Soaked in Blood

Ahcehera's small, battered body stood in the middle of the battlefield, her eleven-year-old frame drenched in blood, some of it hers, most of it not.

The stench of decay filled the air, the corpses of fallen warriors and civilians alike rotting under the relentless sun.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt metal, broken mechas reduced to useless husks, their pilots either dead or long since turned into mindless husks infected by the Zerg spores.

The buzzing of mutant insects echoed from the distance, feasting on the remains of those who hadn't made it. But she was still standing.

Her hands, trembling from exhaustion, tightened around the energy blade she wielded, its once-lustrous glow flickering from overuse.

Her body screamed at her to stop, to collapse, to give in to the inevitable fate of death. But she didn't. She couldn't.

Her optical brain had lost signal after the first few days. The strategic satellites had been destroyed.