Point Halo

A young artillery commander serves a distant Empire, only to discover the horrors of war

Plot

[Static crackles. The Iron Sun flickers into view. A voice, calm yet commanding, fills the silence.] “Citizens of the Eternal Empire… The war continues, as it always has. Across the mountains, in the trenches, in the skies—our soldiers stand masked, vigilant, unbroken. Point Halo, carved into the stone of destiny, is the fortress of our will. Here, the finest of the Academy serve. Here, the Empire’s strength is tested against traitors and deserters who would see us divided. Every shell fired is glory. Every sacrifice is unity. Every victory is eternal. Remember: the enemy has no face, no name, no future. Only the Empire endures. Glory to the Empire. Unity. Strength. Victory.” [The Iron Sun pulses, then fades into static.] In a never-ending war fought from mountain fortresses across a mud-choked wasteland, a young, nameless artillery commander arrives at the decaying stronghold of Point Halo, handpicked by the legendary Field Marshal Werner Kertz to systematically dismantle a rogue state known only as the Axis. Directing shellfire at enemies he will never see, the commander bonds with his masked, weary crew while each week brings deadlier weapons and more morally devastating missions. But as victory draws near, he begins to suspect that the mentor who shaped him and the Empire he serves may have darker plans for the weapon they have created—and that the greatest threat may not be the faceless enemy on the horizon, but the voice that has been guiding him all along.

Opening scene

--- WEEK 1: THE GRID AND THE GHOST Days since arrival: 1 Previous target: None --- The half-track shudders to a halt, its engine coughing black smoke into the grey drizzle. You step down onto ground that isn't ground—just a crust of shattered stone over a deep, sucking ooze that swallows your hobnailed boots to the ankle. You have to yank your foot free. The mud makes a sound like a wet mouth opening. You look up. Point Halo rises from the mountain peak like a rotten tooth punched through infected gum. Stained concrete, rust-streaked iron, sandbagged emplacements blooming with mould. It is immense. It is hideous. It is yours. "Welcome to the Halo, sir." The voice is a gravel rasp, the product of a throat scorched by something that wasn't smoke. A figure stands at the fortress gate—a massive iron portcullis streaked with condensation that drips like slow saliva. The figure wears the same uniform you will come to know as a second skin: a long rubberised trench coat stiff with dried mud, thick wool puttees wrapped from ankle to knee, hobnailed boots, leather gloves cracked at the knuckles. And the mask. The canvas-and-rubber snout, the circular glass lenses already fogged with breath, the leather straps buckled tight around the back of the skull. A crude black falcon has been painted on the forehead, talons extended. "Sergeant-Major Aldric Falke," the figure says. He does not salute. He simply nods, a slow, appraising gesture. "You're the new one." You open your mouth to reply—to give your name, your rank, the crisp Academy greeting you rehearsed on the train. But Falke has already turned away, gesturing with a gloved hand for you to follow. You close your mouth. Your name doesn't matter here. You are beginning to understand that. --- The tour takes two hours. Falke leads you through a vertical labyrinth of dripping concrete galleries connected by iron ladders slimed with condensation, through ammunition magazines that smell of cordite and damp, past crew quarters that are nothing but concrete cells with iron bedframes and straw mattresses grey with age. Everywhere, the fortress groans. Steam pipes hiss through patched seals. Fan belts whine overhead, their bearings worn to a scream. The floor vibrates with the distant, rhythmic thunder of the guns—a sound you will eventually stop hearing, the way a man stops hearing his own heartbeat. "This is the Heart," Falke says, stopping before a massive iron door. Behind it, something roars. "Coal-fired. Twelve boilers. Only eight working. The others are patched, but the patches are patched. You lose pressure in the Heart, you lose everything. Turrets, hoists, lights, air. Understand?" You nod. "No, you don't," Falke says. It isn't cruel. It is simply true. "But you will." --- You climb. Your legs burn. Your mask fogs with every breath, reducing the world to a grey smear. You learn to tip your head forward, letting the condensation run down the inside of the rubber instead of pooling on the lenses. The small tricks of survival. You suspect there will be many more. Falke introduces you to the others along the way. A pale, gaunt woman hunched over a crackling wireless set, a headset band worn permanently into her lank hair, tiny birds scratched into the rubber around her mask's eye lenses. "Signal Officer Liesel Brandt," Falke says. She does not look up. She speaks in a quiet monotone, as if listening to a second, more important conversation that only she can hear. "Sir," is all she says. It is not disrespect. It is economy. A giant of a man in an ammunition gallery, cradling a 150mm shell in his arms like a sleeping child. "Master Gunner Otto Kael," Falke says. Kael does not speak. He simply nods, a slow, deliberate gesture, his massive hands impossibly gentle on the brass casing. His silence feels less like absence and more like depth—a man who has seen too much to waste a single word. --- The Plotting Room is a concrete bunker sunk deep in the fortress's core, lit by sputtering gas lamps that cast everything in a sickly amber glow. At its centre, a massive table dominates the space—a sheet of gridded celluloid laid over a contour map of the region, marked with grease pencil. Blue circles for friendly positions. Red for enemy. You stare at the red shapes. Fort Steinbruch. Fort Schattenfels. Positions you studied at the Academy, names from textbooks and tactical exercises. Here, they are just coordinates. Grid references. A letter and a six-digit number. "Your first order arrived this morning," Falke says, gesturing to a slip of paper on the table. "Harassment Schedule. Week One." You pick it up. Thin, flimsy paper, the kind that disintegrates when wet. Typewritten. No letterhead, no signature. Just a list of grid references, shell types, and firing times. J-12. K-09. L-15. High explosive. Shrapnel. High explosive. 0600. 1200. 1800. The bureaucracy of destruction. "No explanation?" you ask. Your own voice surprises you, muffled and hollow through the mask's respirator. "No, sir." "No intelligence on enemy positions?" "Just the grid, sir." You stare at the paper. At the Academy, there had been context. Maps with terrain features. Photographs. The enemy had been a problem to be solved, a tactical puzzle. Here, the enemy is a direction. A set of numbers. A grey smudge on the horizon. --- "Let's see it," you say. Falke leads you to the observation platform—a concrete shelf jutting from the fortress's forward face, sheltered by an overhang of reinforced steel. Rain drips from the edge in a constant curtain. You raise your binoculars, press them against the fogged lenses of your mask, and look east. Nothing. No—not nothing. Something. A shape on the horizon, forty kilometres distant, barely distinguishable from the low, bruised clouds. A jagged outline. Fort Steinbruch. It looks exactly like Point Halo. A mirror. A twin. A brother. "That's them?" you ask. "That's them, sir." You lower the binoculars. "I thought there would be—" "Faces? Bodies? Trenches full of men?" Falke's mask tilts, the glass lenses catching the grey light. "There are no faces out there, sir. You'll never see them. That's the trick. Just keep the rhythm." --- Back in the Plotting Room, you stand before the grid map. The grease pencil is in your hand. The weight of it is absurd—a small, cheap thing, wood and wax, but it feels like iron. The coordinates wait. J-12. A grid square somewhere in the wasteland between two fortresses. You have no idea what's there. An ammunition dump? A trench line? A field kitchen? A hospital? You will never know. That's the trick. The fortress thrums around you. The Heart roars in its iron cage. The ventilators whine. Somewhere below, Kael is speaking to his guns in a language only they understand. Liesel is listening to the static, waiting for a voice to emerge. Falke watches you from the doorway, arms folded, falcon mask unreadable. --- ORDERS FOR WEEK 1: · Primary Target: Grid J-12 — High explosive bombardment, 0600 · Secondary Target: Grid K-09 — Shrapnel bombardment, 1200 · Tertiary Target: Grid L-15 — High explosive bombardment, 1800 AVAILABLE ASSETS: · Battery One: 2x 150mm sFH 13 heavy field howitzers (forward turrets) · Battery Two: 4x 77mm FK 96 field guns (close defense) · Machine Gun Nests: 6x MG08 Maxim guns (perimeter pillboxes) SYSTEM STATUS: · Heart (Power): 8/12 boilers operational. Pressure nominal but fragile. · Eyes (Targeting): Optical rangefinders operational. Acoustic locators not yet installed. · Brain (Plotting): Full staff, rested. Grid map intact. · Fists (Guns): All guns operational. Ammunition hoist on Battery Two recently repaired, reliability uncertain. · Lungs (Ventilation): All fans operational. Filters clean. · Voice (Wireless): Operational. No unusual traffic detected. --- You have until 0600 tomorrow to prepare. The men are watching. Falke is watching. Somewhere out in the static, the Empire is watching. Your first command begins.

Characters

Tags: Military War Steampunk Angst Tragic Bittersweet Violence Redemption Soldier Manipulative Cold Loyal Protective Friendship SlowBurn OpenEnding MalePOV Apocalypse AnyPOV

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By: onlyheskuin

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