The Will Is in My Shirt Pocket

The Goliath that Augustus encountered stood about fifteen feet tall, its design philosophy—prioritizing caliber and ammunition capacity—evident in every aspect of the Kel-Morian machine. Compared to the Terran Confederacy's mass-produced replicas, the Kel-Morian Goliath looked far cruder, with visible traces of salvaged parts from civilian mining mechs integrated into its frame.

The blue and green camouflage was chaotic, lacking any semblance of orderly lines or patterns, as if the two colors had simply been splashed onto the armor plating. A tattered flag was stuck to the back of the cockpit, the "KM" insignia upon it long since blurred into obscurity.

Yet, it was undeniable that the Kel-Morians were the original developers of this formidable walker, a machine capable of all-terrain ground fire and anti-air support. Their Goliaths were far more dangerous than the modular, assembly-line versions fielded by the Confederacy.

At that moment, the Goliath was no more than ten or twelve yards from Augustus and his men, the massive Kel-Morian walker stepping off the slope and onto the A-220 commercial street. As the upper cockpit rotated, the shoulder-mounted autocannons swept across the caught-off-guard Terran Marines at point-blank range; in the blink of an eye, two more Marines were struck.

The dense hail of spike bullets from the Marines' rifles only left white, rain-like streaks against the mech's plating and cockpit glass, nowhere near enough to damage the steel giant.

"Ward, target the cockpit with a rocket!" Augustus commanded over the comms channel. "Grenade!"

Simultaneously, Ward finished his aim and fired the first rocket from his shoulder-mounted launcher. The projectile, capable of automatic tracking via heat signatures and electromagnetic signals, struck the Goliath's cockpit with precision.

An electromagnetic grenade flew over the top of Augustus's helmet. An EMP wave with a diameter of about twenty feet rippled out from the parking lot entrance like a drop of water hitting a pond, the overflowing current crackling like wandering lightning snakes.

The chaotic electrical pulses caused Augustus's visor display to flicker with static for a moment, but it returned to normal in less than a second.

The EMP blast caused the Goliath to tilt backward at a sharp angle before it crashed to the ground.

Augustus and the surrounding Marines immediately rushed toward the fallen Goliath. After a few irregular breaths, he slung his Gauss Rifle across his back and climbed the external ladder to the cockpit.

The tempered glass of the cockpit had been shattered by the rocket. The interior was cramped, barely large enough for one person to sit. The worn leather seat had been ripped from a scrapped tractor, and the curved console was a mess of haphazard buttons and display panels of varying sizes.

Augustus grabbed the pilot by the neck. With the hum of his Power Armor's servos, he hauled out a bald Kel-Morian man wearing a black eye patch.

The man's face was covered in scars from a life of harsh adventuring, and his slightly obese body was drenched in blood from shrapnel and glass shards. With a thud, the pilot was tossed to the ground, and Augustus jumped down after him, standing in the shadow of the Goliath.

"Omo and Benjamin have been hit," Zander's voice trembled over the comms. "Damn it, that bastard was aiming for our machine gunner."

"You son of a bitch!" Hearing this, Raynor rushed forward, hauled the pilot up by his collar, and leveled his Gauss Rifle at the man's nose. "I swear I'll make you regret ever being born."

In Centerville Town on Raynor's home world of Shiloh, the Omo and Raynor families were neighbors, and their parents had been friends for years. Having grown up together, Omo and Raynor were as close as brothers.

"Hand him over to me," Augustus said, walking to Raynor's side.

Raynor looked at Augustus. "Augustus, let me finish him."

"I said, hand him over to me," Augustus repeated, his expression hidden behind his visor.

Augustus took the pilot from Raynor, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him until their eyes were level. Perhaps lacking the strength to even hold his head up, the pilot let it hang, though he was still breathing.

"How many more Goliaths are on this street, in this sector? How many more men are lying in wait?" Augustus pulled the pilot's face toward his own.

"You want to know? Huh?" The Goliath pilot struggled to lift his weathered face, his mouth trembling as he cracked a smile, revealing two rows of blood-stained teeth.

"The only thing I know... cough... is that you're a spineless Confederate animal."

The pilot couldn't finish his sentence. Augustus threw him to the ground and pinned his heaving chest with his boot.

Augustus unslung his Gauss Rifle, gripped the barrel and magazine with both hands, and raised it high. With the immense power provided by his servos, he swung it down with force against the man's head. It was like the strike of an axe; in an instant, blood splattered everywhere.

"Augustus." Raynor reached out a hand toward him but quickly pulled it back. He realized something today: even the usually gentle Augustus could be as furious as a thunderstorm.

Augustus retracted the rifle with the same speed he had used to swing it, then turned and walked back, his weapon stained with blood.

No one noticed that in the pilot's slowly uncurling right hand was a laminated two-inch photograph of a laughing infant.

When Augustus returned to his men, the comms channel was in chaos. Londerstein was busy injecting Omo with sedatives and painkillers.

"Benjamin is dead." Amy Brandon knelt beside Benjamin's prone body, cradling his head in her hands.

Augustus felt his heart stop for a few seconds. He walked straight toward Benjamin. Benjamin's Power Armor was a size larger than Augustus's, and on his chest plate, painted with a white cross, were three two-inch-wide holes, one of which was directly over his heart.

Perhaps for Benjamin, the pain had lasted only a fleeting moment. After the autocannon rounds pierced his chest, his heart had been shredded by the high-speed rotation of the bullets, and it had ceased beating forever.

Benjamin's eyes were already closed, his face devoid of expression, as if he were merely sleeping. Augustus stood in silence, etching this scene into his mind, swearing that he would never forget it.

"Report casualties," Augustus said, pulling his gaze away and walking toward Omo.

"One dead, one wounded in the third platoon of the fifth company," Corporal Hopey cursed. "No more wounded now."

"Two dead in the second platoon of the first company," said Laird, a private from the resocialized soldiers.

Augustus knelt on one knee beside Omo. Londerstein had already opened Omo's helmet and covered the hole in his abdominal armor with an M-2 Backpack made of waterproof canvas.

The young man's eyes were fixed on the sky, his mouth gasping wide as he struggled to draw air into his lungs, emitting a rattling, phlegm-filled cough. Blood flowed into his lungs with every labored breath.

One of his lungs had been punctured.

"Tom, good lad, don't be afraid. It's nothing," Augustus's helmet visor slid up so Omo could see his face. "You're going to be saved."

"Squad leader," Omo's voice was hoarse. "My last will is in my shirt pocket."

"I told you... it would come in handy."

Thanks to Longyiling, Xueshao, Bookfriend 20190829221617416, the urge-to-update squad, Wandering Demon, Yuandaoxing, and Cherry Dance for the monthly tickets, and thanks to Cherry Dance and commandllche for the tips.