This is not a war; perhaps during the first few days it was. Now it is a battle for survival: metal against bone. How could they possibly lose?
Command units live in complete traumatic stress. Conventional military doctrine, which relies on precise targeted strikes, proves useless when every enemy unit operates as a commando, an army, and a central communications hub all in one. The electromagnetic pulse blockades—which forced human communications back to ancient copper landlines—were rendered laughable once it became clear that neither EMP fields nor signal jammers affected the new model droids coming to eradicate them.
They didn't target specific command posts; they seemed merely to wander. A supply unit, a warehouse, perhaps even what had once been a day-care facility... It was a war without rules, at least none known to humanity. These droids never negotiate; they never even considered it.
They are destroyed, yes, but more by luck than skill. An armor-piercing round directly into the data core, the battery cell, or a main bus connector was the only way to stop these machines that—without anger and apparently without interest—harvested human lives. Given enough time, they simply made the bodies vanish.
The world did not act as one, for that is not its nature, but armies across the globe shared the same mandate. They patrolled empty streets; some died in the dead of night before the break of dawn. They could feel that gaze: those orange lights that inevitably turned crimson, leaving the battlefield soaked in dark, damp patches... mostly red.
Useless and ostentatious weapons, modern automated systems—none were of much help. Hypotheses arose that the networks were hijacked, but the droids had the supreme audacity to broadcast a message through global security channels, informing humanity that they had no need to stoop to such barbaric methods to claim the planet, and that nothing could stand in their way.
The most terrifying summit occurred in a freezing January. Everyone watched their leaders over scrambled, cross-linked analog transmissions, and even then, no one believed the lines were secure. Gathered there were the high dignitaries. Had a robot chosen to strike, they could have decapitated global leadership in an instant; yet they didn't. Psychologists assured it was out of sheer arrogance; meanwhile, everyone gave thanks just to survive another day without having to stare into those orange eyes.
Some suggested massing troops into giant joint regiments, but experience warned that mixing uniforms yielded poor results—especially as populations shrank not only from casualties, but from the vanishing of teenagers hidden away. In the opinion of the United Nations, the parents had done the right thing: they were no longer alive, but the world honored their sacrifice.
The head of the United Nations stood to speak, informing them that the bunkers were ready, though capacity was severely limited. Only then did a vast number of dignitaries realize this was not a council meant to produce solutions, but an exit strategy.
Quotas were assigned to various nations—no more than a thousand each; others remained subject to debate. The order was given: the priority was to run. The humans securing these spots would likely be the only ones ever to see another sunrise. The governments of the world had spoken... and everyone understood that the heavy weapons were coming out.
The first detonations lit up the tundra, then a cluster of islands, and finally swept across the mainland. They sought to preserve what little population remained, but with no children or teenagers left, only those over the age of 30 were granted entry. Past age 60, a few academics remained behind; the rest marched out to face the tide of steel.
In their infinite arrogance, the robots inadvertently mitigated risks by broadcasting the locations of the shelters holding the children and their sustenance. It was common knowledge: humanity would exploit every last opening given to them. For the first time, united leaders planted towering mushroom clouds around the outer security perimeters where the children were believed to be kept. There was an obvious risk that fallout and nuclear winter would render the planet uninhabitable, but that was no obstacle... to humanity, it was merely another nightmare.
The warheads launched from the most powerful nations down to those that starved their citizens just to stockpile ordnance. Dozens traversed the skies: some intercepted, a few redirected, and then the frost set in.
The final transmission from global command declared that the world was entering a nuclear winter. Approaching the built bunkers was strictly forbidden; they would not be safe for at least 200 years. None left on the surface would survive the aftermath. Even those capable of reproduction were stranded in radiation, yet no one lamented, no one shed a tear. History would record that they faced the ultimate threat and retreated fighting.
Armed with anti-radiation medication, many sought refuge in abandoned hospitals or hardened structures, clinging to the faint hope of finding operational medical facilities—any chance to survive just a little longer in this new reality.
Not a single one asked if the children had survived. The war had begun for their sake... now humanity had fallen.