Do You Even Feel Compassion?
Corey struggled against the grip of the foreign interlopers. His hands were already bound behind his back, clasped tight with a pair of handcuffs that glowed with a faint light reminiscent of some of the broken alien artifacts his people ran across. He still had a gunshot injury on his left arm that burned angrily, and a dried cut from where his helmet had been ripped off and he'd been pistol whipped into initial unconsciousness.
"Let go of me you cocksucking bastards!" Corey growled, but one of the armored men just squeezed on his bullet wound and Corey felt the world white out with pain. He grit his teeth and when his vision returned he found himself trapped between the men, now on the bridge of the large space craft that should've long crashed into the planet's surface.
"Cornelius Thromwell Andersmith," droned an aging man from in front of a few select computer screens. "Talented sniper from the New Republic with fifty-seven kills under his belt. Genius, promising—in line to take Command of the New Republic if your current commander should perish. Is that correct?"
Corey stilled, frowned, and eyed the man. He was dressed richly, like an executive from some large pharmaceutical company or something. Chorus hadn't had any real economic growth since the Feds started tearing things up, but Corey could remember a time before the war broke out, before everything crumbled into hell and violence.
"Who are you?" Corey said cautiously, because something about this man exuded a sense of danger.
"Who I am doesn't matter," the man said and turned fully toward Corey with a smile that sent shivers down his spine. "What matters is the proposition I have for you. You see bringing you here was a moment of inspiration—normally I'd have you killed on the battlefield. Talented individuals such as yourself merely make things harder for me in the end."
Corey frowned. He didn't understand—but he had a dark feeling that he would soon enough. The man spoke as if he had a hand in the war, as if he had power were they had none. For a moment Corey pondered if he were a Fed—could the Feds have infiltrated the New Republic? But no; something about this man didn't read Chorus native. He wasn't from Chorus.
"Yet I find myself with a growing problem," he continued. "You see an old—rival—of mine has recently gained traction with a project of his." With a smile he walked right up to Corey—he was fairly short, Corey noted. Definitely not Chorus native, then. "Given his genius nature I have no doubt he'll unearth some uniquely fascinating technology—technology I could use. Unfortunately I don't have anyone on hand who is talented at infiltration, or even smart enough to not get caught."
From behind the businessman Corey noted how a dark haired young girl scowled and crossed her arms. It didn't take a genius to put together that this girl was the one who wasn't 'smart enough to not get caught' that the foreigner mentioned. He wondered what she got caught at, to have her pretty face fall into such a scowl.
"Given your talented and genius nature," the man continued, "I felt it more prudent to spare you a grisly death and offer you a chance of employment instead. While on the planet you are a…persistent thorn, here you could be useful."
Corey narrowed his eyes. "Why would I even want to work for you?"
He smiled. "You have a younger brother, don't you?"
Corey jerked forward, eyes enraged. He spat out, "Don't you dare touch John!"
"Then do we have an agreement?" he asked lightly. Corey turned his head away and bit his lip. Shit but the threat did scare him. John was all he had left in this life, he couldn't lose his little brother too.
"What would I get out of it?" Corey asked.
He smiled, pleased. "I will guarantee your brother's safety from any dangers he might face during these troubling times on Chorus."
Corey's head snapped back toward the elder. "How?" he asked, plainly, eyes wide. His stomach roiled. Why was he even considering this?
"I have an inside man. Felix?"
Corey's head jerked around and landed upon the familiar ash-and-orange armor of a man he thought trustworthy. He felt sick to his stomach. If Felix did work for this—this bastard—then John's life—John. Corey closed his eyes and turned his head away, even as he felt Felix lay a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't you worry about your little brother," Felix said cheerfully. "I'll keep a real close on eye him."
Corey swallowed heavily. There really wasn't any choice in the end. He dropped his shoulders, the tenseness leaving him with defeat. If John ever knew—if anyone every knew—Corey could never return home after this. He knew that. They'd never trust him again.
Hollowly, Corey said, "When do I start?"