Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk the enemy's plans; the next best is to prevent the junction of the enemy's forces; the next in order is to attack the enemy's army in the field; and the worst policy of all is to besiege walled cities.

-The Art of War, Sun-Tzu

Information is ammunition.

-Popular saying, SLDF

Deep within the Horde's Fortress in the Fright Zone, far beneath the bustling armouries and training chambers where dozens of horde troopers, both living and mechanical lived and worked, just above the hot layer of mantle that surrounds the planet's core, there existed a special prison, meant to hold several very special people.

One was a woman, who possessed a beautiful fan of feathers with eyes that could peer past almost anything. She was locked within a black obsidian cell, prepared with special spells that prevented her from seeing anything. Even her eyes were sealed with a tape that blocked her sight. Her arms were secured by heavy chains that only slacked four times a day under heavy guard to allow her to relieve herself and for food.

Another was held in a murky tank of water, poisoned with special psychotropic drugs that sapped the mermaid's ability to think and induced fear and helplessness in the captive victim. The water was recycled constantly, removing any waste material that would accumulate in the water. Food was simply crumbs of bread scattered into the water, forcing the maiden to scavenge them. She looked emancipated from months of malnutrition.

There were a few others, from a woman with the ability to control spinning threads to a winged angel to a talking pegacorn. All tortured regularly, all weak from their prolonged ordeal. But the centrepiece of the prison was the female warrior held down by massive chains in the middle of the entire complex.

Her muscular body glistened with sweat and dirt, and her beauty was plain even in the dark, hot dungeon. A ray was aimed at her once powerful body, draining her precious magical energy even as she writhed in her chains, her blond tresses splaying around her, futilely seeking escape from her imprisonment. Her struggles had been far more vigorous in the beginning, but months of incarceration have sapped both her courage and hope. She was clad in the rags of her former fighting dress, the once pure white cloth having turned grimy and dirty with accumulated dirt and dried blood.

She-ra was almost broken. Even with her powers sustaining her in the absence of food and water, they were being drained, and soon they would be gone, leaving her completely at the mercies of her captors.

"Give up, girl, you cannot understand the sheer power of the Dark." The figure in front of her hissed, taunting her by holding up the Sword of Protection. "The power of Greyskull is but a mere candle beside ours. We have the power to destroy star systems, to ravage entire galaxies. You have no chance, no hope. Surrender, and accept our domination."

The Princess of Power lifted her head tiredly, and shook it slowly, "No. Never. I will never submit to evil." She shuddered as another pulse of her energy was drawn out. "Do your worse, villain!" The warrior woman declared bravely. She was beyond hope, but even then, she would never surrender.

"Then your torture will continue." The figure said matter-of-factly. There was no malice in its voice, just a slight tinge of inhuman anticipation. It brought up a gruesome three fingered hand, which seemed like an insect limb, covered in chitin and hair. In the hand was a black stunstick. He pressed one end of the stick against She-ra's smooth, firm stomach, and activated the device.

Her screams of sheer agony echoed throughout the prison.

Hordak raised his head, and shuddered. He could almost hear She-ra as she struggled with her torture at the hands of the overseers. He did not know why, but he felt a sinking sensation in his stomach whenever she underwent another one of those 'sessions'. It was an inexplicable feeling that he just could not understand. She was his enemy, his most hated enemy of all. He was not supposed to feel sorry for his enemies, any of them. Well, except for one particular enemy.

He was in his office, working at balancing the planetary budget and trying to decide just how much surplus he was going to send to Horde Prime as tribute for the year and how much he was going to hold back for Etheria's own development. As a mainly agricultural world, Etheria did not have much to offer except food, some fossil fuel deposits, and some minerals, all of which would be processed before exporting off-world.

Sometimes, Hordak wondered out loud just why the Horde needed to invade Etheria in the first place. The only resource of note was the massive reserves of magical energy locked within the planet itself, but that energy could hardly be tapped by conventional means.

He sometimes wished he had never come to Etheria, or even Eternia at all. All the two worlds had done was offer him defeat after defeat, loss after loss. And a certain blond haired infant he had raised to adulthood, only for her to backstab and betray him, the man who had brought her up and trained her, for her true heritage as a Princess of Eternia, a loss more painful than any other.

Hordak hated himself for loving Adora.

He shuffled through the folders on his computer, looking for a particular file. It was a recording from many years ago. He found the file, and debated within himself for a moment before clicking on the button that would play the recording.

His screen flashed with images of him and a blond girl of about seven years old, playing through a field as they threw a bright coloured disc at each other. Hordak sat back and watched, losing himself in happier times, times when Adora was still his daughter. He did not allow himself to dwell on the fact she had probably been killed when the Rebellion had been crushed at the fall of the Kingdom of Brightmoon. Not even her body had been found, despite his best efforts.

He did not notice the tears streaking down one side of his pale, hard face.

"Who are you?" The huge furry creature challenged Michael Sandoval at the entrance to the officer mess. The ranger took one look at the beast's huge arms and the insignia of a Force Captain on its harness, replied, "Charlatan. Mercenary. Hordak just hired me. We're the same rank. Now get out of my way."

He shoved past the other officer without waiting for his response. He also ignored the silent urging from Bhaal to kill. Weakling, you can destroy him with a twitch of your blade. Kill him, kill them all.

The faux mercenary suppressed the urge to sigh. I thought your bloodlust was slated by that action when I got hired by Hordak?

It's only 3 people! Bhaal wailed. Come on, we can do better! I know you want to kill more of these fools…

Not yet, Michael answered. Not until we've found the leaders of the Rebellion and a way to get them out.

Pah! Forget about finding more information! Just kill everybody in this complex and be done with it!

Michael resisted the urge to yell back, which would only end up in another shouting debate and a headache. What if there are more powerful foes present? The overseers, I suspect, are horoi, and a few of them can certainly overwhelm us. No, we do this one my way.

Excuses, excuses. Why don't you… Wow, leave that pretty one alive for last, will you?

Mike blinked out of his internal conversation in time to notice a tall brunette with flashing green eyes staring at him. She had high cheekbones set in a beautiful face, and her limbs were sleek with power and grace. She wore a red costume, and he could see that she also wore the insignia of a Force Captain.

"Now what do we have here?" She snarled at him, and Michael flinched away from her. Her voice was thin and sharp, and it cut into his ears. She sounded very much like a cat.

Michael braced himself, and gave the same answer as he did before, "Charlatan. Mercenary. Hordak just hired me."

"Just wearing the rank insignia doesn't mean squat." A man with a mechanical eye patch muttered. "We Force Captains are the best of the Horde, and I don't think you're it."

Mike nodded as though in agreement, before sliding forward so quickly that all the others saw were a blur. Then the man who had spoken was pressed up against a wall, with Mike's knife at his throat.

"If I'm shit, then I guess you're lower than shit." Mike smiled, ignoring Bhaal's mental urgings to plunge the knife into the man's throat.

"Enough!" The brunette roared. "We're not here to fight amongst ourselves. Charlatan, isn't it? Let Scurvy down."

Mike released his hold on the man, and stepped back to see a whole array of beings gathered around the mess table. Scurvy stumbled upon his release, but quickly made his way to the table. Mike noted with satisfaction that Scurvy sat furthest away from him.

The brunette started to introduce the Force Captains present, "I'm Catra. This big lug over here is Grizzlor," the furry beast nodded to Mike. Then there were another two women besides Catra, Entrapta and Scorpia. And there was the robot Modulok, the lizard Tung Lashor, and the energy drainer Leech. One was missing, the energy attacker Mantenna. All the Force Captains deferred to Catra.

Although they were all of the same rank, Mike could see why Catra was first amongst equals. She had a confident and dominating manner that enabled her to assume leadership of this motley bunch.

If they weren't the enemy, Mike thought he could be friends with them pretty easily. As it was, he could only tell himself to make their deaths swift and painless. If it came to that. Maybe he could make them change sides…

"So, tell us about yourself, Charlatan." Catra challenged him, her green eyes glittering in the light of the mess hall.

Mike leapt onto a nearby table, and bowed theatrically. "I am Charlatan, mercenary and scum of the earth. I am an archer," he drew his bow and an arrow from his back, and fired off the arrow into an apple placed on the table before any one of them could blink, "and a soldier of ill repute." Then his voice became grim and low, "I have never lost a fight, and I don't intend to start now." The gathered officers clapped at his impromptu speech.

Then Mike leapt down from the table he had used as his stage, and picked up his arrow with the apple stuck on the business end. He removed the apple from the arrow and took a bite of the succulent fruit. "Now, how about dinner?" His tone was in complete contrast to the serious tone he had used.

Catra laughed, "Come on, let's eat!"

Catra stole another look at Charlatan. He was extremely good looking, green eyes below a head of brown hair, and a face that took away her breath whenever he smiled genuinely, which she had seen only once so far throughout the entire night. Most times, his smile was strained, as though there was something he knew which wouldn't allow him to open up. And his soulful eyes, when they had once looked at each other during the introduction, indicated that there was far more to him than just a simple mercenary skilled in archery.

She had only ever had a crush once, and that was on Sea Hawk. But Sea Hawk had fallen for She-ra and Adora. Catra couldn't stand being in 3rd place, and the fact that they were on opposite sides meant that she had no chance at all of wining his affections. Sea Hawk, she mused sadly, had been killed by one of the overseers when they had captured She-ra. It was a score that she would settle with them in the future.

But now, here was this new Force Captain, handsome, apparently unattached, and best of all, on the side of the Horde. Catra licked her lips of the sweet mead that was served to wash down their meal. I will make you mine, Charlatan.

Mike found himself waking up early the next morning, and running through his tasks for the day as he checked his computer for details while downing a cold breakfast of bread and ham.

Hordak had designated him as the Horde's training instructor, as well as command of a company of Horde troopers. He had a packed schedule ahead of him. It seemed like Hordak wanted to get full value for his money.

Sandoval found himself at a dilemma. On one hand, these were the enemy. Training them would only make them better killers, terrorising the people of Etheria. On the other hand, if he slacked off on their training, or purposely taught them the stuff which got soldiers killed, he couldn't do that on his conscience either.

And the constant blaring from Bhaal didn't help him think either. It was always kill this, kill that, kill everybody.

An unbidden image of his old instructor Milan came to his mind, lecturing on leadership and combat. Push your troops hard, push them well. Power is nothing without control. But power and control are nothing without purpose. Being a leader, being a commander of men, is more than just skill and strength. Purpose is everything.

And there Mike had his answer. He would train the Horde troops to the utmost of his ability, to forge the core of a wholly professional army more loyal to Etheria than to Hordak. He would dilute their purpose, and sow the seeds of doubt. In time, the seeds would bear fruit. And the Rebellion would find themselves with a ready made army once their leaders have been rescued. Deprived of a large proportion of his army, Hordak would have no choice but to abandon Etheria, or else be bludgeoned into defeat.

Michael grinned as he stepped out of the room. Things were looking up.

"Why do men fight?" Mike stood on a podium, addressing the gathered NCOs. He had learnt long ago that sergeants ran any fighting force, and the Horde was comfortingly no different. He pointed to one burly black sergeant. "You, answer me. Why do you fight?"

"Sir? I fight for money. The Horde pays well."

Mike pounced. "So if somebody else pays better coin, you would fight for him?"

"Aye, sir. I would. But there is none who pay better. And there never will be. Sir."

Mike smiled tightly. "Never say never. So now tell me, Sergeant," Mike took in the man's name patch, "Bielick. What do you need coin for?"

Bielick sighed, "I got my ma and pa on a wrecked farm. They need the money to repair the farm, and I got no other option. So I signed up with the Horde."

"Why was the farm wrecked?"

Bielick did not answer immediately, but his stricken look and the sympathizing glances thrown his way by the other NCOs told Mike enough. Inwardly, he smiled. The Horde had been responsible for a great deal of destruction when they had first came to Etheria, and the damage was still going on, as Horde commanders would raze villages to the ground whenever there was the slightest resistance, and he was going to draw attention to it. Men don't become NCOs by just bootlicking. They had to have some real talent and brains to maintain their authority. On the other hand, the officer corps was firmly maintained through loyalty checks, and he didn't think he could affect that part much.

Sandoval raised his voice, drawing the attention of his audience back to him, "Given a choice, would you have led the life of a soldier?"

Bielick stammered for a few moments before Mike spat, "Answer me."

"No."

"I thought so," Mike, in the same blinding motion he had used the night before, shot an arrow into Bielick's leg, the arrow punching through the thigh and even shattering the bone completely with the force of his deadly shot. Bielick screamed as he fell to the floor, clutching his leg. If he had so wanted, Mike could have blown Bielick's entire leg apart with a spell cast on the arrow, but that was one trick of many he was going to hold back.

"Wrong answer." Mike replied calmly. "You are Horde, and everything you have, everything you are, belongs to the Horde. You are nothing more than a slave to the Horde. Your needs are subservient to that of the Horde. Medic!" A soldier ran in with a first aid kit, while the other NCOs stood silently in shock.

Mike grinned as he saw the first glimmers of both hatred and understanding of what the Horde had done to them appear in the eyes of the soldiers. His questions were meant to lead them down a particular conclusion, and they were going to go down that road, all the way down, to betrayal and salvation.

You are all slaves, and would you like to continue living as such? You aren't defenceless villagers now, you've the guns and the training. So, ever thought of the alternative? Mike recalled some of his former psyops training, and this time was as good as any to put that to good use. He would have to show them that any hopes of their gaining power in the Horde was just an illusion, but that'll be a later lesson.

He jumped off the podium, just as Bielick was lifted away on a stretcher, "Lecture for today has ended. We'll be going to a ten mile run, all of us. Get your men ready in three minutes."

"Yes, sir!" They scrambled to carry out his orders. Mike noted that several of them were pissed at him, their body language towards him clearly hostile. Excellent, he thought.

"So, what's this again?" Mike stared at the strange contraption Modulok had gathered the ranking Horde captains for inspection.

"Oh, just the latest of my inventions which would bring further glory to the horde!" Modulok exclaimed, totally ignoring the fact that several of his peers were already inching away from his machine, getting ready to lower themselves to the ground when the inevitable happens.

Modulok's machines were not known for being safe. At least, that was what Mike had heard from the other officers.

His newest work was a tracked automated tank, with a laser cannon mounted on a swivel turret. It looked much like any other piece of military equipment, but Mike noticed that there was no place for a driver or a gunner. Which also meant that the entire assemble was actually rather compact, the size of a small cart.

"Behold! The Mark Six Autotank!" Modulok declared. "Capable of traversing all kinds of terrain, and armed with a rapid fire laser cannon, it will send those cowardly rebels running in seconds!"

As Modulok continued to expound on the merits of the tank, Mike sidled over to Catra, and asked sotto voce, "Mark Six? What happened to the previous five models?"

"They blew up once they were activated." Catra deadpanned. "Most of us expect the same this time round."

"Ahhhh."

"All right!" Modulok was about to finish his speech, "I have set up a few targets here for the tank to shoot at," he gestured at several dummies in the distance, which looked like ordinary civilians, "in order to test its image recognition abilities. Now I'll just press this button, and we'll start the test."

Almost before Modulok's finger had depressed the button fully, Mike's sixth sense was already screaming at him to move.

The tank came to life, instead of blowing up as before, and the turret started swivelling to seek out targets. The Horde officers were all standing around, surprised that it did not blow up. Then the turret seemingly stopped moving, and its business end was pointed at Catra.

"MOVE IT!" Mike yelled as he tackled Catra just as the cannon fired. They tumbled painfully to the ground, while the turret turned around to start blasting haphazardly at anybody and everybody in the vicinity. The Horde officers were running desperately for what little cover was available, while Modulok was already cowering behind a low wall.

The turret continued shooting away.

Catra, her reflexes honed by experience and training, managed to soften her fall. She flipped to her feet quickly, and managed to dodge a series of shots sent her way. She saw that Charlatan had also managed to regain his feet, and he had stayed right behind her as they dashed behind a parked vehicle.

"Bloody hell!" Charlatan gritted out, and Catra was shocked to see blood flowing copiously down his right shoulder. He leaned back heavily against the jeep, his teeth bared against the pain as he tried to staunch the blood flow with his other hand.

He took the shot for me, Catra realised. Nobody in the Horde, has ever done that for me. Ever.

Her body trembled at the thought. It brought to her unfamiliar sensations. Ones that felt strange, but which felt so right to her. She had been lonely for years within the Horde, a product of a genetic experiment regarded as a failure by Hordak. Within the Horde, there had been little room for love, only hate and unchecked ambition. She had immersed herself within the larger Horde identity, trying to find some modicum of acceptance, but in the end having only fear and grudging respect.

"Help me stop the bleeding!" Charlatan shouted at her, and Catra shook herself out of her malaise, then tore off a piece of clothing off his uniform to serve as a makeshift bandage. They wound it tightly around the gaping wound. A more intensive examination would have to wait. Charlatan nodded gratefully to her as they took the chance to assess the situation.

The tank's laser cannon was now silent, but it was still operative, and had stopped firing only because there were no targets around. They could hear the soft whirring of its treads and the mechanical whine of the turret's servos as it prowled the area.

"HEY!" Charlatan suddenly shouted out loud. "Modulok! You there?"

"Yeah? Why?" Catra was disgusted at the robot's tremulous tone. She swore to herself never to trust Modulok or his inventions again. They were often more trouble than they were worth.

"Is there a remote for shutdown for the tank?" Charlatan asked.

"If there was, don't you think I would have gotten it by now?" Modulok shouted back. "There are two ways out! We blow it up, which is impossible right now! Or we hit the off button. It's the same button I pressed to start it!"

"Fuck!" Charlatan cursed. He closed his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Catra asked concernedly.

He opened his eyes again, and stared at her, "Lady, I just got shot up, I can't use my bow, and we're stuck here until somebody figures out a way to blow that thing. How do you think I'm feeling right now?"

"I'm sorry," said Catra. She had very rarely apologised to anybody, even Hordak.

Charlatan sighed. "Sorry, I should not have taken it out on you. Nobody expected this."

Catra disagreed, "No, as the ranking officer I should have taken the safety aspects into consideration. We've been far too cavalier in our R&D. It's a miracle we haven't killed ourselves."

"I'm glad you know that now."

Then she saw him staring at her intently. Catra blushed, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Charlatan blinked. "No, no! Behind you!"

Catra turned to see a fairly polished piece of steel breastplate lying on the ground. In its reflection they could see Modulok's tank.

"I have an idea. Help me get my bow and quiver out." Charlatan groaned as he leaned forward to lie down on the ground, while Catra took his bow and quiver off his back.

Catra was horrified, "You can't be thinking of going up against that beast, even if you're not injured!"

He looked at her in surprise, and replied, "Thank you for your concern, but I have no intention of throwing away my life." He smiled grimly, "Watch, and learn."

"The tank's laser cannon is a line of sight weapon. It can only shoot straight. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad." He explained as he laid on the ground, both feet clutching the bow's centre, which would normally be held in one hand. His left arm had an arrow out and lying on the taut bow string. "The arrow, on the other hand, can move in a curve, a trajectory over barriers. Archery isn't just about hitting a far away target the size of a dot. It's about understanding the possible curves and paths the arrow can take."

Charlatan drew the bow, using his legs in lieu of his left arm, and his left arm instead of his right arm. He took a look at the breastplate, and let fly with the shot. Then Catra and Charlatan both stared at the improvised mirror.

The arrow hit the ground about a meter away from the tank. Catra raised an eyebrow. This was the first time she had heard of people shooting without using both hands.

Charlatan tried again, and this time his arrow landed on the turret. However, the arrow had no real power behind it, and did not even scratch the turret's armour before it fell to the ground, bent and broken.

"Wasn't aiming for that anyway," Charlatan murmured.

"You're aiming for the button." Catra stated. "It's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible. It just takes a little longer." He assured her, and his confidence was infectious.

"Well, I hope your arrow supply lasts."

It took five more arrows for him to narrow on the button, which was not helped at all by the tank's movement, and Catra began to worry when the tank started in their direction. By all accounts, what Charlatan was doing was truly impossible. Trying to hit a moving target the size of a berry on a curved trajectory while using an imperfect mirror to sight onto his target.

Catra had began praying hard by the time the tank was only 10 meters away, while Charlatan still seemed as calm as a rock. Then just as it was about to come upon them, Charlatan launched an arrow which went almost straight up into the sky before coming down. Right on top of the stop button. The tank lurched to a halt. Charlatan laid back on the ground, letting his exhaustion and pain show only after his task was done.

The easing of battle tension was almost palpable to the relived Horde. And before Catra knew it, she was hugging Charlatan fiercely.

Mike enjoyed being hugged by a pretty woman as much as the next guy, but he knew he couldn't get too close. Not to Catra, not to anyone. After a while, he had pushed her away, while the others had quickly called for medical aid for those hit by the tank. He had spent several hours getting patched up. His wound had needed stitches, and Mike tried not to wince at the memory of the doctors working on him without using anaesthesia.

Modulok had been thrown into the dungeon, and would stay there for a few days to figure out and reflect on his mistakes so that he wouldn't repeat them again.

Meanwhile, Mike had been hailed as a hero during dinner that night, and even Hordak himself had managed to come down and offer his praise and thanks. The potential loss of so many key officers and personnel would have set back the Horde's efforts greatly.

Mike refused to dwell on the irony of his helping the Horde when he could have just stood aside and allowed the automated tank to slaughter them. Even now, Bhaal was ranting long and loud in his mind over the lost opportunity, bringing on a headache that Mike really did not need at this time.

He was more worried by the fact that he had not even caught a glimpse of the overseers. Outside of the overseers, he had learnt, only Hordak had access to the dungeon holding the rebels. If he needed to get She-ra, whoever she was, and the rest of the Rebellion's leaders out, he'd have to either convince Hordak or the overseers to give him access.

And right now, Hordak was his best option. Mike had his own suspicions as to who the overseers are, and he knew there would be no compromise with them, only deadly conflict. On Hordak, Mike could not be sure, but he suspected that Hordak had his own agenda, and that he was to be part of it. One thing that was already clear to Mike was that for all his bluster, Hordak was pretty much a softie at heart. Modulok was the best example. Most other rulers would have just destroyed him as an object lesson. Hordak only threw him into the dungeon.

He laid on his bed for a long time that night, thinking up plans with the crazed voice of Bhaal in his head and discarding them just as quickly. Time, he suspected, was running short. He would have to act, and soon.

Hordak laid his hand on the genetic identification pad next to the small door that would lead to the dungeon holding the rebels.

"Pass phrase." A cold emotionless computerised voice asked.

"Glory and strength to the Horde." Hordak rasped.

"Access granted."

The small door slid open, and Hordak walked through. He was greeted by a cloaked figure. The cloak hid the overseer's body, but Hordak knew that beneath the cloak was the stuff of nightmares.

"Welcome, Hordak," said Xenostog smugly, "I'm glad you could come down today. We think we have some very interesting findings about the Etheria's champion that might interest you."

"I'm sure." Hordak ground out. The condescending attitude of the overseers was what he hated most about them. And the fact that any one of them was so much more powerful than he was.

They swapped small talk as they proceeded to She-ra's cell, with Xenostag dominating the conversation. Hordak tried to ignore the pained cries emanating from the other cells. No, it would not do to show weakness in front of the overseers.

They entered the cell holding the Princess of Power, and Hordak was shocked by the sheer devastation visited on the once mighty champion who had foiled him time and again. He should be gloating, but he felt only sadness. There were three other overseers, all of them radiating power and sheer evil as they observed She-Ra.

She-ra was bleeding all over, her power dwindled to the point that she could be injured like an other ordinary mortal. She hung limply in her chains, unconscious from her torture. Bruises covered her once beautiful face, but more than that, her glamour, the spell hiding her true identity, had been torn away.

No, this cannot be! Hordak tried to conceal his horror when he recognised Adora, his adopted daughter Adora. He tried not to think of the times when Adora had returned from some gruelling training mission, looking almost like this. He yearned to comfort her, ease her pain, like he had always done before. But he couldn't. Not now.

This explained everything. Why Adora had defected. Why She-ra had seemed to know so much about the Horde and their tactics. Why she had saved him time and again. Because in a way, she still regarded him as her father. Hordak felt torn by the maelstrom inside him as he struggled with himself not to shoot at the overseers and get Adora out of this evil place.

"Yes, this is Force Captain Adora," Xenostag confirmed. "Rather interesting, wouldn't you say? That one of your handpicked officers would turn out to be such a traitor?"

"I did not know." The implications were there, and Hordak tried to hide his fear. Yes indeed, he did not know. But a small part of him wondered if he had always known, or why hadn't he realised that She-ra and Adora were one and the same, especially after she had saved him so many times, despite the fact that they were enemies?

Hordak wanted to get out of this dismal place. He needed to think. He went through the rest of the short session trying to keep a tight leash on his body language, while hoping for the overseers to finish their briefing as soon as possible.

Then it all fell apart, when She-ra woke up. She stared listlessly at Hordak.

"Help me. Please." Her voice was so weak, so full of despair.

Hordak remained impassive, knowing that the overseers were watching him, but deep inside, he had already made his decision. I will help you, my child. Hang in there. No matter what, I will get you out.

And he knew the best candidate for the task. Charlatan.

"He has a plan." Xenostag said, after Hordak had left.

"Let him try. What can he do, against us?" Big, immense Gardo sneered. "By the Dark, he could get his whole gang of goons down, and we'll still crush them."

"Do not be too sure," replied cold, analytical Urytar, "I sense a presence in the vicinity. It is powerful. And more than that, it is careful. It might even be strong enough to challenge us."

"Above all, we must not forget our objective," their leader Gnagg reminded them, "To claim the secrets of Greyskull and unleash its power to open a gateway for our forces into this area of space!"