If one had never seen a Dalek before, one could be forgiven for laughing. Resembling a robotic trash can with a plunger for a hand, and speaking with a croaky, synthesized voice, it was something out of a 1960s' science fiction serial.

It became a lot less funny once one realized that inside the contraption was a genetically-engineered octopus-like creature, stripped of every emotion except hate; that its other arm was a death ray of frightening efficiency, illuminating a soldier like an X-ray scan before he dropped to the ground stone-dead. In lieu of any superior order, it wantonly executed its most basic function, repeated incessantly in its squawking electric exclamation:

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE!"

The miniature tanks in which they scooted around were made from a special adaptive material that, combined with a localized energy shield, rendered small-arms fire almost completely ineffective. Their weakest point was their blue eye stalk, but managing a direct hit was no easy feat. Their slow terrestrial speed was highly deceptive: anti-gravity systems allowed not only hovering, but outright flight. The Resistance knew what to expect: that was primarily what the Shermans were for. They had fought Daleks in the initial attack on New London to surprising success.

But that had been against a half-dozen. Now there were enough to surround the city.

Despite their instructions, a few of the militia loosed useless blasts of bullets in the Daleks' direction as they scrambled back into the town. A few unlucky stragglers caught out in the open were the first to fall. Colonel Chase grabbed a young man trying to run back for his comrade.

"He's dead, son!"

"But there's no mark on him!" he cried, trying to break away.

Soon enough the Daleks were too close for any futile rescue, and he gave up, following the officers off the streets and into cover.

CivGeneral pulled his radio to his mouth. "Hammer, I want rounds on those targets now", he barked. One of the tanks rolled out from behind a shed, blasting the turret clear off a lone Dalek. The Sherman rolled backwards as the crew readied another round, firing at the two that appeared in its place. It never got the chance for a third shot; a burst of green was followed by an explosion of yellow-red as a lucky hit penetrated the hull, igniting the ammunition. "Sithspit!", muttered CivGeneral, picking himself up from where he'd instinctively ducked.

Chase clapped a hand to his shoulder. "C'mon, we're pulling back to the city center. We'll get torn apart out here."

"Like hell," he snapped, throwing off his arm, "I don't give a damn about my rank; I'm not letting them take the fall for me!"

A blast struck the wall above them. "Stay here and they won't have to." Chase tugged more forcefully at CivGeneral's arm. "Don't be stupid! C'mon!" Reluctantly, CivGeneral broke cover as he and his officers ran down the streets, dodging errant shots from both sides. "Charlie, give me a status report, over," Chase shouted into his radio.

"Second line's already overrun," the squad leader responded, wavering voice punching through the background noise, "We can't hold this position much longer!"

"Roger that, pull back into the city and find cover. There should be a couple of tanks around to cover your retreat. Out." He clipped the radio back on his vest. "Goddammit," he muttered, "How'd they hit the south so quickly?"

All across the north, the forward lines imploded and the Resistance was forced back into the city. CivGeneral expected give-and-take, but never in his life had the first blow knocked him so far backwards. Three jeeps pulled up and he, Chase, Ayane, and the rest of the staff rode back to headquarters, dodging scrambling soldiers along the way. He listened, half-dazed, as the officers directed and redirected units to new locations, desperately hoping to plug the dyke before Curt's hordes poured forth. He put a hand to his radio but couldn't think of anything to say, didn't know what to do. He wasn't even aware they had reached town hall until he felt someone shaking his shoulder.

"CivGeneral!" Ayane exclaimed. He turned to her, blinking as he registered her presence. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he lied, leaping off the jeep. She guided him over to where Chase was in conversation with Major Briggs.

"I don't understand it," the major was saying, "Are they trying to psych us out or something?"

"What's up?" CivGeneral asked, stepping forward.

"They've just... stopped," he explained, bewildered. "They routed the troops at the old Coast Guard Academy, but.... they're not pressing further."

He pondered. "Do we have anything still out in the open?"

"Only in the south, and only because they haven't been sent to reinforce the line," Chase replied.

CivGeneral smirked. "Then they've played themselves out. It's urban combat from here on in. Get the troops into whatever buildings they can fortify. It's our game, now."

But Curt hadn't finished his opening move.

The JM-88 was yet another demonstration of Curt's affinity for Third Reich military legacy. It was a spitting image of the iconic Second World War airplane, outfitted with a number of modern features to aid in combat and navigation. Its chief role was as a medium-payload level bomber. Despite its updates, it was comparably slow, under-equipped, and presented an easy target for contemporary fighters and ground-based anti-air. Practically speaking, it was as much an antique as the Shermans, and would last only minutes in a proper campaign.

But it was never intended for frontline combat. It was made to quell domestic uprisings.

The Resistance had fortified the town to the best of its abilities against any ground assault, yet had fatally overlooked an attack from above. They had reasoned–understandably, if optimistically–that Curt would bank on his technologically-enhanced troops winning our the old-fashioned way and not resort to wholesale bombing of the city. Curt knew this. He knew that the Resistance's primary advantage was the city itself. Urban combat was always an ugly affair, especially to the invader; he opted to skip it completely. With the first wave having shepherded the enemy into the city, the bomber wing, which had been maintaining a holding pattern about a hundred kilometres north, was given the green light to commence its run.

He might not have been able to see the looks on the rebels' faces, but he had enough experience for an educated guess. First, relief, even an arrogant confidence; then, confusion, quickly turning to horror when they registered the drone of the propellers, realized they had absolutely nothing to cover their heads. The bombs would begin to fall at the top edge of the town; the carpet would quickly roll out. Those caught out in the open would be blown to bits by the cluster munitions; anyone above-ground risked having their shelter cave in. New London was a small city; within eight minutes they would have completed the first pass, and the survivors would have fled out into the streets. There they would be met by the shock troops, advancing under the shroud of dust and debris. Originally he would have just bombed them again, but the raid on the city demonstrated the rebels were too cock-sure for their own good: if the bombing hadn't broken their morale, the follow-up assault would. Besides, he couldn't level everything; cruelty had to be well-used, and only so much collateral damage could be plausibly pinned on the Coruscantis.

Poor boy, thought Curt as he checked his watch from the comfort of imperial headquarters, You've been out of the game longer than you think.

The situation on the ground was total chaos. Cries from the wounded were interspersed with the Daleks' relentless punctuations and the blast of their death rays. But there was a new sound in the cacophony, rifle cracks that sounded like baying dogs. They were further afield than the Daleks but steadily drawing nearer. Chase's face went white. "What? What is it?" CivGeneral shook the man's shoulder, trying to keep him moving down the dust-choked street.

"He sent the goddamn Death Korps," breathed the colonel.

"The what?"

A corner of the building in front of them exploded and they dove for cover behind a wall. "They're his elite human troops," he stammered, "If they're even human... They're not so much soldiers as exterminators. And they really love their job!"

"You've fought them before?"

"N-No," he confessed, "But everyone's heard—"

"The rumors?" CivGeneral interrupted scornfully. Chase hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Curt's empire is built on fear. If he can terrorize the people with words, he doesn't need to draw swords. It's the same as the Tarkin Doctrine."

"He's right," said Ayane, more conciliatory, "A good shinobi is a master of illusion. You've been resisting for years and never fought them; why should you now decide they exist?" More howling erupted, four or five blocks away. "Nonetheless, I doubt we want to face those guns regardless of their wielder."

As they hurried down Broad Street, CivGeneral realized he had no idea where they were headed, and stated as much. "We're rallying 'round the city's south edge," Briggs reported, "They're the only squadrons unmolested, and might be able to hold open a corridor for retre—"

"We are not retreating!" he barked. "Once we've rallied we can—"

"Dammit, man, open your eyes!" The major spun around and seized CivGeneral by his vest. "The city's on fire, and we're facing more Daleks than I've ever seen in my life! New London's fucked, and so are we if we don't pull out!"

CivGeneral threw Briggs' arms aside, glaring at the insubordination. The major stood firm, a pleading expression in his face. He looked around; other officers were eyeing the scene with trepidation, Chase was doing a poor job of masking his doubts, and even Ayane seemed hesitant. He felt ice run up his spine, knowing he was outnumbered, but knowing also that he was right. "Major, get to the bridge," he said at last. "We'll feign a retreat into the south and withdraw east. When Curt's troops give pursuit, we'll drop 'em in the river. If we're pulling out, by Christ we're not making it easy." Briggs looked to Chase, who nodded. He gave a hesitant salute and made off for Williams Street.

"You don't trust me," muttered CivGeneral, "Do you?" Chase opened his mouth to say 'Of-course-I-do', but saw the dead seriousness in the man's expression. He paused a moment, then ushered them along the street. He picked up his radio.

"Colonel Chase to all units: we're withdrawing from the west side of the river. Fall back to the Jackson Line and await orders to retreat to Groton. Out." After a moment, CivGeneral needled him again. "This was a mistake," he confessed, "We've overextended ourselves."

"What are you talking about? You've fought Curt before; you knew what you were dealing with–!"

"Guerilla raids on targets of opportunity are not the same thing as taking and holding a city," he shot back. His face briefly flashed an inward horror. "As only now we realize..." He quickly shook his head. "Sure, we took it, but we sure as hell weren't ready to hold it. We needed more time; more troops, more equipment, more—"

"If you weren't ready, then why'd you go ahead with this?"

Chase faltered. The group came to a halt as the colonel collected his thoughts. He turned to face CivGeneral with an utterly pitiable expression. "When you showed up at the Vault... I'd heard about your career in the army; everyone knows it... I thought..."

"You thought I was your messiah."

"Stupid, I know—"

"It's not stupid," he stated. "Sure, this strike went FUBAR, but I promise you, Colonel, I will personally deliver Curt's—"

His grand-standing was cut short as a rocket blast shattered the roof of the house above them. As everyone picked themselves up from where they had instinctively dove for cover, an all-too-familiar shape emerged from the swirling dust, its eye stalk locking on to CivGeneral.

"YOU ARE AN E-NE-MY OF THE SIB-LING EM-PIRE! YOU WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-A-TED!"

"Exterminate THIS!" came a shout, and a second later the Dalek was obscured by a small explosion. CivGeneral looked over to where a heavy weapons team shared a high-five. But their smiles quickly faded as the smoke dissipated, revealing the target unscathed.

"IN-FE-RI-OR WEA-PON SYS-TEM!" it mocked, before pivoting and blasting them with its death ray.

"C'mon!" shouted an officer, "Move! MOVE!!" They hastily beat a retreat before the Dalek could turn its attention back to its primary target. They heard a man go down, but nobody even looked back. Two blocks down the street they reached a checkpoint.

"They got Adrian," someone muttered, "Goddammit."

"Dalek," panted Chase.

"S'alright," one of the guards said, shouldering a Javelin launcher. "We've been saving this sucker for someone special."

"Another team tried a rocket and they didn't even dent it," said Ayane.

"And what were they using?" he asked dismissively. "They upgraded their armor since our takeover; bazookas ain't worth shit on 'em now."

One of the officers coughed indiscreetly. "Why the hell doesn't anyone communicate in this unit?" he groaned before making some calls.

The group took cover behind the makeshift fortifications. Moments later, the Dalek came into view, with what looked like soldiers trailing a little ways off. "Mark! Give it to 'im!" Gunfire erupted from a second-storey window to CivGeneral's left. As the Dalek turned to register the hostile, the Javelineer broke cover to acquire his target. Ducking back down, he aimed upwards and fired; the missile leaped out of the tube, then a split-second later engaged its engine and curved towards the alien tank, exploding in a direct hit. When CivGeneral peered over the sandbags, all that was left was a twisted, burning base.

The incoming soldiers, partially obscured by the smoke, opened fire with a frighteningly loud bark. CivGeneral reached for his rifle, only to find he had dropped it during flight. He hastily withdrew his pistol, dropping one of the troopers with two hits as his comrades took out the second. As the rebels picked themselves up, the Javelineer and his ammo-man shared a triumphant fist-bump. "Thanks for that," sighed Chase. "Pack yourselves up and fall back to the on-ramp off Huntington." The soldiers saluted as the officers continued on.

After fifteen minutes of frantic running, the group reached the rendez-vous on the south side of the highway. Soldiers were throwing up makeshift fortifications, anticipating a lengthy siege as the few surviving vehicles would shuttle squads to the other side of the river. Picking their way through the men and women, many of whom looked much the worse for wear, they reached what looked like the command group. Most of the officers were busy guiding their forces to the rally point, but a few saluted as CivGeneral approached.

"Thomason, what's our status?" Chase asked a dirty man with scraggly brown hair.

"Slower than we'd like," he replied, casting furtive glances to CivGeneral. "Curt's got way more men than we thought. We can't pull back at once without risking them swarming us. I mean, if they had tanks..."

"Any movement from Groton?"

"Negative. "

"I don't like it," muttered another man. "This stinks of a trap. If Groton's not clear and we try to cross, they'll bottle us on the bridge and rip us to shreds."

"You didn't scout Groton?" CivGeneral asked, incredulous.

"With respect, sir," the dirty officer replied, tone betraying everything but, "It was you who insisted we not plan a retreat."

CivGeneral lurched forward and seized the man by his lapels before anyone could react, bringing them nearly nose to nose. "You fucking listen to me," he growled, "We're all neck-deep in this shit. You can politick all you want once we're clear, but right now, our priority's getting out of this mess alive. So button up and do your fucking job. Understood?"

By this time, the other officers had found themselves and eased the men apart. The man addressed stood in startled silence; before either could say more, another officer quickly guided him away, muttering something about how they'd been through a lot of close calls on the way and he didn't mean to snap. CivGeneral glared after the both of them, the excuses on his behalf only adding to his frustration. A clap on his shoulder brought him to his senses. "I'll organize a recon," said Chase. "You get some rest, alright?" The colonel headed off.

Exhaustion finally caught up to CivGeneral, and he collapsed to the ground. Ayane sat down next to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. He pressed his palms to his temples as he desperately tried to ease the pent-up pressure in his addled brain. Gunfire crackled continuously all around him. When he closed his eyes, visions of the ruined city flashed before him like one of those dystopic depictions of a Soviet invasion. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen! They'd busted out of prison! They'd liberated the city! Curt couldn't just waltz back in! Not like this!

"What are we doing?" he croaked, "This was a mistake!"

Ayane gave him a squeeze. "Don't say that," she cooed, "Even if we don't hold the city, we have struck an important moral victory! We have shown that Curt cannot keep us down forever. We are the first to stand up to him; we have shown it can be done! We are the match that lit the powder keg: when news of this spreads, other counties will rise up!"

He wasn't sure if Ayane honestly believed that they would ignite such a spontaneous revolution or if she was just trying to comfort him. It was hope, at least, and he still had to cling to whatever tattered bands of it still fluttered. He'd dropped that ball in 2003, and the world had paid for that mistake tenfold...

"CivGeneral." He looked up to see Colonel Chase jogging up. Ayane helped him to his feet. "Turns out we did send scouts to Groton, but they haven't reported in." The implication was obvious.

"I'll go."

"What, alone?"

He nodded.

"Don't be stupid, man. If Curt is over there, you'll be a sitting duck."

"And how many men in that scouting party?" he retorted. "The fewer, the easier to hide."

"I'll go with him," said Ayane, wrapping her arm around his.

Chase opened his mouth, but he was too tired to protest further. "Alright," he sighed, "Just don't get yourself killed."

"Wasn't planning to."


The Gold Star Memorial Bridge had been moderately damaged in the bombing run, but most of that was over dry land and for their purposes it was still usable. Soon into their trek, CivGeneral realized they really should have scouted it out sooner. Long, flat, and straight, it was the enemy to an infantry-mobile force, and that's precisely what the rebels were. The bombing had knocked out the power, so his and Ayane's approach was shrouded, at least; but that wouldn't be much of an advantage to an army in full retreat.

"Sithspit," he muttered when they were halfway across.

"What?"

"It's too long. They only would've rigged it to blow at one section."

"One section is all it takes."

"If only I could find Curt's one section," he grumbled. Muted by the distance but still audible, the cacophony of combat continued unabated across the city. He gradually quickened pace to the point that he was almost running until Ayane reined him in. When they at last reached the other side and the dim outline of Groton's rooftops came into view, he crouched down and radioed in.

"CivGeneral to Chase, how you holding up, over?"

"They're boxing us in pretty bad. We're holding, for now, but we can't keep 'em off much longer, over."

"Copy. We've reached Groton. No sign of anything yet... We'll be scouting the landing soon. Over."

"Received. Call back soon. Chase out."

CivGeneral shouldered his rifle and made toward the side of the highway, peering down into the streets below. It was dark and dead silent, the only illumination from scattered streetlights that shone down onto empty roads. He didn't think the town had been evacuated, at least not to the extent of New London. Then again, given the vicious bombing of their neighbour the residents might have blacked out for their own safety.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Ayane murmured.

They continued on in relative silence, the knowledge that the men were teetering on a rout gnawing at CivGeneral's mind, but their rapidly fading cover demanding he not run. They at last reached the off-ramp and leaped over the metal barrier to continue their march under cover of the trees. "Christ, I wish I had a car," he muttered. Even the night wildlife seemed cowed, a chill wind blowing through empty woods. The good news was, even under pursuit, if the rebels got off the bridge and into the trees they might be able to shake off Curt's troops long enough to escape. There were also a few small bridges that could be sapped to stop any mechanized advance. "I'm tempted to call it," he said. Just as he raised the radio, he spied a dim light from a house a little ways past a wide four-way intersection. "Hey, see that?" he pointed.

"The scouting party?" asked Ayane.

"Dunno." He withdrew his binoculars and scanned the building. It was a wide, two-storey house. The light was a dim lamp over the front door. He could see a figure underneath; it looked like a rebel, but it was too shadowy to tell. As he watched, the figure turned and went inside. "Someone's there; don't think they saw us. C'mon, let's check it out." Keeping low, they sprinted across the street and formed up under cover of a bushy tree. Up the slope stood the house, tall and imposing. It didn't look fortified, but CivGeneral suddenly realized it commanded an excellent field of fire over the main street.

"OK, I'll go in, see what's up. Stay here and keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"Be careful."

Doubling over, CivGeneral ran across the street and took cover behind a stony ridge. He advanced up the sidewalk with long, almost comical strides until he reached the driveway, lying prone and crawling towards the house using the hedges in front of the walkway for concealment. He reached the nearest bush, then quickly rolled behind the other; picking himself up, he cautiously approached the door from the opposite end. Slowly turning the handle, he found it unlocked, and pushed it inward while he fell back against the wall. When no sound followed, he peered inside. The hallway was dark, but he could make out a faint line of light on the upper storey. Priming his rifle, he slowly made his way inside, testing the steps as he ascended the staircase facing him. Now and then a step creaked and he froze, scanning the landing for movement. It felt like an hour getting to the second floor, but beyond his own tense breathing he heard nothing. He crept toward a door ajar, finger on the trigger as he slowly pushed it open. It was a small bedroom, what looked like a young girl's, with a single bed and a figure seated at a study desk directly across from him, a small table lamp shedding incandescent light through the room. The figure was clad in resistance gear.

"George," CivGeneral whispered the challenge. The figure remained motionless. "George," he tried again, still to no reply. "Hey," he shout-whispered, stepping forward, gun still trained on the figure. "It's CivGeneral, from New London. You alright?" He reached forward and grasped the figure's shoulder. It slumped in the opposite direction, falling to the ground, wide eyes and gaping mouth proclaiming the soldier had been dead for some time.

Shit.

As CivGeneral stepped backwards, he heard a figure in the doorway. He spun around and was confronted with the Wehrmacht-inspired uniform of an Imperial soldier, with overcoat, gloves and stahlhelm, face obscured by a metal mask. CivGeneral swung his rifle against the soldier's own outstretched gun. There was an ear-splitting bark as it discharged into the wall. He rushed forward, punching his foe in the gut before being kicked backward as the trooper tried to take aim. CivGeneral noticed the glint of a fixed bayonet, and dodged out of the way as the soldier lunged forward, catching him by the neck and trying to trip him over. But the trooper caught his own legs on the way down, and he scrambled to right himself as the enemy scrabbled for his rifle. He felt a thud against his back that flattened him against the floor; he rolled onto his back into the unreadable face of the trooper, who had picked himself up and was already lunging the bayonet towards him. He rolled out of the way and the blade thudded into the carpet; he slammed his boots into the soldier's lower legs, sending him back to the floor. The soldier reached for his gun, but CivGeneral distracted him with a kick to the face and grabbed the gun himself before springing to his feet. He saw the soldier reaching for his own discarded weapon and slammed his heel into the outstretched hand. There was a muffled scream from beneath the mask. CivGeneral wasted no time, grabbing the stock of the gun and slamming the butt into the trooper's face. Again and again he brought the gun down; the trooper's arms feebly tried to block it, but as the mask became more and more distorted they grew limp and fell to the ground. Metallic clanks began to blend with a sick squishing noise, and by the time he had finished the mask had turned concave.

He stood for a moment, legs shaking, supporting himself with the gun, before turning about to retrieve his rifle. Suddenly he felt something strike his back. His body went numb as his muscles tensed violently, sending him to the floor. The strange wave passed just as abruptly and he tried to pick himself up, only to be hit again, harder this time. He felt delirious; his heart seemed to be beating both faster and yet softer. "Fucking Coruscantis," a voice muttered, distorted by what he presumed was another Imperial mask.

"Think he's dead?" asked another, matter-of-factly.

"Run 'im through just to make sure."

whi–ppupt

There was what sounded like two packages dropping followed by the crumpling of bodies. He heard footsteps, someone bend down, and something pull at his back before he was spun around into the face of Ayane. "Taser," she explained, holding the barbed end of a dual electric wire. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yeah," he breathed, weakly.

"Give yourself a few moments for your heart rate to stabilize." She reached over to the corpse of the first ambusher and wiped the blade of her sword with the sleeve before returning it to its sheath. "A trap,' she surmised, noticing the dead scout.

"Yeah," he sighed. "They're waiting for us. Can't take the chance." He reached toward his radio with a trembling hand, but Ayane stopped him.

"I'll do it. Take deep breaths." He did as he was told while Ayane unclipped her own radio. "Ayane to base, do you copy, over?"

"Loud and clear," called Chase, "Over."

"Groton is hot, repeat, Groton is hot. Strength unknown, but they were waiting for us. We will make our way back ASAP." She looked over to CivGeneral. "...Begin the retreat, over."

"Copy that, Ayane," replied Chase, "We'll try to keep the bridge open as long as possible. Godspeed. Out."

It was a few minutes before CivGeneral could stand. He found the soldiers decapitated, the carpet so drenched in their blood that it pooled on the surface. They gathered themselves and exited the house. "If they were this well-prepared, odds are they will send inspectors to follow up." Ayane gave CivGeneral a knowing look. "We cannot afford to fight them all."

"I know," he said after a moment. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They retreated the way they came. Sure enough, they could make out scattered movement in the streets; evidently Curt's men figured they had played out their trap and were now moving on to the main course. Abandoning the road, they manoeuvred through the trees, down a narrow gorge and across a stream before emerging back onto highway. They had barely taken five steps before the sound of engines and the flash of light sent CivGeneral spinning around. "Down!" he hissed, and they fell prone, crawling first over to the concrete barrier and then toward the trees as the convoy drew steadily closer. When they had made it to the forest cover, CivGeneral cautiously stood up. Advancing at flank speed was a column of heavy armour, a mix of pilfered Abrams tanks and modernized Panzer look-alikes. "Sithspit,", he breathed, before reconvening with Ayane. "We're not making it across that bridge."

She nodded. "Call him."

He grabbed his radio. "CivGeneral to Base. Colonel, do you read, over?"

"Loud and clear, over."

"Blow the bridge, over."

"Are you across? We can't see you, over."

"There's a full column of tanks headed your way, you can't afford to wait for us. We'll find another way back. Blow the bridge. Over."

There was a moment of silence before Chase's voice crackled through. "Understood, Commander. I'll put a beer on ice for you, over."

"See you back at the Vault." Tears welled in his eyes as he fought to keep his voice from cracking. "CivGeneral out."