Note: The way I was writing the chapters in split up parts was making the story drag and hurting my groove. I might go back and re-organize everything into bigger chunks or just keep going. I want something to actually happen once per chapter.
Tonight's episode…
"Religious Debate"
Cercil the Arbiter slinked down a dimly lit corridor with his body pressed tightly to the wall and leaving a trail of questionable grease on the way. Ostentatiously, he crouched down beside a large security door and pressed the side of his head to it, his arbiter helmet pushing up over the side of his lumpy head. Eyes closed, a sensual breath of air escaped his reptilian nostrils. His mandibles flexed slowly as he listened.
Kit Fisto and Kestrel had watched this entire display. The young human turned to the alien sniper and asked: "What do you think he's doing?"
"I have a feeling we're about to find out," said Fisto unhappily.
The Arbiter chose that moment to stand up. He gave them a dark look, his brows lowered into an extremely manly frown. "Ladies. My hyper-masculine alpha maleness has detected some" he sniffed "competition beyond this door. I think this is the place. The cable place."
"I didn't know your species had such a potent sense of smell," said Kestrel wonderingly.
"We don't," said Fisto. She scowled at the Arbiter. "'Hyper masculine alpha maleness,' huh? Is that what you call your motion tracker?"
"Little column 'A,' little column 'hole.'" The Arbiter removed a bottle of cologne shaped like a plasma grenade and splashed some glittering blue scent onto his neck.
"Where did you get that?" asked Kestrel. Fisto just looked disgusted.
"I don't know where I got it. It's called Sticky Blue, though." Cercil took a sip out of the bottle and smacked his lips. "Hm. Musky."'
Fisto nodded in mock understanding. "I see, Arbiter. That must help get the taste of Tartarus' dick out of your mouth."
"Barely. Say, do you have any tips—how do you get the taste of Half-Killer's asshole out of your mouth?"
Kestrel held up her hands for peace like all children of dysfunctional gay couples do. "Guys, please. You're both so horrible all the time. Can't we just work together in companionable camaraderie like true brothers for a little while?"
Fisto looked at her in pity. "You haven't known the Arbiter as long as I have."
"I don't see how that's relevant."
The Arbiter put a hand on Kestrel's shoulder before she could dodge him. "That's because you're not part of the rich history between me and Fisto and Half-Killer. It's fit for drama, really, maybe even an HBO miniseries." He let go of her and framed Fisto in an imaginary camera shot. "I can see it now: The Dead Ring World Empire of Mad Elites Breaking a Bad Wire: A Game of Plasma, with intro music by Florence and the Machine."
Fisto glared at him through his impromptu finger-frame. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about half the time."
"I knew there was some sort of interpersonal drama!" Kestrel put her hands on her hips. There was a vindicated expression on her face. "My instincts never fail me!"
Cercil and Fisto were about to respond with some incredibly entertaining banter when suddenly a gigantic plasma net fell from the ceiling, enwrapping all three of them in its sticky hot clutches. In the next moment the concussive explosives attached to the net went off, blinding and deafening everyone into a state of stunned helplessness. Two elites in strap-centric red armor materialized from the shadows as the group struggled and flailed in pathetic impotence. The heretics drew large baseball bats from behind their backs and began to lay into the Arbiter and the bitches. In moments they had all been beaten into unconsciousness.
One heretic turned to the other. "We have eliminated the threat, blood brother. How shall we partake now my brethren?"
The other stroked his chins ominously. "Mayhap we should bring them…to Leader."
The first heretic nodded with an equally foreboding expression on his face and said: "Okay."
They trussed up the unconscious bodies. Strange silver sentinels swooped down from tubes in the ceiling by a silent command. The heretics loaded the bodies onto these metal devils before hitching rides themselves, directing their mounts to set off at a weighted pace towards a location of unknown peril. Who knew what awaited our three heroines deep within the bowels of the heretic facility? Only time would reveal the girth of Tartarus's semi!
And elsewhere in the asshole of the gas giant…
It was flying time. Half-Killer, his elites who he cared about, and Tartarus all boarded the brute chieftain's phantom, The Unyielding Phallus, and took a ride around the heretics' base. They were going out to patrol for Heretic Leader in case he tried to escape in his own phantom, The Fishtag. No one knew why the heretic's ship was called 'The Fishtag' and no one knew how they knew it was called 'The Fishtag.' Personally, Half-Killer thought a better name would have been 'The Aggrandized Lambency' or the 'Indefatigable Maniple.' In his humble opinion, he was almost as good at coming up with ship names as he was with making up new identities. Unfortunately, Tartarus didn't seem to be comparably good at piloting his own ship; the ride was extremely rocky. With every moment that passed, Half Killer became more and more afraid that they were about to crash into the station or fly into the core of the gas giant and be turned into liquid carbon or something. Finally he could take no more of this…rough ride…and he stormed to the cockpit to confront Tartarus.
The door slid open and he squeezed inside the cramped, sweat-smelling interior. "A word, chieftain?"
"Just a minute." Tartarus kicked away the brute that was fellating him beneath the control console. The smaller brute giggled and licked its lips, then made a few kissing sounds at Half-Killer, who stood there transfixed. Tartarus set the ship to auto pilot and then turned his chair around. "Yeah, what do you want?"
"Never mind," said Half-Killer. He turned away and headed back into the recesses of the phantom, where he ran into one of the spec ops elites who had secured themselves to the interior. Half-Killer bumped into him out of surprise. "Is that you, DP? I though you'd died."
"DP?" The elite looked around nervously. "Uh, no thanks, sir."
Half-Killer shook his head. "Not that. Your call sign is DP, is it not? You chose it yourself."
"I did?" The elite was just confused now. "I don't remember."
"Strange. You look just like him. Or her. Or it."
The elite brightened. "Oh, you must be talking about my cousin! I think he was on your phantom when our group landed on the station. Have you seen him around? I've been meaning to talk to him about last night."
It all made sense now. Like a grand puzzle falling into place, each piece confusing and perverted. "Ah. I'm afraid the heretics got your cousin. I shall spare you the details."
"That's a shame." The spec ops trooper shook its head sadly. "He was a lot of fun at parties."
"I bet he was," said Half-Killer thinly. "So, what shall I call you?"
The elite looked at its feet. "Oh. Well. My birth name is Ayeloaf, sir. Clan name Penice."
Half-Killer was stunned, but unfortunately not the point of silence. "I should have known. Because he told me your name, I mean. And I thought he was joking. I should have listened, rather. Why didn't I listen…"
"You know I actually am joking," said the other elite. "It's actually me, DP. I never even had a cousin."
Half-Killer considered this. "Huh. Interesting. You know, that reminds me. Tartarus asked for you in the cockpit."
In the mean time, the Arbiter had a horrifying dream…
It was the happiest day of his life. All his friends had joined him in the garden of his plantation manse: the Chief's stuffed corpse was bending over for a bronze-cast horse in a circle of roses while Sergeant Johnson lay rotting in a field of picked cotton. Kit Fisto's ashes had been sprinkled over a patch of skunk cabbage, and Half-Killer had been baked into several pies and then eaten by gay pigs. The Prophet of Truth had been infused with liquid nitrogen and turned into an ice sculpture as a center piece for the festivities, a fountain of wine running out of his cunty mouth. Cortana had been forced into a miserable and violent marriage with a cephalopod from a Japanese dating simulator. And Kestrel was at school studying hard for her advanced placement algebra classes.
Cercil sighed as he watched Oreo walk down the isle towards him in a white dress as two grunts sprinkled bagel crumbs before her feet, which were clad in combat boots for some reason. The chairs he had set up on either side of the walk were occupied by his other, actual friends, such as nobody. Oreo beamed as she arrived at the altar.
"You look radiant, mi amour," said Cercil suavely.
Oreo blushed. "Thanks." Cercil offered her his hand and helped her up onto the raised platform. A tall, muscular blonde man with hazel eyes wearing a priest's robes and an insufferable smile stood there ready to officiate.
"Nervous?" asked Cercil, still suavely.
"Of course I am," said Oreo shyly.
Cercil shifted his leg to conceal his boner. "That's perfectly natural," he said. He turned to the priest. "We're ready, Sheppard ."
"Whatever," said the man. He opened an upside down bible to a random page and began to read slowly.
"Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to increase our whorings, and to lust after our paramours in the land of Egypt, whose members were like that of stallions, and whose emissions were like that of donkeys. I now pronounce you man and wife."
"That was beautiful," said Cercil thankfully. Oreo was weeping.
The man winked. "Think literally nothing of it. Now, let's get to the hot part. You may kiss the groom."
"The groom?" asked Cercil. He turned in slow horror to see that he himself was now in Oreo's voluminous white wedding dress. But that was not the worst of it. For Oreo was gone, and in her place was the brute Chieftain Tartarus in a sharp black tuxedo, grinning with yellow teeth as his belly jiggled perpetually.
"Oh boy," said Tartarus. "I've been waitin' for this." He caught Cercil by the waist.
"This is not my perfect day!" protested Cercil.
"I know," said Tartarus. "But it is mine. Now I get to make you mine. Sexually, that is." He bent forwards and opened his putrid lips for a kiss. Cercil strained away as the horrific pucker, meaning Tartarus' mouth, meaning his lips, drew closer. The smell of vinegar stung his nostrils also. Cercil turned away only to see that the chairs were now filled with people! The Chief, Kit Fisto, Half-Killer—all the people he hated were there laughing, pointing, laughing as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Even Oreo was there, laughing alongside all of them, her breasts bouncing in mirth.
Tartarus harrumphed as Cercil squeezed his eyes shut, turning away as he refused to accept the 'affection.' The brute threw Cercil to the ground with the laughter of the crowd still ringing. Cercil landed on all fours and his wedding dress tore. He whimpered in pain and scrambled to get away, but big metal restraints rose out of the platform and wrapped around his limbs, suspending him in place. They glowed anachronistically.
"Since you won't give me a hot kiss," said Tartarus as he walked in a circle around the bound Arbiter to the cheering of the crowd, "I guess I'll have to give you the hot kiss."
"That makes no sense!" exclaimed Cercil. He could make out the chant of the crowd now. Heretic. Heretic. Heretic. Something about this was all too familiar to him.
"It'll make sense in a minute," assured Tartarus moments before he tore Cercil's dress away, leaving him naked.
"Aie!" Cercil screeched. "What a day!"
Tartarus chuckled mirthlessly as a large iron pillar rose out of the ground before Cercil's eyes, like a tower of pain rising from the depths of hell. The tip of the pillar was flat and glowing an agonizing red. He watched in trepidation as Tartarus took and hefted the branding iron.
"Recognize this?" Tartarus asked.
"But I already was branded!" complained the Arbiter helplessly.
The white-haired brute leered. "Yeah, you were. But I don't think it quite took. If I'm going to make you my bitch for real then we need to plant this one somewhere special."
"Oh god," said Cercil, his imagination racing. "Don't do this! It isn't fair, Tartarus! I didn't have nothing not to do with that darn Halo!"
Tartarus just laughed. "After I brand you, I'm going to rape you until you die."
"This party went downhill fast." Cercil turned desperately to the Chief, who was sitting in the front row with a wedding cake splattered on his head. "Chief! Help me, Chief! You can't let your own brother get abused like this in front of your eyes!"
"I can't?" the Chief asked. He turned to Oreo. "Is that true?"
"No, Chief," Oreo said. "You definitely can."
Cercil moaned. "Even in my dreams you're a fucking retard." He turned to Fisto and Half-Killer, who looked amused.
"Come on, Arbiter," said Half-Killer. "Do you reallythink we're going to help you?"
"Like I would want your help, loser." Cercil turned to Fisto. "Listen, just shoot me. I know you want to, and I don't want to be branded again."
"Maybe later," said Fisto.
Cercil raged. He thrashed in his bonds, his eyes finding Oreo again. "Oreo! Hey, come on baby, come on! Give me a hand here. You're the nice one, right? Help out your old flame Cercil."
Oreo shook her head.
"Come on!" he whined in increasing desperation."You were always the nice one."
"Nobody's that nice," said Oreo.
Tartarus appeared in front of him. Cercil's jaw dropped open.
"Yeah," said the brute. "You've got it right. Keep your gob wide open, Arbiter." He leveled the branding iron. "Don't know why I didn't think of this sooner with all that chatter constantly coming out of your dick hole—this ought to shut you up!" The brand raced towards Cercil's face in the next instant. The last thing he saw was its design: a brutal typeface spelling out the words "Brute's Bitch."
Cold water splashed into Cercil's face and woke him from the nightmare. For a moment he sat drenched and shaking, slumped forwards against the tight bonds that held him to a homemade wicker chair. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head to assess his surroundings. Before him stood a half dozen heretic elites in their standard belt-fetish armor. This room was unlike the others on the station—it was much darker and mustier, for one. There were no cables in sight—Cercil wondered how far away from the cables they were by now, and he wondered how he would ever get back to finally cut them now.
Actually, he didn't.
To either side of him were other bound figures—as his vision cleared he recognized them as Kestrel and Kit Fisto, both tied tightly to congruent wicker chairs with hundreds of belts and straps of a similar make as those that adorned the heretics. They were unconscious but breathing. He looked down to see that his own bondage was much the same; together with his Arbiter armor, the heretic's bindings made him appear to be nothing more than a large pile of belts with a head on top.
"You guys really do love belts."
"On that we can agree." A figure emerged from the shadows of the dark room, coming out from behind a pillar. This one was equipped with a jet pack and was wearing dark red armor. He was familiar: it was the heretics' leader, Heretic Leader.
"Hello, Arbiter," said the amazing atheist. "Long time no see. It seems like its been months since we last spoke."
"It's only been a few hours," said Cercil.
"Relatively, then."
"Relatively to what?"
Heretic Leader ignored him. "So, have you been running about all this time just looking for me? You might simply have asked if you wanted to surrender yourself to my superior wisdom and logic."
"Actually, I was trying to find the cables so I that I could cut them, so that I could trap you in the upper station. And cut you."
"What a…unique plan," mused Heretic. "Good thing my men caught you before you could doom everyone to a horrible death within a gravitational vortex of solid hydrogen at the center of the gas giant."
"Apology accepted," said Cercil while doing some vigorous kegels.
Heretic Leader sniffed. "I'm not really sorry at all. In fact, I'm quite glad to have this chance to speak with you one more time. Before you force me to do something we both regret."
"I regret nothing."
"Not even your branding?" asked Heretic Leader piercingly, with a question of piercing-ness. "Not your shaming, your enslavement to a stupid cause?"
Cercil squirmed in his belts. "Let me avoid your questions by telling you about my plans to face fuck you with my needler."
The heretics stirred uneasily, looks of anger on their faces. Heretic Leader raised a hand. "I understand your anger, Arbiter. But it should be directed at the Prophets, not at me."
"They'll get their turn." Cercil's kegels increased by ten fold.
"You see?" Leader spread his arms, leaning forwards. "We want the same thing, Arbiter. It is only a matter of perspective."
Cercil was surprised. "You want to cut your head off and shove it up your ass so you can literally eat shit and die?"
Hereticd Leader balked. "Do you think the Prophets will reward you for killing me? Do you think they will hasten your 'Great Journey?' No. No, the Great Journey is a lie. And the Prophets? The Prophets are the harbingers of a lie. They are false…" he twirled his wrist "prophets. False idols. And what's more, I think you know this in your heart.
"What's the Great Journey?" asked Cercil.
The heretic leader was shocked. He opened his mouth to say something, but a deadpan laugh came from Cercil's right. They turned to see legendary androgyne Kit Fisto wide awake, watching them with a sardonic expression on her face. "You're wasting your time, heretic," she said. "There's no way you'll get through to him."
"A little nap hasn't made your mouth hole any worse for ware, huh, Fisto?" snarled Cercil. He jerked his head at the hostile elites surrounding them. "Good thing, too. I bet it's been ages since any of these guys fucked something that wasn't each other. I hope you're ready to get raped into oblivion."
Fisto winced. She turned quickly to the heretic's leader. "If you want my opinion you should kill him now. Kill him and burn the body and throw the ashes into a star. Then blow up the star."
Heretic Leader looked between the two bickering very nice pleasant people. "I can see neither of you intend on having a real discussion. Very well." He gestured to Kestrel, who was still unconscious. "Then perhaps I should ask why you brought this young human boy here with you. And before you make another 'joke,' know that I do not tolerate lies. Sort of like the opposite of what the prophets do, where they lie to us all."
Cercil took in his words. "That was brilliant. You should take that shit to YouTube. You could watch Christian movies and make videos about them."
Heretic Leader snapped his fingers. Another heretic brought forth a bucket of water and poured it on Kestrel's head. She awoke gasping, her bosom heaving as she stared around at the hostile aliens surrounding her, then down at her own situation. "What the—what happened? What happened to us?" Kestrel's silver black eyes darted about in frightened bird likeness. "I was having a dream that I was going to high school! Like a…like a normal girl." She frowned. "And I was living on a cotton plantation for some reason."
Cercil laughed loudly. "Ha, ha, get a load of this nonsense."
"Is that you, Arbiter?" Kestrel looked over at him and Fisto. "Forerunners! You've been captured!"
"She's good," observed Fisto.
Leader darted forwards and gripped Kestrel by the chin, forcing her to look in his direction. "Stop talking to the idiots. I want to get a good look at you." He turned her every which way. "Yes, a human indeed. No mind control devices or signs of hypnosis. Do you work with these blind fools by your own consent, boy?"
Kestrel looked up at him in absolute defiance. "I AM NOT A BOY."
"Nor a good listener. But I suppose that is to be expected of a human gullible enough to work for the Covenant."
The girl blushed with indignation. "JUST BECAUSE I HAVE FAITH DOESN'T MEAN I'M STUPID!"
"Ah. I see I have my work cut out for me here." Heretic Leader noted the katana still strapped to her back. "And is this the signature weapon of the Super Secret Covenant Sisterhood of Rape Defense? Impressive. That is a prestigious school indeed. I had thought it was the Arbiter who had been dispatching my men with a sword, but now I think not."
Cercil spat. "Swords are for little girls. I use a needler."
"A real man's weapon," Fisto agreed.
"Yeah. It works best on cunts."
"Guys!" whined Kestrel. "Please!"
Heretic Leader rolled his eyes. "I fear I will not get anything useful out of this one unless her keepers are silenced." He flicked his wrist. "Vendrake, Camarilla—find something to gag them with. But leave the human her voice."
A large, muscular heretic elite wielding an energy sword sidled up to Heretic Leader. It was one of those who had kidnapped the group. "Master," he said in a rich baritone that spoke of spiders and cobwebs. "We have nothing with which to silence them. But for the silent darkness of the night."
"I told you not to call me master, Vendrake! Our is a brotherhood of equity, not mastery."
"My lord," said Vendrake, bowing his head theatrically. "I bow to your all consuming darkness. Master."
"Jesus Christ," said Heretic Leader. Vendrake did not voice his appreciation for Heretic Leader's brilliantly ironic and nihilistic use of Christian blasphemy—he would make several glowing remarks of it in his Death Note journal that night, to be sure. Heretic Leader rubbed at his eyes, which were un-rubbable because of his big goggles. It turned out that the goggles did actually do something in this case. "Look, forget it," he said to Vendrake. "There must be something around here we can shove in their mouths."
Cercil looked at Fisto. "I can think of a few things to shove in her mouth."
Fisto gave him a look that would probably be weaponized by the Covenant military in the near future.
"Something like," continued Cercil, "a bullet."
"There is nothing left with which to gag them, my lord," said Vendrake.
"Why not?" asked Heretic Leader. "Surely we must have some straps or belts or strips lying around here somewhere."
The other heretic henchman, Camarilla, approached with an obsequies bow. "My lord. I fear we used all of our leather straps and belts to create our armor. We did get the oracle's sentinels to fabricate more, but we used them all up again to bind these…" his lip curled in disgust as he looked at the prisoners "…these sheeple."
"Of course," said Heretic Leader, nodding solemnly at the completely overdone bondage of the prisoners.
Fisto took this conversation in with increasing dismay. "I'm not sure what's worse: these guys, or Half-Killer's guys."
Cercil frowned in mock confusion. "But aren't you one of Half-Killer's…guys?"
"Dear Secular God!" The Heretic Leader clasped his hands in front of him. "All I want is to have a polite, reasonable, secular discussion about the merits of faith based reasoning with your little human friend here. And your nonsense simply will not do." He held his hands out to either side and snapped his fingers. "Come," he said sharply. "Fill my hands."
Cercil's eyebrows rose. "This shit just got real."
But instead of gay, Camarilla produced two plasma grenades and placed them reverently in Heretic Leader's hands. There were crude skulls drawn onto the grenades.
Fisto's eyes widened as Heretic Leader approached. Fisto thrashed back and forth trying to avoid his hand as he shoved the grenade towards her face. She bit him on the hand, but his leathery armor protected him. The smooth surface of the grenade was impossible for an elite's disgusting squid mouth to keep out—soon enough Leader had the plasma bomb logged in her jaws, painfully locking them.
"Now," he said. "You'd best stay silent. Unless you want me to activate that grenade." The look that Fisto gave Heretic Leader then was in fact already weaponized by the Covenant; they stored it in lead containers on an abandoned planet inside a black hole.
"Wow," said Cercil into the silence. "I've heard of a ball gag, but this is ridi—*GARPHLLXX*" The Heretic Leader had just shoved a plasma grenade straight into his open mouth. Cercil gagged and sputtered for a moment before making several loud choking sounds and a sickening gulp, followed by heavy breathing.
Heretic Leader looked down at him in disbelief. "Did you just swallow a plasma grenade?"
"Yes," said Cercil. He grinned brazenly. "How do you like me know?"
"Even less."
If Fisto could have spoken, she would have chosen that moment to interject something about the Arbiter swallowing hot balls of plasma.
"Well, you don't seem to have triggered the bomb," mused Heretic Leader. "So I suppose we'll just have to try again."
"I'm game."
If Fisto could have spoken, she would have chosen that moment to say something snarky about the Arbiter being game for putting balls in his mouth.
"This time we will double the fun, so to speak." Heretic Leader was handed two plasma grenades, which he forced roughly into Cercil's mouth, almost as if they were bags of tea. Cercil gurgled and gagged and drooled but was unable to resist in any way this time. His mouth was completely stuffed with ball-shaped plasma grenades. Heretic Leader observed this for a moment, then took another grenade and shoved it into Cercil's mouth so that it stuck out half way. He patted the Arbiter on the head. "One more for good luck, my friend." Vendrake and Camarilla laughed.
Kestrel looked over at a purple faced, sweating Kit Fisto. "Are you okay? You're shaking." Tears of frustrated mirth were running down the sniper's face. But Kestrel didn't have a chance to continue her concern because Heretic Leader smacked her in the face. But not hard enough to damage her make up or actually hurt her.
"Do I have your attention now, human?" he asked.
Kestrel's eyes narrowed to black slits. "Yeah," she said in a very foreboding way.
"Good." Heretic Leader dragged another wicker chair, this one sans belts, up behind himself and sat down in front of her. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. The other heretics looked on in awe and excitement, eager to see their idol trample all over another sheep-person. Cercil and Fisto just glared at each other in absolute hatred.
"So," said Heretic Leader. "What's your name."
"Eat me," said Kestrel.
"Well, Eatme," said Heretic Leader, " tell me about yourself."
"No," said Kestrel.
"Okay," said Heretic Leader. "But just so you know, as soon as we're done talking I'm going to release the Flood to devour all of you alive."
Fisto screamed something through her grenade. Cercil screamed too, but who knew why.
"Uh," said Kestrel.
"So, tell me about yourself."
Kestrel flushed slightly. "Well...I was born a human."
"What?" Heretic Leader shook his head. "I mean, go on. I'm sorry, go on."
"I was born a human, on a human world. But my mother and father died from the Covenant. They were burned alive by the Covenant's ships as they glassed our planet. When the Covenant landed to salvage what remained of the ashes, one Covenant soldier named Half-Killer found me in the wreckage of my home as a baby swaddled in a heat resistant blanket. He took me back to his ship and had me inducted into the Covenant as the first human ever to be inducted into the Covenant."
"Interesting. And how do you know all this?"
Kestrel swallowed. "Well. Half-Killer told me."
Heretic Leader looked meaningfully at everyone else in the room, then motioned for her to continue. "Go on. Tell me how you came to believe in the Forerunners."
"Well, I...I always have," said Kestrel. "I mean, ever since I was a kid I went to Sunday school where we read the Prophet's scriptures and played with plasma—"
"Ah," said Heretic Leader. "The Prophet's scriptures. Tell me, how do you know that the Forerunners actually said those things when what you're reading was written by the Prophets?"
"I—" Kestre flushed again. "I don't—well, why would they lie?"
Heretic Leader looked meaningfully around at the other heretics. "Why, indeed?"
"Now wait a minute," said Kestrel heatedly. "The Forerunner's told us lots of good stuff! Like how the holy rings will guide us to salvation, and how we should all work together, and how fighting with honor is good, and how all the humans need to be killed—"
"'How all the humans need to be killed,'" said Heretic Leader with great emphasis. "Do you hear her, my friends? This is coming from a human. Her mind has been so warped by religion that she cannot even see how self contradictory her own beliefs are."
The heretics all clapped enthusiastically.
Kestrel stumbled over her words. "No—no, that's not what I mean. I mean, some humans are okay. Like me. I think…" For the first time, she looked doubtful. She looked desperately to the Arbiter for guidance, but he was having eye hate sex with Kit Fisto.
"There, there," said Heretic Leader condescendingly. "It is a lot to think about, isn't it, my lad."
Kestrel's eyes flared with dark power at his words and her head snapped towards him. "Oh. I SEE HOW IT IS."
"…you do?" asked Heretic Leader hopefully.
"Yeah!" She stomped both her feet, restrained as she was. "SO YOU THINK JUST BECAUSE I'M A HUMAN THAT I DON'T HAVE A GENDER, HUH? WELL SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN WITH OTHER GENDERS THAN WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE IN THEIR BODIES. MY WHOLE LIFE ALIENS HAVE BEEN LOOKING AT ME AND THEY DON'T SEE THAT I HAVE GENDER AND A SEXUAL IDENTITY AND THEY DON'T CARE. ALL THEY CARE ABOUT IS HOW GOOD I CAN KILL THINGS. WELL, GUESS WHAT. I'VE NEVER EVEN HAD A BOYFRIEND OR KISSED A BOY BECAUSE EVERY TIME I SEE ONE I HAVE TO KILL THEM! NOT THAT I'VE EVER ACTUALLY SEEN ANOTHER HUMAN BEFORE EXCEPT IN PICTURES, BUT IF I DID I WOULD I HAVE TO KILL THEM. AND ANYWAYS, ALL I'VE EVER BEEN TRAINED IN WAS HOW TO KILL RAPISTS OR JUST KILL IN GENERAL." Kestrel lurched forwards, tears streaming out of her eyes. "My life... is just like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I'll never be normal. I'll never have a place, no matter where I go. And I'll never be happy in love, either." She looked up with desperate, heart breaking sadness at Heretic Leader. "Doesn't everyone deserve to be in love?"
"I guess," said Heretic Leader.
Then he shrugged and turned away from her, clapping his hands one more time, leaving a panting and facially moist Kestrel to her own devices. "Okay, my brothers. Let's pack it up and head out." He pointed. "Vendrake, Camarilla—get set to blow the remote charges we set up on the Flood containment cells. I want this room flooded within the next few minutes." He turned back to the prisoners one more time as heretics flowed around him. His eyes danced over the Arbiter and Fisto and a sad smile played over his lips. "Well. It's a shame, really, Arbiter, that I couldn't talk you over to my side. When our friend Commander Darren" he put a hand coyly over his mouth "I'm sorry, 'Half-Killer,' when he comes to find out why you haven't cut the cables, I think he'll be rather surprised to find a drooling, necrotic monster where his Arbiter used to be."
Cercil raised his eyebrows.
"With tentacles, then," said Heretic Leader, obviously irritated that his gloating had been co-opted. "Anyways, bye now." He waved vaguely in Cercil's direction and then jogged off, activating his jet pack a moment later so that he was propelled up to a higher level of the room. Soon enough, the Arbiter and Kit Fisto were left alone in the dark room with nothing but Kestrel's quiet sobs.
"Phuaaaw," said Cercil, and a saliva covered ball dropped out of his mouth and rolled down his belt covered chest. He closed his eyes and began gargling and gurgling and gagging disgustingly, making noises that were not fit to be recorded. Like this: "GHRACKS. GORGLE. SHLEERP. ULG ULG ULG. GLUCK. YeeeKLSHLEEP. Schlep." One by one the plasma grenades disappeared into the back of his gullet, the only trace remaining being the faint spherical outlines that passed under the skin of his throat. After a few moments he opened his eyes. His mouth was completely empty.
The Arbiter looked over at Fisto and Kestrel, who were watching him in consternation. "Surprised? So am I. I never thought I'd be so good at swallowing ballistics."
"But how are you going to get out of the belts?" asked Kestrel, wiping her eyes.
"I don't know," said Cercil. He sighed. "I think….we need a miracle." He looked sidelong at her.
"…what?"
"Well? Aren't you going to pray to the Forerunners or something?"
She groaned. "Not you too! That was so embarrassing. He made a complete fool out of me. And before you say that isn't hard, well, it was hard for me, okay?"
"I'm hard." Cercil frowned. "Wait, no. Can't you use your hair to cut the belts or something?"
"My…hair? What, do you think I have magic hair?'
"Well, it is a pretty luxurious cascade of raven black ebony locks."
"Thanks. But I can't actually control it like a fourth limb. It's not like I have magic powers."
Cercil gave her a look of disgust. "No wonder Half-Killer is disappointed in you. You haven't even been trying."
Kestrel was obviously stung by his words. "How am I supposed to 'try' to use my hair like an arm? Tell me, Arbiter, how do I do that?"
"I don't know," snapped Cercil. "You're the one with the hair!"
"FINE!" screeched Kestrel. She screwed up her eyes for exaggerated effect. "Here, I'm making my hair move now! What's our next step, oh wise and brilliant sensei?"
Cercil rolled his eyes. "Obviously you should pull out that fruity sword of yours with your hair and then cut your belts off. And then cut off the belts they used to tie you up."
"Wow, not creepy at all." Kestrel made swishing sounds with her mouth. "There, all sliced up for you, Obi-Wan." She opened her eyes. "Now what's your next piece of sage—what the fuck?"
Kestrel looked down at a body free of all the restraining belts. Her hair, wrapped into a long braided tendril of black, deposited her sword carefully in her lap before her very eyes. All around her there were severed belts on the ground.
"Language, young Padawan," intoned Cercil.
At that moment there was a distant rumbling. Kestrel leapt immediately to her feet. "No time! That was probably the cell door Heretic Leader was talking about—the Flood are loose!" She raised her katana and leapt towards Kit Fisto, who let out a yell of surprise. In the next moment all the belts binding her to the chair fell away in scraps. For a moment Fisto was stunned. Then she got to her feet carefully and removed the plasma grenade from her mouth with equal tenderness. Once it was out, she threw it angrily off into the darkness where it clattered against the wall. Then she turned to the Arbiter and took a deep breath and…
"Balls you love balls in your mouth gargle two balls fit three balls in your mouth—"
"I'm still tied up," said Cercil.
Fisto held up a finger. "Fit two sets of balls in your mouth you swallowed four loads of balls." She took another deep, steadying breath. "…there. That was all the ones I could think up."
"And it was really funny," said the Arbiter faintly. "But in case you haven't noticed," he looked pointedly at Kestrel, "I'm still stuck in my chair."
Fisto and Kestrel looked at each other.
"No," said Kestrel to her. "Come on. I mean, he helped me discover my…" she frowned, still utterly perplexed "my magical hair powers."
Fisto nodded slowly. "He helped you so that you could free him. Sure, you're grateful to him now. But you'll regret it the moment you him loose. I know I did."
"You guys better not be talking about what I think you're talking about," said Cercil loudly.
"But…" Kestrel bit her lip, looking between them. "But we can't just leave him to die. That's sick."
"He'd do the same thing to us in a heartbeat," said Fisto harshly. "You know he would."
"You're just saying that because you hate him."
"No," said Fisto. "I hate him because what I'm saying is true. Think about it. How many times has he tried to kill you, or threatened to kill you?"
Kestrel closed her eyes. After moment she began to nod her head. "Okay. Fine, damn it. Let's just get out of here before the Flood comes."
Fisto patted her on the shoulder. "Good girl. Just keep walking." They started to move towards the nearest unlocked door. Cercil called out as they left.
"You know, I had a dream that was almost just like this! And you were in it, too! And you, also!"
They reached the door. Kestrel screwed up her face and kept walking. Fisto hopped jauntily through the doorway, whistling all the while. The Arbiter's shouts followed them.
"GUYS! Come on, guys! I know I said all that stuff about rape and everything, but it's just part of my anachronistic charm! Wait, guys, do you hear a squelching noise? Guys? Yeah, I think the squelching is definitely getting closer. Guys—"
The door slammed shut.
"Better lock this," said Fisto quickly. She pressed a few buttons on the panel and the lights switched from green to red. Kestrel turned away so that she wouldn't see what was happening through the view port. Fisto came up behind her.
"It's for the best," she said.
Kestrel shuddered. "I can't believe I just left someone to die to the Flood."
"Yeah," said Fisto. She looked around suspiciously at the hallway they were in, as if she were waiting for something. "Huh. It actually worked."
"What worked?" asked Kestrel.
Fisto leaned her head around a corner and looked every which way. "Nothing. Wait…" She looked around the hallway one more time, closed her eyes for a moment, waited, and then turned to Kestrel. "Say something."
"Like what?" asked Kestrel warily. "Fisto, what are you talking—"
Fisto shook her head quickly. "Say 'I can't believe it actually worked.'"
"What—"
"Say it."
Kestrel shrugged. "Fine. I can't believe it actually worked,'" she recited, then looked around expectantly. "Well? What?"
Fisto narrowed her eyes in thought. "Yes," she recited stiffly. "I am glad he is dead. Now we can finally—" she stopped.
"Why did you stop?" asked Kestrel.
"Wait for it," said Fisto. She held up a hand, then dropped it. Nothing happened.
"What's going on?" said a worried Kestrel into the silence.
"I know it's going to happen any second now," said Fisto tensely. "He's going to walk out from behind a corner and call me a cunt or something."
"Who," wondered Kestrel. "You mean the Arbiter? But—"
"It never sticks. He never stays dead."
Kestrel brightened. "If you're so worried about him we can always go back—"
"No," said Fisto. "You don't get it. Just be quiet for a moment."
The human girl huffed and crossed her arms, but she did as she was bid. A few tense minutes passed as Fisto paced back and forth, glaring suspiciously at the shadows around them. Then she stopped in the center of the room.
"Uh…" Kestrel looked nervously around. "You're making me nervous."
"I can't believe it," mumbled the Elite, almost to herself. She stared down at her hands. "I can't believe it. He's gone. I did it. He's really gone." She lifted her head, tears of joy streaming down her face. A real, actual, 100% genuine smile split her face. "I FINALLY DID IT!" She whirled, grabbing Kestrel by the shoulders. "HE'S FUCKING DEAD! I COULD KISS YOU RIGHT NOW I'M SO HAPPY!"
Kestrel blushed. "Wow, Fisto— you're really gay? I thought he was joking—"
Kit Fisto threw up her hands and began to dance around the room. "I'm gay! I'm not gay! What does it matter? Who cares? I don't care!"
"You're scaring me, Fisto."
Fisto lowered her arms. "I've never been better." She walked over and patted Kestrel on the shoulder. "Half-Killer's going to be proud of you, you know. Real proud."
"Really?" asked Kestrel.
"Yeah," said Fisto, giving her a gentle shake. "He might even—"
She stopped.
She stopped, and she turned slowly to face a large shadow in the corner of the room, all the color draining from her face, a cold sweat breaking out on her brow, her heart stuttering to a stop.
"What?" asked Kestrel.
"Nothing." Fisto shook herself, staring at the empty, shadowy corner. "Nothing. For a second there I thought that…" She stopped again, eyes darting from side to side. Nothing happened. Then she let out a sigh of relief and straightened up.
"Thank Christ. Okay, let's go."