Draconian Imperium, Low Ridge JungleTime: Late November 2510, Daytime

  While the upper body of the disguised "Thor" remained in its lookout posture, its mechanical claws had already deftly pried open the cockpit of the genuine Wraith at its feet. The Tartarus soldier inside, who had just drawn his sidearm, was silenced before he even had a chance to fire.

  "Better luck next time, pal," the benevolent fatty thought, glancing at the blood on Thor's claws before kicking some dirt over it. While the other searching mechs were distracted, he pulled a handful of bombs from his toolkit. He stuffed them into the Wraith's abdominal power bay until it was packed tight, then slipped away into the other side of the jungle.

  Cyril. The target of this whole operation. I have to get that bastard out.

  As Jack vanished into the trees, the booby-trapped mech was discovered by its comrades. The bizarre manner of death made the remaining four Wraiths hesitant to split up; they formed a tight, back-to-back cross formation. A few seconds later, a massive BOOM tore through the jungle, adding four more pulverized Wraiths to the casualty list.

  Jack quickly returned to the main battle area. Hiding in the shadows, he morphed "Thor" back to its original form and strode up to a seemingly destroyed Vanguard-22, giving it a swift kick. "Stop playing dead! Get up!"

  The battered Imperial mech didn't move. Jack leveled Thor's energy cannon at it. "I'll count to three. Keep faking and I'll really shoot!"

  The Vanguard-22 moved reluctantly, climbing to its feet. "Who are you? How did you know I was playing dead?" the pilot demanded.

  Damn it, Jack thought with contempt. For me, playing dead is a gift, an art form ingrained in my very being. Your performance? Pure amateur hour.

  He didn't waste his breath, sneering instead. "Ever heard of a professional? I practically invented playing dead. You're Cyril, right? Let's go."

  Inside the mech, Cyril was stunned. How had this junk-heap pilot found him? Everyone's attention was on the heavily protected "Duveau" private mech, wasn't it? "You—who the hell are you? How do you know who I am?"

  "I'm your daddy!" Jack roared. "What does it matter who I am? You're all talk and no action. Now move!" Thor's hand gave the Vanguard-22 a shove, then its foot sent it stumbling. "Acting like a damn tourist," Jack muttered. "Keep dragging your ass, and I'll just blast you and take your corpse back to HQ!"

  Humbled and brought low, the great Imperial Admiral Cyril could only shut his mouth and obediently follow the dilapidated mech deeper into the jungle.

  From his sniper position, Jack had a clear, wide view of the battlefield. He'd seen through Cyril 's trick from the start. The security detail had kept the "Duveau" at its center, making it far too obvious a target. But behind the "Duveau," a single Vanguard-22 had been feigning a protective posture while clearly looking for an escape route. As the battle soured, Vanguard-22 had collapsed in a very stiff, unnatural posture after a nearby energy blast. "Have some damn professionalism when you're faking it," Jack had cursed at the time. "Shit, you look like you just got raped!" Those clues were enough for him to deduce that the mech trying to slip through the cracks had to be Cyril. The Fatty felt no goodwill toward the famed Imperial general. If it weren't for this bastard, he wouldn't have had to endure those thirteen goddamn escapes.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Like a pair of lost souls, the two battered mechs wandered through the jungle. The Fatty had chosen their path long ago, but it was a treacherous route that demanded extreme piloting skill. Cyril, a man known for his calm and resilience, felt he was on the verge of a breakdown. He could pilot a mech, but the last time he'd done so seriously was twenty years ago. Now, his hands were nearly cramping, and he still couldn't keep up with the junker in front of him. Whenever he slowed down, the wreck would swing around and smack him. Even though the blow landed on the mech, the impact rattled Cyril in his cockpit, making him see stars. Never piss off a fatty with a grudge! Besides, High Command's orders were to bring him back alive if possible. Killing him on-site was also an option. I'm already being merciful by not opening fire! The benevolent Fatty thought to himself, thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to punch and kick the general all the way through the jungle.

  By the time a miserable Cyril finally followed Jack onto a mountain ridge, he was in about the same shape as his battered mech.

  From the ridge, Jack could see the rendezvous point for the 16th Armored Division's Special Reconnaissance Regiment. The area was already a storm of activity.

  The "Warhounds" special forces weren't much faster than the Fatty. Dragging Cyril 's security detail (and more importantly, the "Duveau") with them, they had fought a running battle all the way here, with the Tartarus Legion nipping at their heels. When they saw a full special forces regiment in a defensive position up ahead, the exhausted Warhounds were ecstatic.

  But when the regiment's "Paladin" mechs fanned out in an encirclement to meet them, the Warhounds nearly burst into tears.

  Were these special reconnaissance soldiers? Why did they all look like they were in a beggars' parade? Their mechs were dilapidated, some were missing arms and legs, and their armor was a patchwork of craters and weld seams.

  Ignoring what the Warhounds were thinking, the hundreds of Paladins from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment swiftly executed a series of interweaving tactical maneuvers. But the mechs were in such poor shape that some simply fell apart as they ran, tumbling to the ground with a final twitch of their legs. Others seemed to go up in smoke at the slightest touch from a Tartarus mech.

  But what brought tears to the Warhounds' eyes was that these "beggar" mechs never gave up. They kept charging, weaving, and re-weaving their formation. Several streams of rusty steel slammed into the pursuing Tartarus Legion, brutally cutting their formation into several pieces.

  As the two sides became thoroughly entangled, the teary-eyed Warhounds were left dumbfounded. These guys weren't beggars—they were gangsters.

  "These mechs play dead after one hit, then jump up and land a cheap shot!" They were surviving in the dirtiest, most innovative way possible. Watching the scene from the ridge, Jack grinned with a knowing, wicked, and satisfied smile. Haha, look at Slade's stupid face. He has no idea what he's up against. Those are my soldiers. And a coward's soldiers live the longest.