Link to article: Gearmen.
[[include :scp-wiki:theme:minimal |title=SCP Foundation |subtitle=Secure, Contain, Protect]] [[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ They were not man: Their bones were made of brass and steel, their skin was cloth, their eyes were glass. The module, bolted into their chest, was labelled with one word to describe them: "soldat". They marched as one, to the beat of each step, to the beat of each other, to the beat of their clockwork hearts. ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ They had climbed the trench walls, a synchronized tide of metal, slowly sweeping across the land. A slow realization, then panicked gunfire erupted from across the battlefield, the enemy scrambled backwards, away from the tide. Bullets were fired, barrels of caustic gas were tipped over at the advancing army. But to no avail, the soldiers had no blood with which to bleed, and they had no lungs with which to breathe. ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ As they marched, their numbers would be chipped away at: Every so often would a soldier be critically damaged, a gear cracked or spring ruptured, its movements becoming sluggish, falling out of sync with its brethren until it came to a complete halt, its glassy gaze forever fixed on the horizon as the rest of the army moved on. But to a machine, truly death meant nothing. They had not hearts of flesh, but hearts of stone; Cold, relentless, remorseless. Those who still stood to fight took aim with their rifles. Orange light danced across their eyes. ㅤ ㅤ //**Bang.**// ㅤ ㅤ ------ ㅤ ㅤ The Austro-Hungarians had extended their hands in peace, they had expected the same from the Russians: Humanity. ㅤ ㅤ ------ ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ Clank. ㅤ ㅤ Whirr. ㅤ ㅤ No other sound remained apart from the marching of soldiers. And as the snow swirled around them in the cold winter air, the soldiers kept up their tireless march towards Vienna, stepping over the bodies of the slain. All but one. A lone soldier stopped, kneeling down over the lifeless body of an enemy. He reached inside the man’s vest with a cold metal hand, and pulled out a paper postcard. ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ //“December 25th, 1914. To My Dearest Maria, I only wish that I could spend this Christmas with you.”//