Krastis peeked out of the window in the Mars base. Outside there was gunfire, warfare. His insides felt warm at the sight of it, fighting. He was quite literally born to fight with the Cabal's Legions, and now that he had been ammited, he could show the army just what strength the Psion's had.
Of course, there were a few points of conflict that Krastis had faced through his career. One was that he believed in retreat. In cutting your losses. That was a practice frowned upon by the higher-ups of the Cabal. The second was that he had no quarrel with the Guardians. They had originally done nothing wrong, and had stumbled upon the Cabal by accident. Of course, the rest of the army hadn't shared his disdained thoughts and shunned him for them.
So naturally Krastis was placed in the most bottom-feeder esque jobs he could get, as well as a few other Psions who had proved to be invalid in combat. It was regular stuff like armor repair, armor cleaning, weapon rebuilds, etcetera. Krastis did not like it one bit.
He had only seen combat a few times since being stationed on this Red Planet. One the Guardians had deemed 'Mars'. Before that, he was a regularly-used Psion commander. He had his own legion, his own troopers. He led them to victory in the previous system, giving the Cabal a guaranteed victory.
The Psions were dedicated. They were always eager to prove themselves, and proved valuable assests in combat. If the Centurions, Collosi and Phalanxes were the backbone of the Cabal army, the Psions were the detail. They tended to issues that didn't always involve direct combat, such as temporal energy focus, supporting wounded, healing, hacking and anything technical that would require… well… an intelligent creature.
But one mishap in combat landed him on the dirty work. And not the good, fun, kill things dirty work. But the actual dirty work. Stuff like cleaning armor and bottom-feeding.
He led his Psions behind enemy lines, to intercept an important target and to destroy him. The mission proved to be a failure, but there were always failures in combat. The Cabal understood this. What landed him out of commanding officer was the fact that Krastis had seen overwhelming numbers when spotted. And wanting to keep his squad alive, he retreated and cut his losses from the fight. The Cabal saw this as cowardish, rather than smart or conservative. They stripped his badge, and banned the phrase he had created in Cabal language. "Move away from combat."
They didn't have a word for retreat, they didn't believe in it. But Krastis had always toyed with the concept, thinking about how many wars could have been more decisive if the Cabal army had cut its losses just a little bit more and decided to pull out in certain fights. Maybe they wouldn't have a soldier deficit like they do now. Maybe their claim over Mars would have been more aggressive, more certain.
Krastis thought to himself, pronouncing the word just as he had heard many Guardians talking about it. "Mars." He said it to himself through low-pitched hums and clicks. He was intriguied by their pronunciation of it. The Cabal called it something way more sophisticated. It was the word for 'Staging Point' with a number designation.
That was all planets were to the Cabal-staging places. They never dubbed them actual names or titles, just 'Staging Point [insert number desigation here]' It was kind of sad, seeing how the army had cut through just about every major force in the universe, carving their way to this solar system.
The more he thought about it, the more he became distasteful of the Cabal, the more he didn't mind soldiers dying. It wasn't like another wouldn't be right behind to take his place anyways. For now, at least.
While he thought these thoughts the red flashing lights of the base came on with a voice booming over the intercomms. A siren. There was a Guardian.
The voice was commanding that all hands be put to the use. With the recent leadership assassination, it was only natural that a majority of the Cabal's force be deployed. But it also meant that Krastis could see action for once in a long time.
He dropped the large piece of Cabal armor that he was repairing. A Minotaur had punched a hole straight through a Cabal Legionarre, killing him. Of course, they wanted the armor repaired for his memorium, that would have to wait for now.
He ran out of the armor station, dashing down to the dark hall illuminated only by red flashing lights and jolted to the left.
Down that hall, multiple Psion reinforcements were being called. They ran side by side, trying to get to the armory as fast as they could. In front of the group was the leader they dubbed "Bokar" which meant 'Fearless', a title often received but seldom kept.
Krastis took another left, joining an even bigger group of Psions. Down that passage would be the armory. Krastis and the group entered the relatively small room for their size, rushing to their respective holding places and gathering their gear.
For Krastis this meant a small, lightweight Cabal-based design that had just been issued to every soldier-whether or not they were in the active field or behind the scenes. Krastis adored it.
He slapped on some extra padding as well, providing armor that was brand new-a disdainful sight for a Cabal soldier. Their armor was supposed to be edged, battle hardened.
Unfortunately his hadn't seen battle since it'd been issued to him, meaning it wasn't jagged or scarred. His was smooth and ornate.
Regardless, he marched past the rough-looking Psions with determination. Determination to get battle scars and come from the fight victorious. He raised the small slap rifle, letting out a battle cry as they poured forward and out of the Cabal base.
As they ran, Krastis could feel Psions behind him trying to trip Krastis. The discrimination he faced was serious. They muttered things like 'Not fit to fight' or 'Get back to the armor station'.
Outside, it was sandy and red-as was usual. The only peculiarity was 2 Guardians, side by side, combatting Cabal that were approaching.
Krastis descended down the ramp, raising his rifle and firing off a small barrage. They nailed one of the Guardians, staggering him slightly and turning his attention to the Psions.
With a swift grenade throw and a dive, the front approaching force was wiped out. Krastis went in closer.
The second Guardian billowed up in electrical power, diving forward and slamming his fist right on the ground into the wave of Psions. It was because of Krastis's self-preservation that he remained the only living Psion of the group of 20 that had initially engaged the fight.
He shot off rounds in the slap rifle, them still hitting their target as he ran back to find cover. It was technically retreat, but Krastis didn't like to look at it that way. He liked to look at it as strategic repositioning. Not necessarily running from the fight but getting a better vantage point.
The Cabal Psion ducked behind a small burrow of rocks as the Guardians pelted his position with projectiles.
The rest of the soldiers were dwindling in numbers, making this his only chance to get a good shot off on the Guardian. He leaped from cover and unloaded on the closest Guardian, all projectiles hitting their mark and throwing the Guardian to the ground.
He successfully downed a Guardian. But that still left one more, and one that had dispatched of the rest of the Cabal in his area but Krastis. He turned his attention to the lone Psion.
To this, the Psion prepared an energy blast. If anything could keep the Guardians at bay, it was the elements. He was going to use this to his advantage; especially since he was adept with the temporal energy.
He raised his fist while a wave of arc energy spouted from the ground, beckoning the Guardian to stay back. He pelted him with the slap rifle, providing him with a challenge.
The Guardian tossed a grenade, causing Krastis to roll to the side almost out of its damage range. It detonated and sent shrapnel all up on Krastis's armor, denting it and removing the polish on a majority of the armor.
Great. Got the dents, now just need to live. Krastis thought to himself. He rolled back up on his side to see the Guardian already on him. The being smacked Krastis to the ground with an auto rifle raised. To this, Krastis swirled his hands furiously, sending forth an electric pulse that shocked the Guardian.
He rose and retrived the rifle, unloading more bullets into the Guardian and downing him as well. Satisfied with his victory, he cheared a small amount until he realized something was off.
He looked to where the first downed Guardian was, but nothing was there. He began to panic as the figure appeared right in front of him.
The Guardian jammed a knife straight through Krastis's chest, throwing him to the ground and taking the knife out.
He didn't even feel the pain. He felt the loneliness of death cascade over him.
He raised it one more time, right over Krastis's head. The last thing Krastis saw was the point impacting his helmet. Then, complete darkness.
