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The detritus of bloody conflict oozed slowly from the once fertile earth. Blood from hundreds of years soaked through to the very bedrock below, staining and tainting all. Roots which fed hungry vegetation evolved, their diets becoming rich upon the spoils of war. Flesh decayed, yet it was not just the clean flesh of Prelate-fearing humanity which rotted here, and it showed.

Foliage was a sweating grey-green, which shimmered and trembled anxiously with the armoured columns passing. Orders sent yet more Protectorate forces to Odun, the cursed planet. It sat on the hotly disputed border and was accepted as the "right" place to throw troops; a proving ground where known terrain allowed the training of soldiers in well-documented scenarios. This was the Protectorate's reasoning, none knew how the demon-infested mind of a Tauran functioned. Today it was the turn of two regiments, recently formed and shipped direct from Newhome, one Infantry and one Armoured. The niceties had been observed and an equal force of the enemy awaited them.

What novelty there was showed up  in the make-up of the Protectorate's troops. Infantry was the cannon-fodder of tacticians everywhere, yet today they had been joined by new partners. Recent developments within a secret Protectorate facility were on show for the first time and walked beside their ground-pounder buddies.

Officially classified RP-A, or Resurrection Prototype-Alpha, these mechanized twin-man units were more than powered battle suits, yet less than conventional armour. A driver and gunner were necessary for control and weapons. Each step was forced by the driver, rail-guns, auto-cannons and plasma armed and fired by the gunner. Initial hopes had been for remotely operated units but the state of the war had forced the RP-A's deployment. They were the future of Protectorate warfare. Infantry bivouacs were interspersed with the man-like and towering figures, which waited patiently for morning's first light.

*

"What's that?"

"What?"

"That...do you hear it now?"

Jon Carvalho laughed, his companion had been jittery ever since they left the Assault Transport. Now when the night was almost over, and they had received orders to ready the RP-A  for movement, he acted spooked.

"Nothing...I hear no..." said Jon, a scratching noise interrupting him. It was strange, reminiscent of the sound his pet feline made as it sharpened its claws on his furniture.

"Probably one of those frigging rat-monkeys," he said, remembering the long-clawed, prehensile-tailed animals they had seen before dark, "we splattered a few tasty bugs onto the windscreen as we marched here."

Jon reached for a smoke; they were forbidden, but with the hatch cracked and the fans running, who would know?

No, you are not. It is an effect from when KM was trying to fix some other global text errors. The only way to remove it now is to edit the post directly.

It was angry, hurt and angry. The metallic monsters crushed and bruised with their passage, breaking limbs and tearing young from the fertile earth. This was not the first time, but it would definitely be the last. Vibrant growth and a desire to live, did not transmit the warnings that the creatures should have recognised. They would not be able to ignore this message.

Energy was sucked from damaged extremities, pooling in neural crossroads before being drawn ever downwards. Normally slow metabolic functions ramped up, regenerating cells and stimulating new growth; limbs now quested for prey. At first they found nothing, then the RPA’s surface was touched; the metallic wrongness generating shivers of fear and loathing, before anger won and it felt triumph. Nodules on the plant’s skin burst open releasing chemicals into the air. Dormant neighbours reacted to the aggressive threat warning and reached out with once flaccid limbs.

Metal was grasped, tiny suckers bit and held, their parent limbs thickening as angry life fought back.

*

“Red Three to Red Leader, I repeat, Red Three...”

“What is that idiot doing?,” asked Jon, flicking his used smoke out of the hatch, “Radio Silence usually means s-i-i-l-ence. Someone is going to tear him a new arse!”

No laughter greeted his outburst, the voice continuing in desperation, “We are under attack. The Taurans have deployed a bio-weapon of some sort. There is nothing we can do!”

“This is a joke, right?” queried Jon turning on his scanners.

“See,” he insisted, “nothing to...”

Thermal bloom obscured his readings as scout units were sequentially lit up. Across the blank waste, which served as the dividing line between the warring forces, he saw the scenario repeated. The Taurans were also under attack.

“Where are our sodding orders?” Jon was angry, so much for the Protectorate’s vaunted communication.

He flicked switches, powering up weapons ad the RPA’s motors. They had been given pre-agreed targets and he would not be left out. Carvalho eased the throttle forwards and grinned. Time to
party. Nothing happened.

The motors whined in tandem with the throttle’s movement, but that was all. They were stuck fast.

*