PART 6: Cymru

[MaXenzie]

Cymru

​

Metal groaned against metal.
The cobalt alloy of a Combine Armored Personnel Carrier is built to withstand multiple high-explosive ordinance impacts.
Metal groaned against metal.
This alloy, used for years by the Combine, was famed for being nigh-indestructible, and being capable of supporting the immense, titanic weight of even the mightiest Citadels.
Metal groaned against metal.
For years, Resistance cells around the world had tried to research and reproduce this alien technology for use in their own arms and armors.
Metal groaned against metal.
No progress had ever been made, and soon, it became another secret of the Combine.
Metal groaned against metal, then creaked, then tore, then split open.
Lancelot loosened his grip from the side of the immobilized APC, and stared at the three masked figures inside.
“Get out. Drop the weapons. Follow the squires.”

Lancelot stepped up onto the vehicle, and surveyed the ongoing battle from his vantage point.
At a glance, one would assume the Combine were winning. Their soldiers hunkered down across the field, returning fire against Lancelot’s own troops, while titanic synthetic monstrosities roamed the land, pelting hellfire down to those below. Armored Carriers had pulled back to the Combine line, and were being used as mobile cover and fire support for infantry teams. The striders formed the vanguard, pushing forward into the Briton troops, forcing retreat. Hunters protected the flanks, using the natural hills to out-maneuver any attempts made to circle around the battleline. A sniper stood in a tower at the rear, picking off important targets; Vortigaunts, squad leaders, weapons specialists, radio operators…

A bullet appeared before the knight. It levitated in the air, inches from his head. It quivered and shook, like an agitated wasp, held aloft by the faint, otherworldly glow of magic. Lancelot snatched it. He threw it aside carelessly, and turned, stepping down from the vehicle.
“A valiant quest,” a clergyman commented, kneeling down to retrieve the wayward projectile.
“One in which the knight almost lost his life,” another commented beneath his cowl.
“Was it worth the sight?” a third asked. Lancelot’s upper lip raised, and his nose scrunched.
“The sniper’s tower,” Lancelot said, “can you send me there, clergymen?” he asked. His retinue clicked quietly amongst themselves. A trio of red eyes looked upon him.
“These ones can oblige. They are capable.”

The sniper stared through the scope of his weapon, bewildered. The shot was perfect. A direct headshot by all accounts. Yet the knight remained standing.
Then, the knight walked from view, and stepped down from his position.
“Get you next time I see you…” the sniper muttered an assurance to himself.
“Of course,” Lancelot said in response. The sniper’s eyes widened. With surgical, precise speed, he withdrew his utility knife with one hand, and his service pistol with another. He turned, slashing viciously, and readying to fire off fast, vicious shots towards the knight.
Lancelot dismembered the soldier by blade before the knife could meet its mark. The room filled with the deafening roar of gunfire, and a synthesized scream. A barrel was pressed against the knight’s abdomen, the trigger pulling and pulling and pulling. The room flashed with yellow each time, bullets
Lancelot impaled the soldier upon his sword. He raised his boot, and kicked hard.
The soldier’s scream continued as he fell from the tower, the rattle of gunfire now a weak, crippled click of an empty magazine, click, click, click.

Lancelot glared down at the dent in his armor, and wiped away the scorch mark made by the barrel’s heat. He placed his sword against the bannister of the sniper’s perch, and knelt down, taking the rifle. The Combine were an impenetrable force for Lancelot’s forces, hunkered down, coordinating with their commanders to make their maneuvers. They used the heavy armor of their APCs, slowly rolling across the battlefield, to force the resistance back. They made vanguard pushes forward with their breaching infantry, while their officers stayed behind, orchestrating the battle like a chorus.
Lancelot shot one from behind.
Then another.
Then another.

To account for a rogue element in the midst of battle, a soldier requires their commanding officer to make decisions quickly and effectively. These decisions cannot be made if the commanding officer is the target of the rogue element. The Combine attempt to counteract this by decentralizing, and using many commanders and leaders in a given battle, each commanding a squad, a company, a battalion. Lancelot knew the weakness of their tactics. For each squad, an APC to hide behind. For each company, a strider to dominate the battlefield. For each battalion, a sniper. It did not matter that there were many more battalions down the border of Wales, each protecting the valleys and hills. So long as one fell, the battle was won.

Behind every personnel carrier, there laid the headless corpse of a squad leader. Behind each strider, a limp, twitching commander.
The Combine forces were, in the space of only a few minutes, rendered without leadership. The synths continued, unabated, following their established orders unwaveringly, without the support of the rest of their forces. They were smote by the priests.

The Combine forces surrendered swiftly, and without further incident.