CDF Frigate Nauvis

Zonessian Orbit


The Cornerian sat nearly alone on the bridge, smoking his barely-lit pipe again. Only two technicians were manning their respective terminals; Comms and Sensors alongside the pilot. When he asked for a skeleton crew, he certainly got one; Out of the vessel's normal complement of over fifty men, only six were needed to properly staff the relatively small ship, provided they didn't get into a full-on fight. He didn't need to worry about that though, not with who he was planning on meeting.

One last ember of flame and his pipe was out. He considered refiling it again but decided it wouldn't present the best image on a video call. Grumbling, he shoved it away into his uniform.

"Ensign?"

The bobcat at the sensor readout turned his head. "Yes sir?"

"Anything on the scopes?"

"No sir, nothing's changed. Nothing but asteroids and prewar wreckage out here."

The Admiral grumbled, hand going for his pipe again before the cat yelled out, his terminal lighting up with an incoming contact.

"Scratch that, we've got an incoming warp signature… Projected to arrive about 300 kilometers off our nose. My… My system can't recognize it, sir, it's appearing as an unknown!"

"Ah, good."

"...Sir?"

"My contact. You don't know these people, they wouldn't use anything recognizable. I suggest you sit down and shut up."

"Right, yes sir."

The cat metaphorically sealed his lips, keeping his full attention on the screen in front of him. Due to the way FTL tech worked, a craft's subspace exit point could be detected by certain pieces of equipment before the vessel arrived, usually giving one side a few seconds of advance warning to prepare. Tactically, it always gave the defenders an advantage that could make all the difference, but assuming whoever was flying in would be more interested in talking rather than shooting; The meeting was prearranged, after all.

"Ten seconds, sir." The bobcat quietly mumbled, not getting anything back from his superior as he watched the viewport intensely. Roughly around the point where the Ensign had said, the light from distant stars began to bend, slowly becoming more and more stretched inwards to the point one could mistake it for a tiny black hole. Within an instant, the light returned to normal in a flash, replaced with a rather large spacecraft coasting directly towards them.

"I-it's on a direct course sir!"

"Evade, nose up 50 degrees! Hard burn!"

Responding quickly, the pilot sitting in front of the Admiral's chair pulled back hard on his control stick, shoving the throttle lever forward as far as it would allow. The entire craft pitched upwards with a roar of reaction control thrusters, followed by the main drive gulping down metric tons of liquid methane and spitting out an equally-great amount of thrust in only a few short seconds.

Forced back into his chair from the acceleration as the frigate was shunted forward, he felt himself almost black out from the rapid, combat-level maneuver. It was only when the primary thruster ceased did the world slowly return to him and allowed him to regain his composure.

"Uhg… Flip us around, full stop! And not so goddamn hard!"

Doing as he was told, the pilot pulled back on his stick again, performing a full rotation with the ship in order to use the main engine to slow down. The following burn wasn't comfortable by any means, but it certainly didn't have the adverse effect of knocking anyone out. Their frigate slowed to a stop relative to the other ship, having performed it's own burn. He glared at it in the distance, not recognizing the model or make. It was vaguely rectangular, with a distinct upper and lower hull split down the middle and flanked by massive engine pods on either side, all topped with a boxy command center and bridge.

"They're hailing us sir!"

Placing his hat back atop his head, the Admiral groaned as he felt a joint in his leg pop, finally nodding. "Go ahead, put those assholes on the line."

"Yes sir, putting you through now." The technician replied, a hint of uncertinaly in his voice.

Trying to make himself look as presentable as possible, the dog adjusted his hat once again, turning his attention to one of the overhead monitors above the main viewport. It flickered with static for a moment, finally displaying the video feed of another Lylatian.

-"Admiral Killian… I would like to apologize for our… Near-collision, just now."- The dark-furred feline rused, his tone not conveying care very well.

"It's-it's fine, yeah, not a problem." He had to be nice here, as much as it pained to do it. "I assume you've been informed why I'm asking for a favor, Weyland?"

-"I lack detail, but I have a basic understanding of what is occurring."-

"Well." Killian almost gulped, Weyland's eyes almost giving a piercing look. "Long story short, we might be over our heads on Macbeth. The CDF ignored rumors of an old PMC turning into a rebel group, and things got out of hand faster than I expected."

-"I see… A bit of an error in judgment, no? Sometimes, Admiral, I fully believe my organization should return to Lylat in force, the ACI have lurked in the shadows for what feels like millennia sometimes. You only survived the Aparoid incursion from the fruits of our labor, let alone the mad doctor's war."-

"Right, he's a damn zealot…" Killian cleared his throat. "That won't be necessary. That's why I'm hoping this favor I need to ask will set things straight."

Killian could hear the Rear Admiral sigh at the mention of a favor. -"Is that what this is all about? You need our help yet again with a tiny little insurrection?"-

"No." Killian growled, failing to keep his emotions completely in check. "I can deal with the brunt of their forces once we get a few things in check, but we're stuck in our current position until what I'm asking of you is done."

-"Get to the point. My time is limited."-

"Yeah, long story short, the rebels have a supplier. We're not sure who, but all of CSOC's attempts to get a mole in have failed. My first thoughts were one of the mining firms fighting a proxy war. But.."

-"But?"-

"Well, I don't know about you, but mining companies don't deal in exiotic weaponry, Weyland."

The cat's mood seemed to change, his face lightening up just a bit; It was clear he was no longer bored. -"Exiotic weaponry? Describe."-

"Think 'dissolve-a-gunship' exiotic. I'm sending you the debriefing from that night." A few button presses later, and the Rear Admiral had himself a copy, the cat intensely reading it for a minute or two.

-"I think I am now understanding why you came to us for assistance, Killian. My first thoughts on the matter are Venomian Remnants may be behind this. According to the date this report was written two weeks ago. Have there been any deployments of this weapon since?"-

"Few times, yes. We're down to just a few gunships to cover half a damn continent. Haven't bothered with any bottlenose fighters; there's been no reports they have anything in terms of air assets at least but knowing my luck that won't last."

-"Have they fielded anything besides this missile system described here?'-

"Well, apart from losing contact with our moles mere hours after establishing them, no. That might not even be related for all I know, but something tells me their 'benefactors' or whatever are part of that."

-"I see, I see."- Weyland slowly nodded, bringing a cup to his mouth and taking a sip. -"I'll see what I can do with my superiors, send me any amount of data you have on this group; Audio files, pictures, documents, anything and everything. Provided we are dealing with more Venomians I expect things to be messy, but otherwise routine."-

"What can I expect, if you send someone planetside?"

-"I will gather a fireteam, perhaps. I already have someone in mind who maintains a certain… grudge with the Veomians, his skills may prove useful if the op goes ahead."-

"Alright, alright." Killian replied, his voice lacking the strain from before. "Anything I need to do on my end? My assets are pretty damn limited but I could always split some units up if your fire-"

-"Apologizes, Admiral."- Wayland interjected. -"That won't be necessary, they will operate best alone. I suggest you keep your forces clear though; My men won't hesitate to keep this whole incident under-wraps, if you understand my meaning."-

"...Yeah. Right, I forget how your people operate sometimes."

-"It would be best not to, Admiral. And Killian?"-

"Yes?"

-"This is the last favor I will do for you, after this, you're on your own. Do I make myself clear?"-

He sighed, knowing that chances were he'd need help again eventually. It was only a matter of time. "Crystal, Weyland."

Without another word, the Rear Admiral cut the channel, leaving Killian to his own thoughts as Weyland's ship burned it's main engine again, hopping into subspace soon after and vanishing from all sensors.

"Goddamn spooks…" Killian pulled out his pipe, chewing on one end again. It wasn't lit, but it still acted well enough as a tiny placebo. Dealing with the ACI always made him uneasy, always feeling like he had a metaphorical pistol to the back of his head whenever even just talking with them.

"Sensors just picked up more outgoing FTL signatures, a total of four sir."

Killian sighed. "Figures he'd have backup nearby, case we tried anything funny… Just get us a course through Knox Station to Macbeth, I'd like to get the hell out of here."


Great Fox 2

FTL Corridor


Fox's boots clattered on the deck plating as he jogged along the hallway, making his own pace along the corridor to keep himself just ever so slightly in shape; Falco's pizza leftovers was what dominated most of the fridge space after constant orders of the stuff, even after the vulpine had 'lost' some of it earlier in the week. He could never understand how that bird could eat so much of the stuff and stay fit with practically no exercise, but it wasn't something Fox seemed to be able to do.

He passed by the doorway leading out into the hangar, spotting Slippy and Falco seemingly arguing over something. The toad looked like he was once hard at work installing the part he mentioned earlier before Falco bugged him, not looking too pleased.

"-gotta be kiddin' me, Slip! I push my 'wing hard enough as-is, and now you're tellin' me this thing's gonna draw even more power?"

"It's only a ten precent increase… Can't you work around that?"

"Oh sure! Yeah, it's not like I gotta run the afterburnas' half the time! Noooooo… Guess I'll eat the next damn missile then!" The bird threw his hands in the air, frustrated.

"...You shouldn't even be doing that in the first place."

Fox sighed, putting his jog on hold and stepping through the door. It wasn't long before Falco noticed him.

"Ey, Fox! What the hell is our resident grease monkey doing to my 'wing?"

"I-I told him I'm installing an aftermarket-"

"What?! You didn't say anything about aftermarket!"

"I did, Falco. I don't think you were listening." Slippy grumbled. The bird had done this before, with most of the ambphian's techno-garble flying over his head. Fox put his hand up, interjecting.

"Slip's right; He put together a new shield generator for you after yours burnt out. Yeah, I guess it's not really standard, but he's saying it's better at deflecting kinetic stuff than the old one was." The team's leader explained, hoping it'd get through to the pheasant.

"Ehhh...Guess it makes sense then, since you cut all the technical stuff out."

Slippy looked a bit offended, but otherwise kept his tone the same. Without another word, he returned to the rolling cart and slid himself under the Arwing's fuselage, mumbling something.

"Uh, sorry Slip'."

The mechanic mumbled a rather quiet "It's fine." in response, trying to forget the mishap with work. Falco turned to Fox, rubbing the back of his head to look busy. "Sorry bout' that… I uh, yeah, I'll get going." Without another word, the bird awkwardly dipped out of the room, probably off to the kitchen again to get more leftovers, the vulpine figured.

"You okay, Slippy?"

"Yeah…" The toad grumbled, sliding himself back out from under the fighter. "It's just Falco being Falco again, I've gotten pretty used to it."

Fox nodded. "Good. You want anything from the fridge? Was gonna get something to eat after Falco retreats to his cabin."

"Nah, I'm not hungry."

The team's leader shot the mechanic a nod, turning around and heading into the hallway again. He continued his walk down the spinal corridor, aiming to reach the nose of the weathered vessel. It'd all soon be paid off if everything went according to plan; It wouldn't fund a new ship, but finally paying off the debt that he thought would be forever stuck with would be a huge weight off the team's collective chest. Fox had little worry about Macbeth, provided their intel was still up-to-date; Pepper had been generally good about giving the team relevant information, no reason to doubt this'd be straightforward to him now.

Falco's behavior still itched his mind though; Fox could fault himself for not telling him about the upgrade earlier, but part of him knew Falco would've never accepted it if he'd been told beforehand. The hotheaded pilot's Arwing almost seemed sacred, only he was allowed to touch it, or something. Anything shoved inside or replaced always required his approval, being a 'performance' thing, Falco always said. Fox supposed he had a point though; anything changing unknowingly in terms of the fighter's flight characteristics could potentially get him killed.

After a few minutes of walking, Fox reached the doorway at the far end of the hallway, automatically sliding open as he approached and letting him step into the forward CIC. When the ship was still in military service, the room was used to coordinate fighter operations. Now though, it served as a secondary, if rarely used meeting room. Another coffee machine was here too, and that was usually the only reason Fox ever stopped by.

"Ah, Fox. Didn't expect to see you here." Peppy's voice snapped Fox out of his thoughts, spotting the hare sitting down on one of the two old lounge chairs in the corner of the room.

"Peppy?"

"Yeah, it's me alright. Wanted to talk with you." His mentor sounded almost annoyed as he gestured to the recliner next to him.

"...What about?" Fox was confused already, a little disappointed he was being bugged again.

"This damn mission of yours, Fox. I don't think you've realized what you've gotten us into."

The team's leader sighed, taking his seat; He'd heard all of this before, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time either. "Alright, shoot. What are you so worried about this time?"

"I won't lie to you; Ever since you accepted this contract from Pepper I can't help but have these… Horrible feelings about it. It all seems too good to be true, you know? Finally paying off the Great Fox's debt? Seems too easy, if you ask me."

"Peppy…" Fox replied, not really sharing his mentor's concern. "This is probably gonna be our only chance to pay that off; You know employers are drying up with the CDF trying to get involved in everything in-system."

"You've got a point, but I'd rather us rely on more simple, short-term jobs to pay the bills. Even if I didn't have a bad feeling about this whole damn thing it's still a giant time commitment; We're not the only outfit around either, even with Wolf and his delinquents still gone for now someone else is gonna be picking up jobs that we might need."

Fox couldn't deny the hare had a point. "I understand what you're saying… But, It's kinda too late for me to go back on this, I already promised Pepper I'd do this for him."

Peppy sighed himself, closing his eyes. "I figured as much. Well, it seems we're all railroaded into this mess… Are you really expecting this to go as smoothly as the General said it would? I don't think you know how rebels work Fox; They tend to surprise you with all the shit they pull. Well, the smart ones, anyways."

The team's leader didn't respond for a moment, taking in his mentor's advice; Peppy had experience with fighting the occasional uprising in the early days of Star Fox, but getting him to talk about it had always been difficult. Until now, he supposed. "...I guess I don't. We're pretty used to fighting standing armies, pirates, and… Well, robot bugs I guess. You'll need to fill me in, I think."

"Good, seems like I've finally gotten through to you. If we can't turn back, I might as well pass down some knowledge I should've a while ago…" A small smile made its way to the hare's lips as he set down his cup, folding his arms over and leaning back.

"Well, I'm all ears." Fox took a seat, now wishing he had a drink of his own. "You wouldn't know anything about this group in particular, would you? I read Pepper's report twice at least, but it wasn't much of a history lesson."

The hare took another sip. "Maybe a little. Took a few jobs from old prewar PMC's back when the team was just me and your father, not a lot stationed out of Macbeth though, all the work was from Fichina and out. One we're dealing with though? Yeah, nasty bunch, or at least they used to be."

"Guessing they had a name?"

"Memory ain't what it used to be, but their little acronym… MSEC, I think. Forgot what it stood for. Anywho, I remember an escort contract or two me and James picked up, they were never exactly forthcoming with information, got a lot of their hired pilots killed because of it too."

"They don't sound like the best people to work with." Fox commented. "Why'd you even work with a bunch of assholes like that?"

"Couldn't tell you, I'm afraid, it was James's idea. Though I always suspected their hefty paychecks had something to do with it."

The vulpine narrowed his eyes, thinking. "Doesn't sound like something my father would do, pep. He always tried to keep some sort of moral high ground with the jobs he took, and never told me anything about this."

His mentor shrugged, tone shifting to one with a bit of sorrow. "Neither of us liked to talk much about that year, but we'd be stuck there without those creds'. Wouldn't be able to pay for repairs, munitions, fuel…"

"I understand, but…" James always told Fox the heavy importance of morals while on a job, but if his father himself went against the lessons he preached, what else did he keep hidden from Fox? Whatever it was, Fox felt the question would be poking his mind for a while, now. "...Nevermind, I don't mean to prod anymore."

Peppy nodded. "Not a problem, Fox. There's still a lot James liked to keep buried- Er, well, uh anyways…"

"Right." Fox quickly changed the subject. "Anything I need to look out for with these guys? Any of the tactics they use well known, or something?"

"It's a mix, really. Every rebel group I've seen or heard of always has to rely on something slightly or widely different. MSEC's got their paws on some manufacturing stuff for basics though, so it'd explain their own uniforms and equipment in the General's report; They don't need to steal everything that isn't nailed down like most insurgencies, just the more advanced stuff. Things like fuel cells, guided munitions, that sorta' crap."

"Okay, none of us are really worried about small arms, though. Even without shields the wings' hull can take a few hits, long as nothing's aimed at the canopy."

"Fair you are, there." Peppy took another sip, looking at his cup. "Eh, needs more sugar. Anyways, no, it's not that I'm worried about either. It's those strange accounts of missiles is what's doing it. You read the whole thing, you know whatever they're using is horribly inconsistent. There's one instance of a good half-dozen things being fired without hitting anything, then another one that brought down a gunship before the pilot could even do anything. That is what I'm worried about, Fox."

"Pep, we've got countermeasures; Chaff, flares, even Slippy's got some sort of ECM system fitted. All the bases are covered, and I think anything guided is gonna have a pretty tough time getting anywhere near us."

His mentor didn't respond immediately, lightly swishing his teacup around in thought. "Yeah… Yeah, I suppose you're right. Not a whole lot they can throw at you up there anyways, long as you don't sit and hover in place for too long. Well, alright then… Still, keep your eyes up, will ya'? Something bout' all this ain't ever gonna' sit right with me."

Fox chuckled, giving a mock-salute in return with a smile. "Don't worry about us, pep', with all of us working together, I think we'll be fine."

Peppy nodded, grinning back. "Heh, okay, you're dismissed." He joked, standing up. "You wouldn't want some tea, would you?"

"Sure."


Weyland stepped into his private cabin, closing the door and locking it behind him; He'd rather not be bugged for this. Sitting down at his desk and powering up his personal terminal, the Admiral inputted his username and password. Normally, accessing any computer system connected to the ACI in practically any way required multiple levels of physical and digital security, but his own computer was free from such restrictions; This was one of his ships, after all.

Bringing up a program with the click of the mouse, it linked his computer directly to the output of the vessel's QEC; Designed for instantaneous long-distance, absolutely secure communications, the quantum entanglement communicator utilized entangled particles to facilitate interstellar data transfer and calls. Weyland didn't fully understand how the device worked, but he cared little for it's intricacies as long as the thing did it's job.

Typing in another password to establish the connection to the other end, the feline waited for his intended individual to respond; It could take hours sometimes, but unless his computer's clock was wrong the times should've lined up. Standing up to pick through his cabin's fridge, Weyland's computer emitted a small beep, followed by a voice.

-"Admiral?"-

The voice sounded rough, being host to a slight Fichinian accent. Still, Weyland could tell he'd caught him at a bad time from the sleep in the individual's voice.

"Ah, Captain." The cat sat down. "Good to see you are able to get back to me, I understand this might not be the best time."

-"You'd be correct. Yeah."-

"Regardless… I believe I may have a job of sorts for you."

There was a long pause before the voice on the other end responded, now sounding even more subtly irate. -"Fine. What do you want?"-

"I'll be sending you all related documents soon. I was just contacted directly by an Admiral Killian of the CDF. Provided what he has handed me is accurate, there is a bit of a situation starting to escalate on Macbeth."

-"So? They can't deal with it themselves?"-

"Under normal conditions? Perhaps. A defunct PMC seems to have reformed themselves into a full-blown rebel movement. They've been threatening the CDF's hold around major cities and spaceports, and have been gaining civilian support over the past few weeks."

-"How? I know the CDF's spread thin, but how the hell did they lose support from the civvies?"-

"Killian's reports were scarce on details, perhaps purposely, but they loosely describe a base commander taking over a civilian relay station. By force. I'm willing to bet there's more similar incidents."

-"So much for hearts and minds, I guess. Why are you bugging me about this though? Doesn't seem like something a more conventional force couldn't deal with."-

"I have reason to believe the rebels have a supplier."

-"Go on."-

Weyland chuckled, his suspicion proven correct. "Killian believes the remnant has their hands in this. At first, I agreed with his conclusion… However, his reports don't point to their usual behavior; Whoever is supplying them seems willing to provide them with exotic weaponry, of sorts. I understand the remnant's manufacturing ability is limited at best, and I don't suspect they'd be willing to donate such equipment so easily."

-"Maybe you've got a point. We don't know much, do we?"-

"I'm afraid not, no. Initially, I contacted you thinking we were dealing with the remnant. Realizing this might be something else entirely though…"

-"Your theory? Not a lot of groups in Lyalt that have that sorta tech. What sorta' exotics?"-

"...It was described as… Eating, a gunship. Some sort of missile."

-"Ain't Venomian."-

"Excuse me?" Weyland raised an eyebrow at his monitor. "What makes you so sure?"

-"Admiral, with all due respect… I've been dealing with Venomian shit for most of my goddamn life. If anyone knows how they operate, it's me. Ran into plenty of their weird-ass tech. Bioweapons, robots, you pull up anything you can think of, and chances are I've killed it one way or another. They've lost any ability to manufacture, let alone give away anything like that, mostly thanks to our work. This though? Nah, my money's on something new."-

"Well, if you're so sure, I recommend you prepare accordingly. Of course, you're not authorized-"

-"You still don't know how this works, do you?"-

"Well, then enlighten me. Captain?" Weyland spat, rather peeved at being cut off.

-"Let this set whatever record you keep straight, Admiral. I don't need anyone's 'authorization' to get the equipment I need. I don't need to, and don't anyways, get half my equipment through official channels. You just tell me what I need to do, and I get it done. Don't get in my way with this, a few have already tried. Didn't go so well for them. So, with all due respect, Weyland; Piss off."-

The cat clenched his fists, holding back a fair bit of anger. He'd forgotten about how the Captain usually operated, and had quickly been reminded how much of an effective, but annoying thorn he could be. "Fine, fine, so be it. I'll want a full report after you've established yourself on the surface, and we shall proceed from there."

-"Sure, I'll write a report, just not to you, though."-

With the line going dead, the feline slammed his balled hand into the table, wanting to simply scream out in frustration. Despite his position, the Captain didn't directly answer to him, and was probably only taking him up on the offer for his own reasons. Regardless of his methods, Sven would get it done, one way or another.

Standing up from his desk, the cat stepped out of his cabin, looking for another drink.


Macbeth

Somewhere in the forest


The dog's muddy boots kicked up the dirt of the forest floor as he ran, loosely following an old trail, probably meant for tourists before the war. Now though, it was the only path, and only hope he had back to anything resembling friendly lines with the information he had.

Hoping his partial rebel uniform wouldn't catch the eye of a sniper on their nightshift, the Cornerian kept running down the trail as fast as his aching legs would carry him forward. Hearing the distant crack-boom of a ballistic rifle going off behind him, he instictivly ducked. It was more of a fall directly on his face rather than a controlled movement, but it did the job of making his profile smaller among the forest floor.

A hypersonic slug slammed into the tree directly ahead of him right where his head had been a moment ago, pulverising the wood and sending a shower of woodchips everywhere as it bored through the thick plant, exiting out the other end and doing the same thing to whatever was behind it. Following behind the round, a small shockwave created by the projectile breaking the sound barrier washed overhead.

"Shit…" He panted, not daring to get up. Instead, the dog started to crawl, hoping the thick bushes that dotted the forest floor would keep him concealed. Whoever was on the other end of the gun seemed to hold their fire, letting the lone Cornerian find a particularly thick tree to hide behind. He had no doubt it wouldn't save him from another slug, but he held out hope the sniper would think their last shot had downed him.

Another incoming slug answered his question, splitting a thinner tree nearby in half that could've also hidden him enough. Splinters peppered his exposed head as he covered his eyes with a sleeve, wincing as one almost buried itself in his ear. Rolling over the ground again, the shockwave passed over his position. It was stronger now, significantly so; Whoever was operating the rifle had gotten closer.

"But why?" He pondered, starting to crawl again, looking for another tree in the dark. Why would someone give up such a massive advantage to get closer? A shiver went up his spine as he leaned his head around the tree, hoping to spot anything, or anyone approaching so he could know which direction to run. His eyes picked up nothing in the dark, and another shot wasn't sent his way. Thinking he might have a small opportunity, the Cornerian got up and ran.

At first, it seemed like he might be gaining some distance away from whoever was after him, but a glowing, cyan light made itself known along the treeline, getting closer. Having spent his only chance to look back without tripping on something, the dog ran faster, knees starting to burn with every foot he put forward. Everything in his body told him to stop, to rest, or at least slow down. He knew very well what would happen if he did, and the thought of a warm meal and shower was enough to keep him going for now.

The forest started to clear the further he got, with the lights of the distant outpost he'd been running to finally being visible on top of a nearby hill. Whatever was chasing him wouldn't dare get within the premier, he hoped, for fear of running into an hidden antipersonnel mine or turret. It was still a few minutes away though, at least, and he hadn't dared-

A blinding flash of light came from behind, followed by the blazing heat of a passing high-energy projectile coming within a few feet of his head. Any closer at it might've burned him through sheer radiant energy alone, but his body wasn't its intended target. Instead, the blinding ball of energy slammed into a tree ahead of him, sending a shower of burning embers and heat in every direction. The impact alone was enough to stumble him, sanding him square on his face and into the mud.

Blinded, wet, and ears intensely ringing, the Cornerian struggled to pull himself up. It felt like it took forever on his end, but it wasn't long before he was rubbing a sloppy cake of mud from his face, panting after getting the wind knocked out of his chest.

"You'll only die tired." A voice from behind him spoke, feeling a sharp impact on his back forcing him back into the mud. He didn't recognize who it belonged to, but after being forcefully rolled onto his back he spotted them; A freakishly tall armored figure, planting a clawed boot atop his chest.

"Odd." It spoke, fully enclosed and angular helmet hiding any facial features. It's slender, curved frame of a body said more than it's, or perhaps more appropriately, her voice did.

"Usually people like you don't get this far." She continued, holstering a massive pistol-shaped object, it's muzzle still glowing in the dark from the presumably recent shot.

"Who- Who are you?" The dog spat, coughing up more mud in the process. "You're… Shit, y-you're one of them, aren't you? The benefactors that your stupid wannabe…" The figure seemed to chuckle as he spat out more, trying to catch his breath still. His entire body was cold now, even more so than before. "...Venomian of yours kept rambling about. He's-He's not great at keeping his mouth shut-"

The figure planted her foot directly into his mouth, pressing his entire head into the mud with a splash. "Perhaps not." She agreed, vocoded voice and glowing visor being the only thing he had to look back at. "The amount of moles you continue to send is getting frustratingly annoying. But I get the feeling you'll get the message, though, one way or another. Besides. I didn't kill you, you just tripped and drowned, didn't you?"

Only responding with wet gargles of mud, he was forced down into the mud further with little effort on her end, regardless of how much he failed his arms around. Only letting off the pressure after the Cornerian stopped moving entirely. Satisfied, she crouched down, feeling around the dog's ruined chest rig with massive, clawed hands.

"Ah, there you are." She mused, yanking out a small data drive he'd been carrying. It wouldn't be finding itself in the lap of any Cornerian officer now, not after she'd crushed it beneath a boot and a nearby rock, scattering the fragments into the mud around the body. It wasn't her cleanest kill, but now oddly satisfied again the armored being took her own glance at the outpost, perhaps thinking about something regarding it. The mole had gotten close, and if it wasn't for the rifle she'd left under the operation of the team following behind, the Cornerian might've made it.

"Tiring." She muttered to herself, looking away and strolling off into the woods.


A/N: Sorry for the shorter chapter length this time, but it should be the last of the ones for the setup. Five should have a bit more action if the plan I have allows me to fit it into a single one. I've ditched the legend for the different types of speech too; Figured I really didn't need to include it in every chapter. Also figured out why I sat on the last chapter for so long, shouldn't happen again though.