It was time.
With a single nod, hundreds of machines were set into motion.

The ground shook beneath the tread of titanic feet, the footsteps of giants prophesying doom to all who stood before them.

That the death knell of the Empress’ corrupt rule was at hand, and this earthquake would be the herald of her end.

If the camera crew could get an appropriate shot, anyways.
The snow and absurd whiteout conditions may have ended, but low-hanging clouds and fog spoil any attempts to get more than a few companies worth of mechs flipping on their lights and running pre battle checks in the early morning.

Well, there would be plenty of time to get propaganda shots after victory.

Perhaps it was better that way. Then the public couldn’t see just how patchwork the formations were.
Or what else had signed on to the Patriot cause, however temporary.

No, it would be General Marik, fulfilling his ancestor’s legacy to depose a tyrant once more.
At the head of the army regiments who had seen the evil growing at the heart of the empire. Heroes and Knights, one and all. Liberating the capitol.

An inspiring narrative.
Any aspiring historians obsessed with the truth of the matter could be sated with whatever spliced combat logs were given, or paid off afterwards.

He raised a hand, waving into the nothing.
None of the lights in the white moved any differently.
The wave turned into a salute.

That didn’t matter, either. The only one who could see him was Hendricks.

The lights winked out, another form blotting them out. One. Two. Three.

There was nothing metaphorical about the shaking caused by that three-legged terror.
It was the spearpoint this assault was relying upon. Not only for the line-breaking firepower and massive armor, but because of the ability to project a wide-spectrum jamming field in order to counter the networked targeting modules loyalist forces had been deploying with.

Where it walked, everything would be cut. A zone of silence. Command would fall all the way from battalion or sector down to lance level. All their commanders could do is send in more isolated forces, and hope for the best. Where the higher average skill level of his hardened veteran pilots would prove decisive.

Pressing home a pre-planned attack is easier than shuffling around defenders in reaction. There had been no massive defense works prepared in the city in the time they had been waiting. The miserable weather kept air power out of contention for the critical days. There would be no swarm of plucky trainee pilots to bolster the numbers of the defenders in the eleventh hour.

It was a good plan.
His hand dropped.

But.