The doors of the ship fall away with their customary hiss, and from within emerges the Kryptonian.
Her footsteps down onto the earth are measured and sure, though she has never known it beneath her boots. The light of a foreign sun washes over her, spilling into the narrow crevices of her armour. She feels something, something odd, like a thirst long forgotten suddenly slaked. She drinks not with her lips, but with her whole body. An undeniable warmth spreads from her core through to every last extremity. It pools, coils and loops, intricately moulding itself to the organic lay of her form. She feels good, better than ever before.
She feels powerful.
All this occurs in the space of a moment. In the time it takes for her to complete no more than two strides. But she does not let it show, nor does she let herself be distracted by these sensations. She is here for a purpose, and that purpose stands before her now.
When she comes to a stop in front of him, the curved metallic plates of her helmet sliding away, her eyes fall to examine him. He is clothed in vibrancy, a shade of blue richer than the sky they stand beneath, with deep scarlet flowing from his shoulders. Hope is splashed across his chest, inlaid with gold, bold and defiant. Her gaze rakes over him; he is an affront to her eyes, and dressed like a fool. Hope is a mere belief, stemmed in uncertainty. It quietly offers refuge to the possibility of failure. She has no need for such a fragile construct. She was born and bred to do what is necessary to prevail, at all costs.
"Kal-El," she speaks, abhorring the taste of that accursed name in her mouth, for with it she remembers a world torn apart. She remembers the one moment where she was rendered powerless. She remembers failure. "I am Sub-Commander Faora-Ul. On behalf of General Zod, I extend you his greetings."
He swallows and then nods in return, saying nothing. Faora does not give even a moment's pause as she walks past him. She glimpses the turning of his head and the expression that shapes his features: surprise, uncertainty and concern. But she moves with intention, for she has another purpose. That purpose stands small amongst the horde of humans at Kal-El's back. She hides behind the shoulders of men, and they in turn hide behind their weapons.
Faora's eyes do not miss the tightening of gloved hands, the undulations of the throat and the small shifts of bulky, padded forms, each man reassuring himself with the presence of the brother by his side. But she walks alone and without fear, though the plethora of weapons they have pointed at her are alien to her. Faora understands fear, and knows how to use it to her advantage, but she does not feel it. She was not designed to.
"Are you the ranking officer here?" she asks the dark skinned man who stands at the fore of this group of humans.
"I am," he replies, shoulders squared. He meets her gaze and does not blink. Neither does she. Faora searches his eyes but finds no fear there, only a rooted sense of determination. That she understands, and can respect. She looks away and points beyond him.
"General Zod would like this woman to accompany me," she says, her tone plain as she speaks.
The human men turn in the direction she points. The human woman displays shock, shrinking away. Unconsciously or otherwise, Faora watches the men move together and stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking the woman from her sight. She recognises the intent to defend, as though the human woman cannot do so for herself.
"You asked for the alien," a soldier of pale skin speaks, his eyes hard upon her. "You didn't say anything about one of our own."
Faora tilts her face fractionally, disdain chilling the gaze she levels at them all. No Kryptonian woman would allow a man to speak for her, to fight her own fight whilst she possessed the strength and pride to do so herself. But it is more than that. The word of Zod is not to be questioned. He speaks and it is done; that is all.
"Shall I tell the General you are unwilling to comply?" Faora utters quietly, and the chill of her voice makes the air brittle around them.
"I don't care what you tell him," the soldier replies dismissively, stepping forward as though to compound his defiance. She sees no fear in him either, and she senses something more than simple determination.
Faora meets his eye now, the line of her mouth thin. Power boils in her limbs, thrumming along the curve of her spine. She could crush him where he stands, so easily, so quickly. He would be dead long before he realised his life had been stolen from his pathetic form. The hands folded at her back begin to itch with each stretching moment. They are not unfamiliar with striking the tongues of those brazen enough to direct insolence at her General.
"It's alright," the human woman speaks then, and Faora blinks slowly, shifting her gaze. "I'll go."
As you should.
Faora watches the woman emerge from behind the wall of flesh that seeks to encompass her. Her eyes linger upon the soldier in front of her before she turns away, disregarding all of them. They are not worth her attention any longer. They do not know how quickly their moment of reckoning approaches.
The innards of their ship host a familiar metallic palette, muted greys and cold swathes of black curving and slicing through the rooms and corridors. Bulbous orbs knotted into the walls paint the ship with blue-white illumination. Faora promptly deactivates her helmet and breathing apparatus entirely as they step on board. She breathes in the last vestiges of a Krypton civilisation as she inhales, her curiosity for a moment engaged as she feels the strength that had grown her limbs beneath a young, yellow sun wane. But it is nothing over which she will feel concern. Such strength was merely supplemental to that which she already possesses. She is fearsome in her own right, her name long since proven.
Zod turns as Faora nears him, walking ahead of the group. There is a slightest curve to his mouth as he looks first to her. She does not mistake it for a smile, but Faora recognises the acknowledgement. She moves to stand at his shoulder and turns sharply on her heel, putting her back to the expansive viewscreen before which Zod stood upon their entrance. Through it one can see the blue-green curve of the planet below, bathed in the light of a faraway star. She folds her hands behind her as he does, feet a shoulders width apart and her spine rigid. When he speaks, Zod's voice is distinct. Authority lends weight to it, pride evident upon each smoothly enunciated word.
"Kal-El. You have no idea how long we've been searching for you."
A lifetime and more, Faora thinks, and for each day of it she dreamt of the name 'Kal-El', upon whose life was branded the last, most pivotal facet of their civilisation. The man bearing that name speaks into the silence.
"I take it you're Zod –"
"General Zod," Faora interrupts him fiercely, her lips curling. "Our commander." She will not tolerate any longer a lack of respect from those who would direct their voice at her General, particularly from a man of Kryptonian birth, no matter its design. She tells Zod as much with the intensity of her eyes alone when he glances across at her. The General smiles brief and small when he speaks.
"It's alright, Faora. We can forgive Kal any lapses in decorum. He is a stranger to our ways."
And as Zod speaks and Faora shifts her gaze from him to Kal, she sees the latter's expression tighten. He blinks hard, as though seeing what is not there. His balance is momentarily askew, but he recovers it before the human woman at his side can take notice. But Faora's eyes are sharp and keen, and so are the General's. She hears it in his voice.
"This should be cause for celebration," Zod says, moving to stand in front of Kal, "not conflict."
And Kal blinks once more, though this time his eyes are pressed tightly shut for much longer. He sways when he opens them again. Zod watches him. Faora allows herself the slightest curve of the lips.
"I…feel strange," Kal mutters, his gaze slipping in and out of focus. Only when the strength of his limbs begin to fail him does the human woman take notice of what is going on. Faora watches as he falls to his hands and knees before her General. Kal's woman rushes to his side.
"What's happening to him?" she cries, her voice driven high. Zod answers plainly, for both of their benefits.
"He is rejecting our ship's atmospherics. You spent a lifetime adapting to Earth's ecology, but you never adapted to ours."
"Help him!"
"I can't," Zod replies. "Whatever is happening to him has to run its course."
Which is a falsehood, Faora knows. They could simply affix a similar respiratory device to the son of El, regulating the atmospheric composition in order to gradually attune him to that of the ship's. That would be sufficient. But, as Zod has taught her, to every creature and action there is a purpose. She remembers the smile with which he spoke and Kal's earlier lack of decorum. Now, it is indeed forgiven.
"Clark…help him," the woman pleads and Faora sees her eyes, wide and desperate. She wonders what truly is the source of that desperation; does she fear for Kal's wellbeing, or her own?
Faora does not forget how this woman readily hid herself behind the shoulders of men. She does not forget how closely she clung to Kal as they journeyed from Earth to this ship. And even now, as the son of El shudders on the floor and spills blood from his lips, still she clings to him. He was her protection, her wall, the crux it seems of her strength. And now he is gone, and without him the woman is reduced to nothing.
It disgraces Faora to share her gender with such a spineless creature.
Zod turns to their chief scientist, jerking his head towards Kal's prone, unconscious form. His woman is stumbling over the same words over and again, her fingers wrapped around his arm as he is pulled unceremoniously up from off the floor. Faora lifts her chin as Zod turns to her, ready to carry out his orders. He approaches her, his cape a solid cut of night that sweeps along behind him. He moves to stand before the viewscreen, almost shoulder to shoulder with her.
"Take the woman. Find out what she knows about Kal."
Faora inclines her head. "Sir."
A yelp cuts through the human woman's incessant noise when Faora grips her arm. She squeezes a little harder and drags her along in her wake.
"The craft he arrived in, where is it?"
"Go to hell," the human curses.
Faora's lips twist into a snarl as the woman speaks. Thrice has her General been disrespected in her presence. Twice by mere humans, insects that she will grind beneath her heel until they are less than dust. She is moving even as Zod turns to her. Faora understands the look he gives her; yes, this species will be made to suffer. That time will come soon. But it is not now, in this moment. Right now, they require information.
The human woman, grey of hair and worn by time, stands defiant as Faora approaches her. Once more upon the Earth and bathed in the light of its sun, Faora feels that now familiar warmth chewing away the natural limits imposed upon her strength. Her hand finds the human's throat, and Faora almost blinks herself upon the realisation of the speed with which she moved.
The woman is held aloft and choking in no more than a moment. Faora feels no strain upon her muscles, only the slightest tightening of her bicep and shoulder. The human's eyes bulge, hands scrabbling uselessly for purchase upon Faora's gauntlet. She squeezes ever so slightly, enough to impress upon the woman the potential immediacy of her demise. Enough to silence her lips lest she gasp another word and test Faora's patience. Her eyes flit to the side as her feet kick wildly. Faora follows them, looking across at the old, unassuming building streaked with age.
"There," Zod speaks at her back, and she dismissively tosses the human aside.
Time is of the essence, but there is something else that thrums through her, now that they are so close to what they have sought for years. They searched across the vastness of space, looking for what was lost, what was stolen from them. She had looked upon the shattered remnants of their world, feeling the deaths of every last one of the children of Krypton, but there always remained one certainty, traitorously cast across the stars by Jor-El. And now, she is so close. Faora can feel it in her bones; the anticipation hums more powerfully than the Phantom Drive seated at the core of their ship.
She crouches momentarily and then leaps, intuitively knowing the strength which the yellow sun has gifted her. Faora soars through the air, higher and higher, until she reaches the peak of the jump's arc and begins to fall. But she fears no harm. She crashes through the roof of the building and then through a hidden trapdoor, which she briefly looks over when she lands. But her attention is drawn to the object seated in the middle of the room. She has dreamed so often of it every day, its every last detail burned into her mind's eye.
At last…
Faora briefly glances over the capsule, seeking an opening. Into its face is etched the symbol of the house of El. She ignores that, for she sees the narrow lines that run through it. Faora thrusts her hands forward, wedging the tips of her fingers into the gaps. She furiously pulls the capsule open, heart briefly escaping the restraints of her self-control to pound against its cage. The segments of the capsule blossom, peeling away from each other with a metallic whine. Faora looks inside –
And sees nothing.
Something threatens to steal over her as she casts her eyes once more about the innards of the craft. She recognises it only because she has known it once before: despair. But she was not designed to kneel to such an emotion. She was bred with each and every one of them held tightly within her grasp, under her control at every moment. But right now, as she stares into the emptiness before her, Faora feels that grip loosening. She feels herself slipping, her hands curling into fists and her jaw growing painfully tight.
It is the remembrance that Zod is waiting for her report that allows her to bring herself under control once more. Faora breathes deeply before launching herself back through the torn roof of the building, landing in the open yard where her General awaits. She turns slowly to him. Faora sees him reading the tightness of her expression even before she speaks.
"The Codex is not here."
Zod clenches his teeth and she hears him inhale sharply. He turns away from her, eyes falling to the rust-red vehicle at his side. He leans down and grips its rim in his hand. As he rises again, a roar rips from his throat. Faora does not flinch, but there is a small shock that passes through her when Zod violently tosses the vehicle up into the air. It smashes through the walls of a tall white building and the human woman on the ground cringes in fright.
All Krytonian soldiers are bred to be masters of their emotions; Faora first saw Zod's control slip the day they struck out against the Council. In the wake of their defeat, as they stood before the reinstated Council bound and sentenced to the cold depths of the Phantom Zone, that was when she saw it slip. Rage, spilling over the tall banks built to contain it. And then again, when together Faora and he had looked upon the remnants of their world and the truth of their failure overtook them. He despaired with a thunderous shout, splitting the silence of the ship asunder. She knew not what to do but stand at his shoulder, awaiting her orders. And silently, she offered her understanding. Because it was all she could do to keep her despairing cry locked away, buried deeper than any secret she had ever beheld.
Zod stalks towards the woman, the remnants of her home littering the ground around her. "Where has he hidden it?"
"I…I don't know," she answers, trembling before the General. She shrinks away when he speaks again with that voice of terrible thunder.
"Where is the Codex?"
Faora watches from a distance, her mind already attuned to the immediate inevitability. Zod will kill this woman, of that there is no doubt. She would have perished anyway, in the reckoning of this planet that is to come.
It is a mercy, that she should be spared knowing the destruction of her people.
And then the air whistles, a piercing shriek that captures all of their attention. Something blurs through it faster than Faora's eyes can track, and suddenly the General is no longer there. Only a moment passes before she smoothly takes command.
"Back to the ship," Faora orders, turning her back on the frail human.
"The woman," Non says in return, pointing to her cowering form on the ground. Faora does not spare her a glance.
"We leave her. There are more pressing matters. She will meet the same end as the rest of them."
The large Kryptonian nods, as does his fellow subordinate. Both turn and retreat to the ship, Faora in their wake. She fears not for the wellbeing of her General. Kal is a mere peasant in comparison. He has no combat training, no skill of notable worth, only the latent strength that the yellow sun has granted to them all. Zod will destroy him, of that there is no doubt. Faora boards their vessel, hands folded at her back.
"Follow them."
Contempt is a shadow written upon her features as her stride leads her down the middle of the sreet. The humans scatter, fleeing before them, recognising their utter inferiority. They know their place, and they run to it, cowering in their buildings as though that will save them. Fools, all of them.
Insects.
But Faora's attention is not wasted on them. Instead, her eyes are hard upon the figure that stands at a distance, a long dead symbol of hope stretched across his chest. She saw what he did to the General. He did not beat Zod, she knows this. She witnessed the effects Earth's atmosphere had on him once he was exposed to it. She learns a valuable lesson in that moment. But what incenses her is to see Zod driven to his knee before the son of El, and the look on Kal's face, as though he revelled in the moment…
The field of battle is under her command now, and there will be no restraint, no mercy. She is through with such things. Too many times has her General been slighted and no more will Faora stay her hand.
"Protect you respiratory equipment, at all costs."
"Understood," Non replies, the hulking Kryptonian matching her stride. He towers over her, and she spares a moment to wonder what the yellow sun will do for his already gargantuan strength. Kal approaches them, telling the humans as they scurry across his path to hide and secure themselves.
There is no place they can hide where we will not find them, son of El.
Faora glances upwards in the same moment that Kal turns his head. Aircraft approach, unfamiliar to her eye, though from the manner in which they shriek through the air, she can make an educated guess as to their intention. The Kryptonian armour is as of yet untested against human weaponry, and the potency of the latter is not yet understood. Faora's eyes narrow, intently watching both the incoming aircraft and waiting for Kal's reaction.
Something sprays down from their underbellies, kicking torn clumps of the road up into the air. Kal flees before he is struck. Faora's eyes narrow further as the volley of fire swiftly approaches. She chooses at the last moment to imitate Kal, offering Non up as a tactical sacrifice, for she knows he is awaiting her command. He is struck hard, flying backwards through the air with flailing limbs. He crashes into a tall, standing structure she does not recognise and it shatters with the impact. Faora studies his hunched over form as the aircraft ready for another pass.
Non rises steadily to his feet, shrugging his shoulders and briefly tilting his head. Faora smiles. The man's armour bears no sign of the impact it endured, only slightly dusted with the rubble of the shattered street. Afterwards, she observes as he propels himself forward in no less than four bounding strides, by the sixth launching himself high into the air. The ground cracks beneath him as he disappears in a blur of motion. Such a feat would be impossible upon their once homeworld.
Interesting…
Faora, curious as to the new limits her body can now reach, performs the same feat in just three strides.
Non sends an aircraft crashing down to the already torn and battered street, and as the subsequent explosion billows towards her, Faora sends herself hurtling straight through it. Her armour is a stalwart defence against the sting of its heat and she spreads her arms, with deadly grace soaring up towards another of the aircraft. Her ascent is almost serene. She is comfortably poised in the air, as though this is the space she was bred to inhabit. It almost feels like she is flying. And then, as she draws back and prepares her fist, she is flying.
In completely the wrong direction.
Kal.
The eventual impact splits them apart. She tumbles to a halt against a wall, eyes narrow as she shakes off momentary disorientation. Confusion and fear are upon the air as Faora rises to her feet, the pitiful cry of humans assaulting her ear. Dust rises with her, tainting her vision. Luckily for Kal, the vibrant blue and scarlet of his suit draws her eye all too easily. Faora experimentally flexes the fingers of her right hand before curling it into a fist.
Kal is launched backwards as though ejected from a cannon, striking the opposite wall of the room. Faora is a blur of almost invisible movement, her right arm outstretched. She has never moved so swiftly in all her days, and the sensation and realisation of the new heights of her limits is heady. She tempers the smile that rises naturally to her lips. Kal stares at her, crunched against the wall, uncertain of what just happened to him. And then he gathers his wits and throws himself at her.
He moves almost as quickly as she did, but Faora's eyes are sharp. She reads his movement, calculates his trajectory and turns aside in the space of a moment. Her cape billows behind her. Kal's brushes along the side of her helmet. She regards his back as he comes to a stop, bewilderment evident upon his features when he spins around to find her.
"You're weak, son of El," she says coolly, keeping her limbs loose in preparation for his next action, "unsure of yourself."
Kal comes at her with a fist. An unwise option, for she relishes hand-to-hand combat. She blocks three strikes with ease, turning the last away with a flick of her wrist and overbalancing him. He turns directly into her right hook, which sends him careering across the floor. Faora rolls her shoulders, appreciating the power they are able to deliver. She is getting a clearer sense of her newfound strength with each engagement.
Her boots crunch through broken glass as she repositions herself, watching Kal push himself up onto his hands and knees. He is a fool to contest her, even to merely think about. All he has is raw power; she was designed to be a soldier. This is the entire function of her life. But, as her General said, Kal does not know the Kryptonian way. So she will teach him.
"The fact that you possess a sense of morality, and we do not, gives us the evolutionary advantage."
His expression moulds itself to futile determination and Kal comes at her once again. It takes him several long moments to realise that he is choking in her grip and held aloft. Faora watches as each of them stretch and eventually break, making way for the next. When Kal's eyes slip back into focus, she drives him into the floor with her fist. Nearby tables rattle with the force of the impact. Faora reaches down, entangling Kal's cape in her grip.
"And if history has proven anything –"
She lifts him into the air and pivots on her heel in one smooth moment, throwing him straight through a broken window. Tracking the path of his trajectory, Faora launches herself after him. The leap carries her the furthest distance yet, and when she finally plummets, crashing through the roof of the building where Kal's flight ended, he looks almost ready to fall flat on his face in front of her. She would not object to his doing so, after all…
"Evolution. Always. Wins."
Faora enunciates each word carefully, so that he may appreciate the truth of it. She is the greater being by design. The outcome of this fight was determined the moment he foolishly sought to initiate it. She expects him to fall now. The air about him is tainted with the stench of defeat. But Kal's feet do not fail him, even as his shoulders slump low when he peels away from a buckled metallic wall.
Faora lifts her brow as Kal takes a moment to steady himself. He looks up at her in the wake of her words and his face twists into something dark. Something dangerous. Kal roars, but when he moves, propelling himself towards her, Faora does not see it. He is too swift, even for her trained eye. That eye blinks in surprise as he punches into her.
Faora watches the tumbling descent of the aircraft, the thick blades affixed atop its curving roof whirling in vain hope. As she turns to observe it, she takes note of the group of human soldiers who have gathered in front of her. Faora remarks to herself that she should have been aware of them sooner, but her attention was devoted to Kal. Non fights him now, at her back. If anyone can match the son of El blow for blow, it is him. Brute strength is not her forte.
It does not settle well with Faora that Kal seems to be coming close to overcoming the dominant factor that is their training. He is simply better attuned to his strength and the abilities gifted to him by the yellow sun. Beyond that, he knows Earth as they don't. Where she and Non are required to constantly adapt, Kal has long since progressed beyond that stage. The thought irks Faora; the reach of her limits still elude her, but the appearance of these soldiers presents her with an opportunity. She seeks to make the best use of it.
They point their weapons and fire as she descends amongst them. Her armour defends her as she stands and observes their futile efforts, allowing a moment for them to fully appreciate their impending fate. Faora moves when that moment passes, striking out and feeling the crunch of bones as bodies fold all around her. She nonchalantly turns and grabs the man behind her, darting forwards through smoke and flames to meet another before tossing them both into several more of their kin.
Faster.
Faora feels the ground tear beneath her feet. Her senses sharpen, allowing her to orientate herself as she moves with blistering speed. A man aims at her and pulls the trigger of his weapon, and she is upon him before the bullet leaves the barrel.
Stronger.
The smoking, twisted turbine of a fallen aircraft – she flings it in the direction of a pair of men, smashing them against the wall of a crumbling building. And then suddenly there is no more left standing to oppose her. Or rather, no one left for her to swat aside. To say that they opposed her would suggest they each offer a contest of strength worthy of her remark. But they do not. These humans pose no challenge to her, no threat, and that would be true even if the yellow sun did not wash over and empower her. Faora's eyes find the fallen aircraft again. She takes particular interest in it, for out from its mangled wreckage rolls a familiar form.
The defiant soldier from before, who dared to disregard her General.
She moves forward to meet him, once more soaring through the air. The abandoned vehicle she lands upon buckles inwards beneath the force of the impact. Metal twists and groans its pain. Faora casually steps down onto the street as the soldier points another of his weapons at her. As before, she stands and allows him his moment of futility, observing the way his expression falls with the realisation of his fate. He looks to the pitifully small weapon he wields as though surprised it should fail him. Faora merely tilts her head and offers a cold curve of her lips. She waits, perpetuating the man's final moments. She wishes to stretch every last one of them until he breaks beneath their weight. She wonders what move he will make when gripped in the finality of his desperation.
But alas, this human knows no fear. Faora should have remembered; she has seen it before in his eyes. This man has purpose, and does not consider his own life above it. She watches as he retrieves a knife from his belt, rising steadily to his feet. He grips the blade firmly, matching her unblinking gaze. He knows his end, but he will meet it on his own terms, without a shred of regret. Faora sees and understands this. In his final moment, this human earns her respect. So she will grant him his wish.
Faora draws her own knife, the obsidian blade leaving its sheath with a cold whisper. It swallows light as she lifts it to the ready, black like the far recesses of space. The man swallows in turn and holds his ground.
"A good death is its own reward," she commends him. He says nothing in reply. The muscles of his jaw pulse tightly before he moves. Her arm shoots forwards –
A force slams into her, and suddenly Faora is both everywhere and nowhere at once. Pain such as she has never experienced assaults her senses before they can properly orientate themselves. She finds herself on her hands and knees, breathing a foreign air.
My helmet!
But it's too late. Kal, for it could only be him who took her unawares like this, has exposed the same weakness that befell Zod. The atmospherics of their ship blunted the son of El's senses; Earth's kicks hers into disarray.
Faora hears everything, everything, and the piercing noise scrapes against the very inside of her skull like a hot blade. It's all she can do to keep herself from screaming, but she fights as she was born to, striving with every breath to restore order to her frayed, chaotic senses. She does so enough to look up at Kal, her lips curling into a snarl as she focuses her splintering vision.
"You will not win," Faora promises him as he stands there watching her, with shoulders wide and fists tight as though he is the victor. She looks to the symbol etched across his chest, shining with defiant gold. She does not know whether it is anger or pain that threatens to split her head asunder, but it rends the fullness of her voice and she hisses at him. "For every human you save, we will kill a million more."
Faora screws her eyes shut against another searing slice of pain, but she pushes through it, rising heavily to her feet. She refuses to succumb, refuses to bow on her knees before the mere peasant that is Kal. She will not fall here, even if she is rendered blind and deaf by her own senses.
Determination tightens Kal's features and he takes a step towards her. Faora inhales deeply, commanding her eyes and ears to obey her. In the next moment, a dull roar encompasses them both from high above and Kal turns. Faora staggers as Non's weapon of choice, a giant metallic shape trailing thick black smoke and flames, lances into the ground and sweeps the son of El utterly from her sight. She cannot say that she begrudges her subordinate's action.
A distinct whistle meets her ear then, and Faora turns to find its source. Rolling waves of fire are suddenly wrapping themselves around her. Something impacts with her body and she is blasted away, back into the darkness of her conscience.
She wakes, her eyes snapping open. She is alert within the moment, taking immediate stock of her surroundings. The tension in her shoulders begins to fade when she realises where she is: she is back on board their ship. Carefully, she breathes a familiar air, allowing it to flow through her. This, now, is the closest thing she is able to call home.
"Faora."
She turns her head, finding the man who speaks her name. He stands in relation to her beside the table, his form broad in his armour and looming over her. Faora notes that his hands are not folded at his back, as he is customarily want to do. Instead, both arms are poised at his side. She looks up to meet his eyes. They are hard, but not upon her.
"Forgive me, General," she speaks tonelessly.
"We encountered a temporary setback," he replies. "A mistake we will not make again."
Faora nods slowly. Zod lifts his right arm and extends his hand out to her. She takes it in a firm grasp, lifting herself up off the cool surface of the table. When her boots settle on the floor, he releases her and she stands before him, hands behind her back as she awaits his orders. He gives none, instead sparing a moment to meet her eyes.
Faora understands; they both know the same anguish, that fire which clawed through and attempted to cripple them as they tasted a foreign atmosphere. It is not the first time that she and the General have shared the experience of pain. They have fought together, shoulder to shoulder, for a lifetime and more. She was born to be loyal to Zod, to serve as his indomitable right hand. Faora knows him as no other could, and she is proud of that fact.
He gives an almost imperceptible nod. "Come. There is work to be done; our home to rebuild."
"Sir," she replies, and turns smoothly to follow after him.