than ten feet tall, charging with torque, springs, and compressions launching with ton stomps. His sprinting leaves elephant-like prints through the dirt and grass, larger than dinosaur footprints.
A fallen angel maybe, the head of the squadron, with a plasma blood spear surrounded by black armor, tech slides of gliding aeros await him as leads. Soldiers seeming with submachine guns and smaller black primary and red-hint armor, skulking with plated weight and helmets like war pilots; their black-tinted visors hiding every feeling. They wait for the mechanical charge at a standstill.
The man in the suit, Samson. His heart pounding steady and hard. His eyes shooting straight in judgment left and right. The soldiers all walk and fire in rhythmic suppressions, trying to strafe behind another collection of stone. Bullets ricochet off of denting metal of his outside. This might be the last time, Samson thinks.
Memories; Samson remembers the kidnapping, his village plundered by the pouncing ambush of Euclids. He thinks maybe she didn’t have to go, that maybe she is still here. His lover stolen, the last time they talked was like a two-day cold black coffee, strong. His head shakes in denial and anger as the memory rushes him, and so his mind moves past it.
His rapid eyes begin staring and fixating across the field he sprints through.
“Fire now!” the tall leader announces to his squadron; their guns no longer firing in quick bursts, they let loose their magazines in turns from behind cover.
Samson feels the heat increase further throughout the mech armor, and it is creating a boiling feeling below and at the head, mixing with his sticky blood stains across the mouth, nose, and forehead. More bullets ricochet, his visor burnt deeper by hot lead.
The soldiers see a leaping goliath. The leader lunges forward with finesse against the steel brute with a precision plasma spear. Quickly, though, a pounding kinetic shot explodes from the gauntlet; a large and forceful slug shoots the tip of the spear away and below. Samson’s foot steps down hard onto the tip, snapping it in half. That instant is followed by the angel jumping back with a black wing-flight bird scatter.
The soldiers lose the formation and discipline, all now firing soullessly into the beast. Paranoid to the vision lost of several round flies repeating, Samson rolls his mech’s forearm trunk up heavy, the gears making a mechanical shulk noise. He charges into the grunts, his steps loud with long and monumental gears, firing burned fuel smells into the golden sunset scene from his suit’s exhaust.
Pounding break-back speeds that clash, his left armor knee, like a wall slam, struts into one soldier’s chest and helmet, smashing the visor red with brain sludge smears; one dead.
Samson’s right arm grabs at another, crushing his ribs from his ginormous gauntlet, like a screaming orange bursting as a motorcycle’s brake gripped wrongly. The soldier erupts with yells in the death fit before his insides are pulped.
The black-winged one scattered leaps forward, before it springs onto his back, being almost seven feet tall. It crawls up and around his suit like a spider, peering past his forearm that protects his visor intrusively as a lizard. Samson sees the visor raised by the angel, and a hissing tongue follows from a deformed alien with many mandibles stretching in screams; caustic spit flies, covering the amber and smoked glass.
Samson tries to swat at the angel’s tantrum, but it is too late; it shoots its claws into the visor. He grabs the wire that goes in and under the ear, and he holds the cord from its bio-outlet.
“No! Nooo!” screams the Samson, a human under the machine.
A pulling yank makes the machine lock up. The standing tank falls like one, shooting debris up into the air, a grey smog. The sun is now setting into darkness.
Samson screams out again, “Fuck you, demon!”
His black hair is stuck to the blood pouring from his face, and he thinks, this isn’t it.
The angel’s claws move up slowly through Samson’s neck, reaching for more, as he is stuck stiff within the confines of the machine. The monstrous angel finds a chip hanging at the back of the head. Samson grits with a pissed look, not saying a word at this point. The angel pulls it. Memories in a drive; missing. Samson’s neck and head loosen back as he forgets.
Samson realizes, “She never was; they used me as a machine for war.”
The fog of war carries through the night as blood runs down his unspeaking mouth; stillness. Faint lights of distant buildings and machine churns far away reflect in the mix of smudge, blood, spit, and dirt over the visor, his pupils mirroring the same. He stares off.