Reincarnated in Another World as a P. 1000 Ratte

Age of Strife: An Angel's Cry

His cannons blazed with smoke and fire as the shell-morphed land whipped wafts of dust into the air. The shrieking of AA fire reverberated through his chassis as the colors of red and black clashed on many barrels. 

Relentless, the downpour of lead and metal did its best to try and make quick work of the wall of humans-no, the sea of humans before him. It was neverending, the onslaught both he and they were giving. 

The bodies kept piling, the casings kept piling, yet it seemed it was only he who was losing something; that being ammo and precious, precious fuel. His very "blood" was being drained from this prolonged fight. 

Even though he knew that the enemy was hurting, they showed no sign of stopping. Even though he knew that this was a one-sided fight, there was a chance that he would reach a point where he wouldn't be able to hand out any more shells. 

For every soldier that fell, another 10 took their place. For every shell he fired, he had another 10 in storage, though that number was slowly dwindling. It was only a metaphor, but sooner or later, it would become a reality. 

A shell flew into the distance, landing in a dense pocket of troops. The explosion violently combusted the men within its center, leaving those at the edges to suffer from their wounds. 

Torn limbs, blood smeared faces, missing clothes; there was not one injury that he had not inflicted upon his enemy. Screams fell on deaf ears, and quite literally too. 

He was driving, but had no destination in mind. There were no ascertainable landmarks on this battlefield, which was kinda depressing, since earlier there were hills here and there. But now, everything was either flat or a crater. 

Something seemed to wave in the wind some ways off, and looking closer, it appeared to be a tattered flag. All semblance of color was gone, as was whatever was on the flag in the first place. All that remained was the material in which the design was made on. 

...Oh man, he could really use a cup of water right about now. 

It was so weird that he wished to be thirsty for once, but he really wanted to have something to taste. This diesel was just not cutting it. And these doom-y and gloom-y thoughts were just not his style. 

He had been viewing this battle with one of those black and white filters you see in old films, but he was so tired of trying to be depressing and serious that he basically said "to hell with it". 

He was frustrated to the point where he couldn't take things seriously. The army he was fighting was no longer a threat; it was more of a nuisance at this point. Why the heck they were still fighting, he had no idea. 

Would it hurt for these guys to just F off and retreat? What was initially a grim fight for survival turned into an RPG, and then into a clicker game. Just look in one direction, shoot, look in another direction, and shoot again. 

*KA-BOOM*

Just like that. 

Not that it was making any difference, since he was essentially swatting the same cockroach over and over again. Having lost track of time, he assumed that the sun had set and rose only once.

A line of cavalry charged at him from his left, weaving as they went. Their attack didn't last for long as a 183 shell landed at their front, scattering them. The 35 mm's then proceeded to pick them off in bunches. 

Hoorah. One down, another few hundred to go. Gosh, this makes the-what, 29th time? Or maybe the 35th time? In any case, it was the same old thing, the same old attack, with the same old number of casualties.