The Bandit's Club

Detroit, Michigan

Earth


─•~:~•─


Another war was due to be fought.

It would be another chance for Colonel Mor, Son of Klotz, Slayer of Romulans, Slayer of Kinshya and commander of 3 Assault Brigade, to add to his legend.

And another opportunity to earn his path to Sto'VoKor with a river of blood.

As he drank his Warnog, Shraren Th'zhorrer, the owner of the club, slid him another and asked, "Shouldn't you be busy right now? After that explosion, I'd figure the Pink Skin Marines would be up to their arses in it by now."

"The best thing about being me is that my minions do everything themselves!" Mor explained proudly, "I merely had to tell my Grizzly Bears what equipment to load onto which ship, and that was all that was needed. Something we Klingons should learn."

The Andorian barkeep slid him another glass and pointed at the book beside Mor, "Add that to your reform you keep talking about."

Mor held up the indicated book, "Did you know about this human, Shra? I would swear that Gaius Marius was a Klingon himself! The parallels between the Klingon and Roman Empires simply cannot be ignored!"

Mor flipped the pages until he found the desired section, "Much like we have done, Marius' Empire had stretched itself too thin, losing men and resources for little actual gain. So he declared, much as Martok and I have done, that the Empire should do away with the hordes of barely trained citizen-soldiers."

"We should instead create a smaller and more mobile core of highly trained professional volunteers, who will be the deadliest men or women on any battlefield!" Mor shouted, as though Shraren was the High Council.

"Klingons being logical. Never thought I'd see it," Shraren replied.

"Even a Warrior must give way to practicality, Andorian," Mor replied, "We simply lack the strength to wage wars of annihilation as we did in the past. Though it pains me to admit, the old ways of honour mean nothing any longer. The Jem Hadar taught us a bitter lesson, Andorian. We must change with the times, or we will find ourselves being left for dead."

"What does Martok think about all this?" Shraren asked.

Mor sighed, "The Chancellor is no longer a young man. The blade of an enemy or the blade of time will soon claim his life. Drex has proven to be disappointing as a son, and the blade of time has claimed Lady Siriella's ability to bear him more sons. Worf and Kurn could carry on the House of Martok, but the sons of Mogh have both refused the Chancellery once before, and I would wager they will not take a second chance."

"Martok has little choice. The Klingon-Marian Reform must be completed, or our race will be destroyed," Mor finished.

"What about you?" Shraren asked as he pointed to Mor's new emblem, "Don't you have a house now?"

Mor stared at the emblem of the newly enshrined House of Mor. A Grizzly and Sabre Bear, each holding broken weapons in their mouths, black on a field of red blood.

"I suppose I could. But I don't care about politics. I have one skill, Shra, and I perform that skill better than anyone else. No one can kill Romulans as I can!"

As the thoughts swirled around his mind, a man sat next to him in the largely empty bar.

It was before opening hours, though the owner Shraren feared Mor enough that he let the Klingon Colonel come in and drink whenever he wanted.

The man was human, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven.

He had blue hair, which Mor found ridiculous.

But what set Mor's mind from laughing instead of conflict was the man's uniform.

It was jet black and formless, not unlike the uniforms of the still unidentified assailants that had kidnapped him two years ago for Rain Kaimeao's trial and later died in horrible pain at his hands.

The man wasn't openly carrying a weapon, and thus Mor was not allowed to kill him outright.

He knocked back the last of his Warnog and decided to let him speak first, before Mor ripped his tongue out, anyway.

"Afternoon Colonel. Have to say, I figured you'd be too busy to sit in a shithole like this and drink your sorrows away," said the Blue Haired man with a sarcastic tone.

"Mind yourself, Human," Mor cautioned, "I have killed better men for worse insults."

The Blue-Haired Man laughed in the Klingon's face, "Oh man, that's fucking rich. I should have shot you the moment I walked into this bar. You killed a very good friend of mine named Sarah, and if it wasn't-"

He would never finish his threat.

Mor stood and seized the weak human by his collar.

He slammed the man hard onto the floor and dropped a heavy knee into his chest, feeling satisfaction at the sound of his solar plexus snapping.

Mor then drew his disruptor and rested the barrel inches from his face, "So, you're another one of these mysterious rats that have been hounding me since Tranbir Nine! I've had enough games for a lifetime. Speak your name and the name of your organization, and your death will be quick. Lie to me, and you may die in as much pain as your pathetic whore Sarah did!"

The man tried to struggle under Mor's immense strength, and for his troubles was greeted by the butt-end of Mor's disruptor.

As his nose shattered into a million pieces on the inside of his face, Mor again screamed at him, "Your time is wasting away, Human. I would think more of killing a baby bear than killing you. Ten seconds, or prepare to meet Lady Death!"

Through a great deal of pain, the man barely managed to squeak out, "Your daughter's alive…"

It was enough to make Mor stop for just a moment.

Rarely did he ever hesitate in a moment where death was called for.

But for this instance, he stopped.

His daughter's body had never been found.

So, there was a small possibility she was alive.

"You lie," He growled.

He allowed his knee to press further into the blue-haired man's chest, removing any possibility of being able to repair his shattered solar plexus.

Painfully, and slowly, the man said "L-left pocket…" trying desperately to point at his left pants pocket.

Mor saved him the effort by breaking his wrist, and then examined the man's pocket to see what he was so insistent about.

He retrieved a small isolinear chip and stood up, putting his heavy foot over the man's shattered chest.

Mor inserted the chip into the slot on his wrist-comm, and a vid file began to play.

The display was fuzzy at first, but it quickly cleared up.

And for the first time in many decades, Mor felt the feeling of shock.

Eyos, Daughter of Mor, had been twelve human years of age by Mor's reckoning when she was taken from his home, that long night so long ago when the High Council made a mockery of his honour by discommendation.

When at last he left the bickering politicians and returned home endless hours later, she was nowhere to be found, and his loyal housemaid lay dead at his feet, weapon still in her hands. Mor spent a week searching the city for any trace of Eyos, but to no avail.

It wasn't until that red jewel arrived that Mor knew – until now – that she was dead.

The girl looked older now, eighteen or twenty by his eyes. Her eyes, deep green as the colour of the sea, were the only thing familiar to him.

Everything else about her had changed over all these years.

She spoke, solemnly, to an unseen person behind the viewer, "Where is my father?"

The recording stopped suddenly. Mor restarted it, and the same image appeared again.

Eyos, sitting alone in a dark room, her deep green eyes filled with strength and sorrow in equal measure, asking that same unseen person, "Where is my father?"

Over and over again, for at least ten minutes, Mor played the recording again. And each time, it was only the same question that played.

"Where is my father?"

A small part of the old warrior's heart had felt joy. His beloved daughter still drew breath, and soon – Khaless willing – they would be together again.

But the larger part of Mor's heart was enraged.

He hauled the blue-haired man to his feet, and with vicious force slammed his head against the bar.

Mor heard the man's jaw break, but that wasn't good enough.

He slammed the handful of blue hair against the bar again, shattering his orbital bone.

Once again, this time with an all but certain skull fracture.

And once more, not aiming to break anything, but just so that Mor could feel better.

He hauled what was left of the man's face to his and screamed, "Where is she?!"

The man failed to respond, and Mor again slammed his face into the bar.

This time, his nose clearly parted from his face and spewed blood across the bar.

Mor knew he wouldn't die from these injuries, but this man would never forget the pain that Mor had put him through until the day he died, which could very well be today.

Finally, the blue-haired man dared to speak, and did so painfully and slowly, "C-cetlus Minor. Sh-"

Mor cut him off, not caring about the details.

Holding the man's throat with his left hand, Mor's right hand drew his dak'tahg and stabbed hard into his stomach.

He pulled upwards with tremendous strength and nearly cleaved the blue-haired human in two pieces.

Assuming the Andorian barkeep – who had fled to his office and locked all five doors the very second Mor had risen to his feet – was able to call Fed-Sec in time, the man might live. But Mor didn't care.

And even though he still had his duty as a Marine and was supposed to report to Camp Nath that evening, Mor didn't care.

The war could wait.

Eyos needed him.