The Grendel attacked me almost immediately, weapons blazing. The mech's two-storey body was laughable in shape but advantageous from a tactical viewpoint. Its thick, bulbous body gave it heavy armour and a low center of gravity, and its weapons array was built directly into the center of its frame, making it harder to destroy. The tubby grey German mech fought less like its mythological namesake and more like a sumo wrestler—it was built to take a hit and remain standing. A single red light shone through its thick armour as it wobbled toward me, marking where its camera was hidden away.

The chunky Grendel was a tough enemy for my flimsy Regiment, especially because it was carrying both a rotary railgun and a powerful howitzer cannon. Fortunately, I had a trick or two up my sleeve.

An interchangeable weapons array had been the reason I had chosen to use a Regiment for my mission—though a Goliath would've been a better mech, the Regiment's mounted weapons were easily customizable. Most Regiment pilots used railguns or other standard-issue firearms, but I had modified my weaponry just for this occasion.

Two small boxes sat atop my mech's frame, in the exact spot where railguns had once been. Both swivelled open as I pressed my thumb down on the trigger. I opened fire with both rocket launchers.

High-velocity missiles crumpled hull plates and shredded armour with the speed of bullets. Big, explosive bullets.

The sturdy Grendel, to its credit, did manage to get a shot off with its howitzer before it crumpled. To my delight, the shot went wild and the shell rushed past me. As yet another command capsule soared into the clear blue sky, the crippled Grendel stumbled drunkenly. Because the pilot of the mech had ejected, taking his IRON chip with him, the mech had nothing to keep it balanced.

The Grendel swayed, shearing off the side of a building with a cacophonous crash as its legs gave out and gravity brought it down. The pilot would be back in another mech, but for now I had been given an opportunity. I broke away from the battle and sprinted toward the reactor.

To my dismay, there was a loud thump behind me. I sighed. I had no time to deal with another enemy I didn't want to fight.

An instant later my Regiment dissolved into a mess of alarms, sparks and shrieking metal. The next thing I knew I was safe in my command capsule, the rocket-powered pod soaring up and away from the battle.

The back of my neck burned, a sharp pinch that drove a needle into my brain and twisted. My ears rang.

"Gah," I spat, hands groping at the back of my neck. "Blast it..."

My hands found the smoking IRON chip and yanked it free from its mooring with a sharp tug. The tiny, thumbnail-sized ship had been overloaded by feedback from my Regiment's destruction. Though it was painful, the chip had ensured that it hadn't been my brain that was fried. This happened often with IRON chips—the feedback from a mech's destruction had a chance of activating the chip's fail-safe, shorting it out to protect the user.

I tossed the dead chip to the floor of my pod and tapped the side of my command capsule. A drawer slid open, insides lined with padded impact gel.

The shelf, within was mostly empty, save for a single remaining IRON chip.

I sighed as I slotted the last chip into the divot in my neck. I would have to ask for a resupply again. If this chip burned out, my mission was over.

The power plant below me seemed small through my capsule's window—even the massive mechs looked like ants. My thoughts drifted back to the battle. Who had taken me out? I had never lost a mech in combat so quickly.

A flash of red and gold caught my eye. I leaned forward in my seat, surveying my rapidly dwindling view of the battlefield.

Impossible.

A trail of explosions cut across the battlefield, heralding the arrival of a mech I knew far too little about. It was a small wonder my Regiment hadn't lasted a second—that blur of red and gold was the indomitable Exodus.

I wasn't the only one in disbelief—a cry of alarm from Commander Harlow rang out over the comms.

"We have an Exodus sighting! Contact command and cancel the test! This area is not secure!"

I had no idea what test Harlow was speaking of, and I was too worried to care. Were the Russians truly allied with the mysterious pilot of the Exodus, or had he or she just decided to help them out? The Exodus had been known to fight for both sides in the past, but I had never seen it deployed with my own eyes.

I considered my options. I could've grabbed a new, stock-model Regiment, but if the Exodus was on the battlefield then subtlety truly was out of the question. I needed one of my own mechs to do the job right, but it was probably going to cost me dearly.

To fight with a tried and tested mech was one thing, but to bring a prototype into battle was another level of difficulty entirely.

Also, I hadn't been approved to pilot it yet.

At that moment I made my decision. I couldn't let anything stand in the way of my mission. If I wanted to destroy the reactor, outgunning the Exodus was out of the question. That meant it was time to outrun it, no matter the consequences.

My command capsule streaked through the clouds, shrouding the battlefield below in white. To the naked eye, my command capsule rocketed to six-thousand feet above the Earth and simply disappeared. Of course, I knew better. Above me, the sky opened like a door, exposing a metal interior filled with mechs.

My dropship. Visually camouflaged and practically undetectable by radar, dropships were used to discreetly transport mechs by every faction in the Iron War. Dropships were hidden from view but never weaponized—a global agreement forged after far too many aerial fatalities.

I could see the dropship's camouflaged exterior part for a brief moment, exposing its gray hull for an instant. All sleek curves and rounded edges, the dropship was a nuclear-powered marvel of technology. Keeping it in the air was impressive—using it to carry building-sized mechs was another feat entirely.

Thankfully, it was Lucas' job to worry about keeping the dropship flying—mechs were my only concern.

A door in the bottom of the dropship swung open upon detecting my capsule. I was plucked out of the air in an almost dainty manner, pulled swiftly inside by mechanical arms specially designed to latch onto my capsule.

Darkness enveloped me, and the sounds of combat were muffled once more. My screen flashed, waiting for me to choose my next mech. Gripping the controls, I made my selection.

The Prototype.

I slammed the selection key and felt my command capsule move, sliding through the hangar on one of the hanging mechanical arms. It was thanks to this technology that I did not have to leave the cockpit to enter a new mech. Every pilot needed a capsule to control their mech, and no mech would function without a capsule. In turn, each IRON chip was paired to a specific command capsule—it prevented signal errors.

Capsule, pilot, IRON chip. A mech couldn't function without all three. This trio made the Iron War possible.

The mechanical arms relinquished their grip on my capsule as I was gingerly loaded into the open top of the Prototype.

Another moment of silence passed, and before I knew it, I was falling again.
I patted my jumpsuit's pocket, making certain that my lucky coin was secure. There was no drop countdown this time, so I whispered one myself.

"Six thousand feet... four thousand, three... one."

The impact was greater the second time I hit the ground, something I didn't expect, but the mech was a prototype for a good reason. Adjustments would be made.
The Prototype was a fragile, angular little mech that packed a massive wallop, outfitted with two plasma launchers Canadian infiltrators had discreetly borrowed from the Russians. It looked like no mech I'd ever seen before, forgoing the usual heavy armour plating of the Regiment or Goliath for a light, angular design that seemed more intimidating. Its light grey colour and sleek build reminded me of a pre-war fighter jet—smooth sides interspersed by jagged aerodynamic fins and pylons.

The Prototype's legs used the same digitigrade design as a Regiment, but were far more agile thanks to the usage of thinner armour. In a controlled environment the Prototype had shattered every previous speed record for combat robotics—it was, quite literally, the fastest thing on two legs.

Unfortunately, the Prototype's speed only came with some sacrifices. At only one storey tall, it was one of the smallest mechs to date. The mech's armour was far thinner than I was comfortable with, and its weapons array was sparse. Like the Regiment, the Prototype only had enough capacity to mount two small weapons on the sides of its hull, next to its cockpit.

The mech was built to work like a jungle cat, prowling the outskirts of the battlefield, only attacking when the moment was right. In a one-on-one firefight it was a deadly opponent, but sheer numbers could easily crush it.

Fortunately, the benefits of the Prototype far outnumbered its drawbacks, because it carried a special ability that made its flimsiness worthwhile.

I just hoped I wouldn't have to use it.

The back of my neck tingled, telling me that my new IRON chip had successfully paired with the Prototype. My combat display burst to life, giving me an almost uninterrupted view of the battlefield.

The American mechs were scattered, but holding their own against the Russian and German forces. To my dismay, most of the fighting was taking place near the plant's northern side, around the reactor.

This wasn't going to be easy.

I spotted the Exodus almost immediately, and from my close proximity I could see it in much greater detail. The imposing red-and-gold mech cut a striking figure, armed to the teeth via three separate weapons arrays and decorated in glorious golden decadence. Unlike my Prototype, the mech's legs moved like those of a human, stomping over the terrain as if to beat it into submission. The Exodus' armour was impeccable, rounded red plating adorned with golden decals.

In a way, it was strikingly beautiful and utterly terrifying at the same time.

Without warning, the three-storey mech bent its knees and launched itself into the air, flames spewing from several exposed heat sinks. Surprised shouts crackled from my comms system.

The Americans were clearly as panicked as I was. The Exodus' sudden leap into the air was an unnecessary proof of its dominance over the conflict, as leaping mechs were considered expensive and unnecessary. Unless, of course, you had funds like Axion Industries did.

Nevertheless, the Exodus leapt with all the grace of a falling building, dominating the American forces with twin rocket launchers and a massive, top-mounted shotgun. I watched in awe as a Regiment like my own staggered and fell, reduced to a pile of slag under the absolute onslaught of the Exodus.

The Exodus was built like a crimson tank and armed like a battleship. It was power. It was might. It dominated the battlefield.

I had to get past it undetected.

I grinned, laying a finger on the coin that resided in my pocket. Perhaps I'd be lucky today.

I swivelled the Prototype's body toward the main reactor and its nimble legs quickly followed suit, beginning a long sprint toward my goal. I could barely make out the charred brown husk of my former Regiment, claimed in battle by the Exodus.

My comms crackled with more shouted questions.

"—the hell is that tiny thing?" someone cried. "It came outta nowhere, commander!"

"Scythe Squadron, focus fire on the anomalous mechs!" Harlow bellowed.

Well, so much for undetected.

The Americans had finally noticed me. The Prototype was a mech nobody had seen before, and its light grey armour and angular design certainly stood out.

But if they wanted to shoot me, they'd have to catch me.

The Prototype didn't stumble drunkenly as I adjusted the controls. This was no factory-made Regiment. This mech was tailored to my specifications by Doctor Dan Stonewood, a scientist back at our base in Canada.

The Prototype hit a clean ninety kilometres per hour almost immediately, outpacing even the fastest of the American mechs. Its weapons were what excited me most—the two bulbous plasma launchers I carried had a short range, but could corrode a mech's armour to slag in seconds.

I was almost through being awed by the Prototype's speed when a shotgun blast barely missed my armour as I rounded a building. It seemed that the Exodus hadn't been too distracted by the Americans to notice the new player in its game. It leapt toward me, rocket launchers fully loaded.
Fortunately, the Prototype wasn't just agile. It contained a secret weapon, one that could win the entire Iron War.

However, it would only win the war if it didn't blow me up the moment it activated it.

The Prototype's secret weapon had never been tested outside of laboratory conditions, but I had a feeling I was going to get lucky. I was ready to use the Prototype to its full extent or certainly die trying.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the massive Exodus wished me the latter.