Science Reload

No ammo.

Just waiting for the world to end.

The blue-and-grey warriors, towering over the battlefield, were long gone. They had guns that burst like thunder and swords with caged lightning, and fought with a cold precision that made killing look so mechanical. In their wake of their boxy metal beasts that ground the rockcrete to dust under merciless treads, their war had turned the city to ruins more so than the cult they were supposedly 'liberating' it from.

The child did not understand the politics of the war. It did not know, or care, that the planetary governor had been drawn and quartered by a mob of bloodthirsty mutants seeking to purify the land for their dastardly brood; that the army of screaming, deformed monsters had razor-sharp claws that cut through ceramite like paper; that their hideous looks belied a deep and deadly cunning. It only knew war in and on itself.

It learned how to build a gun, long ago, when it was still human and growing and under the oppressive toe of a greenskin beast. Guns were second nature to it, no matter if they were auto or las or bolt, and it knew how to make and break each and every one. That was all it knew. 

The city was doing fine. Guns were valuable and the child was surrounded by greedy buyers, exchanging food and precious water for the guns it made for them. It cared not for what horrible deeds the underhivers and gangs did to each other with its weapons, only that it remained fed and comfortable in its tiny shed, deep in the sewers. The storm of war only brought with it an even bigger demand for killing tools, but the creatures that began culling the population mass-produced better, more reliable weapons from their stolen manufactorum, and the pockets of resistance in the underhive were all but obliterated.

It did not care, at first. Death was nothing new in the bowels of the city. Then the monsters began feeding on the dead, turning more and more into four-armed, razor-bladed horrors with glowing eyes and snaking tongues, and it felt fear for the first time in a long, long while. The child shot every last one that pursued it in the sewers, but it took all it had to kill even one of the beasts, and where one fell a dozen more materialised from the darkness. It was a matter of time before the child fled to the city surface and was nearly blinded by the hollow sun, choking on the fumes of a hive in flames; the war between the PDF and cult forces had raged for months, gutting the city almost entirely.

The PDF had resorted to killing their own to curb fears of the 'infection', burning entire refugee camps alive with but a rumour or doubt that they were fully 'human'. The child watched in horror as thousands of men, women and children died screaming as their tents were set ablaze by grim troopers in ash masks. At the same time, the battle ground to a bloody stalemate as the cultists gleefully shifted to a war of attrition, grinding away at the humans with their fears and ignorance. Terrified, the child ran day and night, getting caught in huge battles and skirmishes around every corner, shooting everyone it saw regardless of affiliation.

Then the warriors of lightning and storm came on wings of fire, crashing down in clawed metal bullets from the stars. They advanced without fear, hacking apart the monsters and mutants like so much chaff and burning the rest with silent precision. Bullets and las-bolts alike clanged off their polished grey armour, their blue standards flying high over the rubble of the hive. The child hid from the slaughter, knowing that none of its weapons could come close to harming these towering mechanical knights, but was becalmed after watching its leader execute the militia who had killed so many innocents. 

Just as there was a flicker of hope on the horizon, the centre of the city imploded and collapsed - an enormous beast emerged from the sucking hole, alone with thousands of completely mutated beasts. The warriors and remaining militia were torn to pieces but fought on with a grim resolution, as did the child for its own survival. It fired every last round there was to fire, expended every last power-pack, overheated every last mounted gun, and ran until its legs could move no further. 

And so it lay, barely alive, empty gun in its hands, surrounded by riddled corpses and thousands of shell casings. Blood was leaking from its many wounds; they stung, but it was too tired to move, let alone treat them - it wanted to lay down and die, but fear kept its heart racing. Night fell soon after.

Don't... want to die.

Fading in and out of consciousness, the child barely registered blue-and-grey ships leaving the city. They had won, then. The knights had won and were leaving their mess behind for others to clean up. It would have wept at the injustice of it all if it had energy left to do so. 

Dawn broke with a harsh wind on the air, carrying with it the smell of burning flesh and ashes. The child could not feel any of its limbs now - not the cold steel of its ramshackle gun, nor the hard, unforgiving slab of rockcrete where it had made its final stand. Its vision was blurring, but it could not fall asleep no matter how hard it tried. Part of it knew that if it did, there would be no waking from this terrible dream. 

Footsteps. Metal ground on rock, getting closer.

"A survivor."

"Auspex registers. It's a child. Alive, but wounded."

"Is it infected?"

"Scanning."

The deep, booming voices were muffled, as if they were spoken from within iron drums. Something about them raised what was left of the child's fear, but it could not know, or care.

"Clean. Where is the nearest refugee camp?"

"Off-world now. The others have left as well."

Cold metal hands reached around the its back and legs, lifting it without effort. It took the child a moment to register the surprising gentleness of this offer before consciousness began slipping away irreversibly. The gun clattered to the ground, scattering bullet casings.

"It's dying anyway. Leave it to know the Emperor's peace."

"You shame us, bruva."