Prologue

The ace growled, Firing off his boosters and launching his NEXT to the side as a crater formed where he stood, flames kicking up and charring the dust and sand. He shifted his eyes side to side quickly, the orange-red optics on the 03-AALIYAH head unit doing the same. His joints ached and throbbed in protest, as well as even his hands to a degree from the white knuckle grip he held onto his weapons with.

'They weren't lying when they said he was good, he's actually got me on the defensive.'

Berlioz had already lost his three squadmates in this intense battle, the enemy NEXTs Noblesse Oblige and Null disengaging and fleeing the combat zone due to high damage. He was effectively left alone with this other pilot, nameless as far as he knew. This had turned from a multiple NEXT bloodbath to a brutal, one on one duel.

His thoughts are cut short by the amber, golden field surrounding him dissipating with a pathetic crackle. Rifle rounds were slamming into his body and causing him to slightly stagger backward. He grunted under his breath from the pain, but quickly regathered his thoughts and resumed his high-speed maneuvers. This was beginning to turn horrific, if he couldn't turn the tide soon, this mercenary could very well take him out of the fight. Rayleonard's trump card would be gone just like that. Shells whizzed by the streamlined frame of Supplice as it smoothly boosted around, across the sand, sliding and turning, its movements comparable to and even surpassing a graceful skater as it worked in sync with its pilot. The roar of his rifles rang out as he hammered the mercenary with as many shots as he could land, their own "forcefield" shimmering and sparking from the impacts whilst they somehow managed to keep up. The sounds surely could have deafened anyone unfortunate enough to be witnessing the event without protection from them, if the radiation from the Kojima particles which made up the "Primal Armour" fields around these war machines didn't make them drop dead first. Berlioz spoke up in the midst of this dance of death.

"You continue to impress me… I can't afford to lose to a simple case of beginner's luck. You're a fine warrior. Call me sentimental, but I wish we could have met under different circumstances."

'It's about time I wrapped this up.'

Berlioz kept moving, as the Ogoto grenade cannon attached to his right back mount unfolded and deployed, the firearm seemed like it was maybe as long as of Supplices height. He slid to a stop, boosters whining as they eased up, before he steadied himself, taking aim; He fired at the mercenary, their midweight descending for an aerial attack.

He heard the wicked sound of metal warping as the force of the recoil caused Supplice's body to twist a bit to the right, stifling a scream of pain by mentally gritting his teeth. The grenade he had fired off soared through the air with a whistle towards his adversary, closing in before their boosters flared brightly… And they blasted to their left, avoiding the grenade as it moved in its now uninterrupted parabola over the horizon.

'What?! They dodged that?!'

The enemy readjusted quickly, swooping down on Supplice and Berlioz, who tried to recover from the recoil of firing the Ogoto, but Rayleonard's ace was slow, sluggish from the insane amount of time they had actually spent fighting. This hesitation is what allowed them to ignite a laser blade on their left arm and slice away. Supplice had its legs easily removed as the blade cut through Primal Armour and plating alike like a hot knife through warm butter, the sound of metal bubbling and boiling away. Within seconds, Berlioz had found himself on his back, looking up at his attacker, Trying his best to stifle his cries of agony. He refused to give up, however, as Supplice began to lean up the best it could, leveling the MARVE Assault rifle in its left hand with his executioner's core. They stepped forward, knocking the gun away with a backhand, the heavy almost vehicle sized device flying away and skidding to a stop in the sand. A foot was put on Supplice's chest, pushing him back down before the NEXT aimed it's rifle and fired.

Several rounds slammed into the head unit, shattering optics and punching holes through metal. Berlioz howled in suffering. He couldn't see. He couldn't fight back. Rounds then punched into the joints of his arms, only putting him through more discomfort as they fell limp to his sides, slamming down into the sand and spilling out hydraulic fluid. He felt every bit of this, as his attacker refused to relent, gunshots filling the air like thunder accompanied by shell casings spinning away smoking into the sand. That is, until he finally went silent, what remained of the optics on Supplice's head fading out with a dull whine.

Satisfied with their work, the white and grey NEXT stepped backward and off of Supplice, racking the charging handle on their rifle. Finally, their operator spoke.

"Thinker, confirming mission success. Come on home."