Hi everyone, Discordant Night here. Here's a little something I've been working on for a while. It's meant to take place during the invasion of Book Six, while Six and friends are in Mexico and John and friends are fighting off an entire invasion. It's from Kasha's perspective, so be prepared for that.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it.

Kasha

"We need to get to the Embassy." Two says, brushing vat-born ash from her skin. "Five and Nine were last seen throwing down near there." She shakes her head. "Those idiots, always in a bloody pissing contest."

I nod, memories of Nine and Four having a spat atop the John Hancock Building coming to mind. Nine could get into an extremely pissy mood when he was upset, going so far as to break his arm trying to punch Five in the face. "Then to the Embassy we go," I say. "The sooner we get away from the ruins of these streets, the safer we'll be. Patrols will be out en masse, searching for survivors and stragglers among the rubble."

A high pitched whine splits the air, drowning out my next sentence. A Mogadorian cruiser breaks over the tops of the remaining skyscrapers, metal gleaming as the sun catches on the hull. It snakes through the atmosphere, chasing some invisible trail. Abruptly, the cruiser freezes, positioned directly above us. My breath catches.

"Two!" I scream over the whine of the engine. "We need to go!" I point to the cruiser. "They'll open fire on us if we stay much longer!"

The Loric girl nods, understanding me thanks to her enhanced hearing, and begins preparing for shadow travel. Ten seconds later, she shakes her head, breathing a curse that goes unheard. Two looks to me and shrugs, signaling that she's unable to travel. I curse.

The cruiser slowly drops, adjusting its vector to land without crushing the two of us. I raise my eyebrows in question and look to Two. She shrugs again, apparently understanding as much as I, which is none at all. The ship continues to drop, and I draw the cannon Nine gave me. I see the look in Two's eyes, but I wave it away. Unlike last time, I don't have to worry about the cannon targeting me.

As the ship descends I freeze. This is no ordinary Mogadorian cruiser. It's much, much worse. All thoughts vanish from my mind, my face frozen in a stone mask of terror. Two dashes to my side. Looking from me to the ship, she curses, then yanks a hairpin from her mess of curls and pricks her finger, letting the blood pool in her hand. "What is it?" She asks, the whine of the engine lessening enough for us to converse somewhat.

" A drakkar, " I murmur. " A royal transport." The memories come flooding back to me, a rush of color and sounds. Memories I had thought long gone, memories I had hoped to forget. Being hand chosen by former royals, my blood tested for impurities before being brought aboard the cruiser. Watching as my family, my birth mother and father, tear their eyes away from the ship before being mauled to death by kraul. Blood, red as the night moon, spraying constantly as limbs are torn and gnawed upon. Initiation, my arm searing with welts as the jatka, the mark of royalty, is burned into my skin. Humiliation at how quickly I was bested in combat, over and over again, thrown to the ground by my own comrades. My mind races as these memories, and thousands more, bubble to the surface, leaving me helpless against my own thoughts.

Two curses, her blonde hair thrashing in the downdraft created by the descending craft. "Do you know who's on that ship?" She manages to yell over the roar of wind.

I shake my head ever so slightly, still petrified. My eyes glance to the helm of the ship, to the insignia grafted into the metal there. I swallow, with some difficulty. The symbol, a pair of crossed scythes over a rakthar head, jars dozens of memories from buried deep within me. Blades flashing, death-dealing curves of foreign metal not found on Lorien, Mogadore or even Earth. The screams of a thousand races dying at once, condensed into an unholy symphony. Blood of all colors, cobalt, red, silver, copper, staining the blades of a single warrior couple. The cries of a million orphaned young, calling out for someone, anyone to help them. All silenced by the whisper-quiet shnikt of a pair of scythes.

"Why?" I bemoan. "Why did it have to be them?" Memories continue to flash behind my eyes, cruel laughter haunting my thoughts. "Of all of the ones they could have sent," I sputter, "Why'd it have to be them?"

"Friends of yours?" Two asks, the question quickly lost to the wind. Sarcasm drips from her lips, the answer already present without me having to say anything. It's not a mean sarcasm, not like Nine's, but sarcasm nonetheless. She once again pricks her fingers one by one, wincing before continuing to let the blood pool. I risk a glance at her, the teen who, only months ago, when she woke, was ready to kill me.

Her eyes say more than I could ever hope to convey into words. Steeled with determination, grey-blue orbs stare at the drakkar almost challenging the machine. Blood pools in her cupped hands, flowing from her fingertips. At one point I mistook this as a sign of weakness, of frailty. I know now that she can use that perceived weakness to her advantage, turning the very life that flows through her into a weapon. Her blonde curls are a mess, a given, as she just released it. But it's the type of mess that I couldn't pull off no matter how hard I tried. Tattered jeans and a tank carry a message, too. They say 'However bad you think you are, I'm worse.' She may be small, but she's more power than I could ever contain on my own.

I smile softly, a small sign of hope in the otherwise grim situation. If there's one thing I learned about the Garde, it's that they never give up without a fight. "Right." I say, my words immediately drowned out by the screaming gale. "If we go down, we go down swinging."

Two nods, having heard me due to one of her abilities, then takes up a defensive stance. Her face says for the both of us what I can only think. We aren't doomed.

Yet.

The ship touches down with a deafening clang, rare earth magnets from my home planet connecting with the metals in the Terran soil. A transport light, dim at first before brightening, bridges the gap between the earth and underbelly of the ship. It's, well, alien, in the cityscape of New York, the gleaming silver craft sitting untouched amongst thousands of upturned vehicles. Skyscrapers stand smoking, wreckage still crumbling after the last wave of Mogadorian warships.

A ramp extends slowly down to the ground, a gangplank of solid metal stretching from the drakkar to the earth. My breath catches as the engine dies, the pilot killing the machine for flair. They're only seconds away, but it feels like an eternity.

"Cocky assholes, aren't they?" Two asks. "Think they own the world, do they?"

I shudder. "They do..." I whisper, more for my benefit than hers. "At least a half dozen planets in the surrounding galaxies are owned by the passengers on that ship."

Two's face goes blank. "Oh..."

I shake my head, snapping out of my stupor, of the shock at seeing their ship here, on this planet. My blades leap to my hands, humming with power beneath my touch as I prep for a fight. I grin, slightly, and think of the last time I fought these two. It was years ago, I was twelve, I believe. It ended badly, I remember. This time though... This time it'll be different.

The tension mounts, until finally the door slides open.

Standing in the doorway is a couple, male and female. He stands six foot two, 189 pounds. Muscle-bound and smarter than he looked, the meat-for-brains Trueborn carried a ceremonial scythe, honed to a razor edge. His hair has grown in the years since I last saw him, reaching down to the small of his back. It's unusual, but due to his status, the higher ups allow it. They kinda have to. "Hello, Yakasha," they say in unison, sending shivers racing down my spine. "So nice to see you again."

I shudder. "Wish I could say the same."

The female stands a half-step behind him, one hand on her hip while the other grips the shaft of a similar weapon slung across her back. The shaft reaches down behind her, attached to the business end of a naginata. It, like the scythe, is honed to a point, meant to kill instead of disable. The blade is permanently stained crimson, the result of thousands of millions of deaths at the hands of its wielder. An aura of death seeps from her skin, betraying the sadistic pychopath hidden beneath the alluring beauty.

She stands slightly shorter than he, at five foot eight and 137 pounds, with a slender, lithe build. Her blonde hair is rooted with black, the result of too many months gone without a visit to the stylist. It still doesn't look as good as mine though. Her smile is pristine, but does nothing to alleviate the sense of dread in the atmosphere.

"How lovely it is to see you again, Yakasha," she trills. "How long has it been? Five, six years?" She giggles. "War does not suit you, my dear."

I grit my teeth, suffering through the formalities. "I wish I could say the same, Alesen. The thing about seeing you, not the other." I feign disinterest, busying myself with my knife. "Oh, and don't worry. War suits me just fine." I flip my blades, bringing one parallel to my lips and the other held out before me. "As long as I'm on the winning side."

Alesen, the female, scowls, an expression that mars her face, but surprisingly enough fits. "You're no better than the Loric scum, Yakasha. When I get through with you, you'll be known as Yakasha the Fallen!"

A single black streak zips across Alesen's face, nicking my fellow Princess's cheek. Dark red blood trickles from the wound, a single drop sliding leisurely down her skin. Her lips part in shock, clearly astonished that anyone would dare strike her. I glance over at Two, her hand outstretched at an angle as if having just smacked someone upside the head. To be honest, she reminds me of Uncle, from the cartoon that Sam enjoyed watching. Jackie Chang, or something or other. She leans against a fallen vehicle, propping her a hand against her hip while she casually rolls another bloody projectile in the other. The Loric girl spits, expelling her spearmint gum onto the rocky ground before digging another stick out and popping it into her mouth. Glancing up at Alesen, she sneers. "Shut your trap, you whore," Two drawls, her English accent slipping into her words. "You're not a codfish."

Alesen snarls, whipping her weapon around to face my Loric ally, the point leveled between her eyes. "You'll pay for that, bitch!"

Two shrugs, launching another bullet nonchalantly. Alesen deflects the hemoglobin with ease, rushing her attacker. As she leaves the ramp, I turn to gaze at Ishpbo, the male half of the battle couple. He shrugs. "Nice to see you too, Yakasha," he says slowly.

"It's just Kasha now," I say flippantly, then sigh. "Do you really want to fight today, Ish?" I ask. "You and I both know who will win."

Ishpbo glances from Alesen to me, then to Two. He shrugs. "I'd rather sit this one out, thank you. Have any kkiba on you?" The male doffs his scythe, leaning it against the inside wall of the drakkar. "I haven't had any in a while." He jerks his head towards Alesen. "She made me leave all of mine at the Anubis."

I shrug, sheathing my knives and digging into my pocket for a cylinder about the size of a snuff container. Inside is a few bits of the exotic plant Ish wants, dried for chewing. The few remaining plants grown on Mogadore (not destroyed during the Great War) was the kkiba plant. Useless alone, it became a great muscle relaxant when dried and chewed. Warriors used it to calm their nerves before a battle, mystics used it to enter a meditative trance, and junkies used it to... well, you get the idea. Chew too much of the stuff, and you end up as a vegetable. I toss him the can. "Keep it. I've been trying to kick the habit anyways."

The battle hardened warrior pops the can open, grabbing a pinch of the green stuff before stuffing it in his mouth and letting out a sigh of relief. "Thanks. You know, you're not half bad, issues aside. I hate the way that Alesen treats the other royalty."

I shrug. "Too bad I still have to kill you," I say, my knives flying to my hands. "Nothing personal, you understand. Just war." I launch one of my blades end over end, embedding it into the cruiser wall to the left of Ishpbo's head. I swear. I had been aiming between his eyes.

The warrior sighs, heaving his weight as he stands and grabs his scythe. "Sorry about this, Yakasha." He says. "I shall miss you."

Out of nowhere a bullet of blood streaks through the air, lodging itself in Ishpbo's throat before being knocked out by a second lethal projectile. The warrior prince gurgles, a hand dropping from his scythe to clutch at his throat. Blood dribbles from the wound, ash forming around the wound even as I watch. Flakes drop from his skin, whisked away by the wind. The hole in his throat expands, allowing me to see through his body.

Two stands alone, one hand outstretched in a finger gun while the other holds the lifeless corpse of the warrior princess. She stands, eyes brimming with fury as the body in her hands crumbles into ash bit by bit, leaving only the spinal column. In her seemingly fragile hands. The stone-faced Loric grits her teeth, the spine shattering in her clenched fist as she speaks in tense, terse words.

"Don't. Touch. My girlfriend."

Hi everyone, D.N. here. I've been toying with this passage for a while, something from Book Six, from Kasha's POV. This is all I have so far, but I'd love your thoughts on it. I'm more than willing to explain anything you want, or answer any questions you might have after reading this passage.

As always, read and review. Love you all!

D.N.