Metrics Of Ragnarok

"No movement, lieutenant."

Atlas winced and looked up from the dull blade he was sharpening, against something he'd rather not say.

This was how it had always started, with those exact words from a reluctant man.

Four of his men were laid in the snow, rifles aimed northward at the withered forest, because Atlas believed certain doom would approach from there.

"Stay sharp, it's coming," Atlas said, vesting up as he did.

It would have been easier for them to spot whatever abomination was trudging through the snow towards them if they had scopes, but sadly, the only person who could make them had died a long time ago.

Many of these men didn't even know such a man had existed.

Atlas huffed and strained his lips, whistling with as much force as he could muster, into the distance. A few seconds later, he received a whistle in return, confirming that the second team were already in place.

The last three times, they had been where they were, but it didn't change anything. This time it wouldn't, but Hope wasn't dead yet, so he could still draw strength from her and believe it would.

"I thought you didn't believe in hoping," Hope whispered into his ear, from the gust of wind that drifted by.

Atlas flinched. "Would you stop that? I'm scared enough already. Besides, I never said I don't believe in hope; all I said is that it's the lesser alternative when skill and planning are available."

"Well, you all seem like very skilled men."

Atlas couldn't see her, but from the tone of her voice, he could tell she was smiling.

She believed, against all odds she believed, that they would win. And that hurt the most. Because until these men, unlike the barricaded kingdom behind them, she would remember when this was over, she remembered all the failures.

Atlas looked at the scattered contents of his backpack for a while. All of it was important, but he needed to go light when fighting this thing.

He crouched and picked up a one-handed axe– something given to him by someone he couldn't remember– that had saved him in all before few of his ill-fated encounters.

A crude miniature shotgun that had only two bullets.

His unbreakable, oversized dagger.

A wooden vest plate, black powder bombs, and most importantly...his Will.

Some weapons didn't pierce the enemy; they pierced the heart of the wielder...and ignited their firm ideals into incandescent motivation.

Atlas left the rest on the ground and walked up to his men. Well, calling them "his men" was a bit of a stretch; they were sort of borrowed property.

"...get ready," he said with disciplined eeriness.

'Three...'

'Two...'

'One...'

The first shot fired!

The shooter dragged the firing compartment back, allowing the shell of the last bullet to fall out, making place for the next.

He aimed again and fired, but went over the same routine immediately after, telling that he had inevitably missed what he shot for.

Within the next second, all four of them were furiously firing at snow, their expressions growing bleaker as they did.

Atlas jumped down the ridge and ran forward to meet up with the second team. They had to end this fight away from the kingdom, or die trying.

He could already see the beast, weaving through looms of fog with glitchy movement as it dodged the bullets with slight effort.

"Kael! You and your team, form up!" Atlas roared at Snow, knowing the second team was hidden somewhere in it.

A shiver later, the lean behemoth was in close quarters with Atlas. It looked like a malnourished ape with white fur thick enough to catch blades, and a maw filled with misshapen teeth.

It was fast, but Atlas had grown used to its first few attacks over the course of several failures.

He ducked without thinking, narrowly avoiding the thunderous paw that swung by. Atlas kicked at the back of its knee, buckling its steps just for the moment, preventing it from dodging the bullet that rammed into its collarbone a second later.

Atlas rolled back, creating space between him and the disgruntled creature– the MacMillan.

It moaned for a moment, then rushed at Atlas. The lieutenant didn't move; he hated being pummeled, but unfortunately, this was the only action that worked at this moment.

The clawless paw smashed into his wooden plate, shattering it and sending splinters into Atlas' chest as he flew back into the frozen rock behind him.

A high tensile thread whirled and released a small ballistae as the Macmillan stepped over the tripwire. The ballistae smashed into its ankle, causing it to stumble right below the team above.

Kael and the others jumped down, brandishing weapons as they landed atop the MacMillan's back.

Atlas took a deep breath and stood, not trusting even the most experienced of men to deal with the Macmillan for even a second.

Kael and his team scaled up and down the beast, letting their weapons bite into its flesh as they moved with macabre fluidity.

Whenever one was caught in the MacMillan's grip, the sniper elites shot the beast until they were released.

It worked for now, or rather, precisely forty-nine seconds before the MacMillan would hurl a body at the sniper elites and crumble the ridge.

That was what Atlas was to work against. He rushed back into the fray, dodging the frenzied attacks with practiced parkour and efficiency.

The MacMillan shook violently and roared, throwing three men off its back. Atlas darted in to fill the gap; at the moment, it would attempt to crush him with its foot...but it didn't.

Atlas' eyes widened as he streaked past the feinting beast, trying to correct for the error. Before he turned, one of his legs had been strewn apart, disassembled by the wide swing of the beast.

Atlas reached for his gun as he fell, placing both bullets into the Macmillan's skull, staggering it long enough for Kael and his team to rally round and protect him.

"Don't worry, we've got this, Lieutenant," Kael said to Atlas, confident in the abilities of the Xhosa.

Atlas grimaced. He had heard that lie so many times already, in the lives Kael died and in the ones he didn't.

And it was just that, a lie.

In the next blink, the members of the Xhosa and the MacMillan were engaged in fiery combat, with two of the sniper elites coming down to join them.

Blades and paws flashed through falling snow as neither wielded.

Then...