House of Pragg
Setlick City
Cetlus Minor
─•~:~•─
"Please, whatever it is you're being paid for this madness, I'll triple it! Just stop this, I beg you!" Pragg screamed out in sheer terror.
Pragg was strapped to an ornate chair with platinum legs and a leather seat, stripped naked, and with melted tritanium wedges holding his wrists and ankles in place. Mor had left his jaw intact, and his mouth ungagged, but everything else was fair game.
Hitting the Ferengi wasn't satisfying enough. Shooting him with his disruptor wasn't an option, considering Mor had long ago ripped the crystal that controlled the stun setting from his weapon. And to his sadness, Salimov had neglected to bring a portable agonizer.
So, Mor fell back to the one tool that had never failed him in decades of killing across the galaxy, his dak'tahg.
Mor smiled at Pragg and licked the blood clean off his blade.
In a sinister tone he copied from Virnas, he whispered, "Delicious."
Mor turned around and smiled at the naked and bleeding Ferengi. Cutting was a highly effective method of extracting information when one lacked access to truth drugs, Borg Nano-probes, or a friendly telepath.
Traditionally, Mor would start from the legs, and work his way up until he reached the target's throat, deepening and lengthening each cut as he moved.
"Do you know what my favourite part of torturing Ferengi is, Pragg? The screaming. Your weak race creates a noise that sounds like the Klingon Opera to my ears." Mor said to his victim.
After killing the mindless Naussicans and cowardly Cardassians guarding the mansion's gate, Mor, Salimov and the Black Star Operators quickly breached the main house and discovered that for all the house's ornate and deadly defences, Pragg had no guards actually inside his home.
What he did have were four Orion slave girls that he was attempting to make love to in his bedroom – a room larger than Mark's office at Camp Nath – and a pile of Gold Pressed Latinum in an open safe.
When he breached into the room, Mor allowed the slave girls to leave and to take a bar each from the safe for their troubles. The rest of the fifty thousand bars would be distributed to Black Star.
There was only one thing Mor wanted today, and it wasn't money.
The huge Klingon walked closer to the tied-up Ferengi and waved his blade inches from Pragg's crinkled nose, "Tell me, Ferengi, do you know the opera called Khaless and the Warrior of the Storm?"
"By all the Latinum in the Divine Treasury, what in the deepest pit of the Vault of Eternal Destitution are you talking about?! I don't know anything about Klingon Operas!" Pragg screamed in tears, praying to his race's twisted and corrupt versions of Sto'VoKor and GretHoR in Mor's mind.
Mor shoved his blade into Pragg's knee and dragged the blade six inches up his thigh before pulling back again. The cut was only a quarter inch deep, but Mor knew that it had to hurt.
"You really should listen to it sometime! It is a grand tale of bravery and nobility, even if you don't hear it in the original Tlhingan as you should!" Mor said with a massive smile.
He cut Pragg's other knee and continued, "Khaless The Unforgettable journeyed to the city of QuiN'LaT. When he arrived, a great storm formed in the skies, and all the people fled from the fields to the safety of the city walls. All but one man, a nameless warrior from a forgotten house!"
Mor dragged the blade across Pragg's chest, threatening to stab his heart, "Khaless spoke to this Warrior and said to him 'What are you doing there, Warrior? The storm is coming! The winds will blow away anyone not behind these walls! Come inside and take drink with me and tell me the glories of your battles, Brave Warrior!"
Mor stood and held his blade high, as the nameless warrior had done in the Opera, "The Nameless Warrior turned to Khaless The Unforgettable and said, 'I am not afraid! I will not hide behind stone and mortar! I will stand before this storm, and command it to respect me!.' And Khaless, in his perfect grace, honoured this nameless Warrior and allowed him to stand before the coming storm, as deep and as black as the pits of GretHoR itself!"
Salimov, counting his bars and sipping on Saurian brandy, asked, "What happen to Storm Warrior, Boss Mor?"
Mor laughed, and slapped Salimov on his armoured shoulder, "The fool died where stood of course! The next morning, Khaless the Unforgettable opened the gates, and he saw that the Warrior of the Storm had the flesh from his body torn by the cold winds"
Salimov laughed in turn, "Storm Warrior was fucking idiot!"
Mor again smiled and sat down in front of Pragg, snapping open the blades of his dak'tahg in a sickening motion, "He was true. Do you know what the moral is of this grand opera, Pragg?"
Pragg could only shake his head in fear. Mor cuffed him across his large ear and screamed, "The fell winds do not respect a fool. And I am a very fell wind, Ferengi"
Mor stopped smiling and cut a piece of Pragg's left ear off. Pragg screamed in deep and painful terror until Mor seized him by the throat and screamed back, "15th Rule Of Acquisition; Dead Men close no deals! The deal is so. Give me the information I seek, and you may live to continue your pointless life!"
"I don't even know why you're here! Please, stop hurting me! I'll give you anything you want! There's ten times the amount of latinum in that safe in my personal accounts! It's all yours for the taking! Do you want the girls?! I'll have a hundred of them in your bed within the hour! You can have this house, my yacht outside, and my entire unit of guardsmen, just tell me what you want!" Pragg again screamed in terror.
Mor kicked his chair over, held his blade across Pragg's throat and screamed back, "I don't want your money! I don't want your whores! And I have no use for your house, your yacht, or your cowardly guardsmen that I killed just minutes ago!"
Opening his wrist-comm, Mor shoved the device, and the image of Eyos, into Pragg's face, "Where is she?!"
"Her?!" Pragg screamed back, "Nagus' Purse, what do you want with her?! She's some worthless street orphan-"
Mor had tried hard to keep his rage in check, but Pragg's comment, at last, broke his will. Seizing Pragg by his neck, he took his blade and sawed down on Pragg's ear as though he were cutting a piece of meat for his supper. A short – and painful – moment later, he ripped what was left of Ferengi cartilage and tissue, and Pragg's left ear was thrown to his ornate maple floor, and blood pooled thick and dark from the side of his head.
The ears were by far the most sensitive part of the Ferengi body. A working woman could earn a month's pay in a single hour by stroking such ears. The few Ferengi who were brave enough to call themselves Warriors used their sense of hearing in ways that rivalled even tracking dogs from Earth, able to pick up the slightest whisper from even a quarter of a mile away.
What Mor had done was more than simply hurt Pragg. He had taken his dignity.
Pragg screamed out in pain, of course. But in a shorter time than Mor thought, the bound Ferengi started sobbing, and he said in quieter words next, "Please...just...just kill me now. I can't live like this, with one lobe"
"You will die today, Pragg. Be assured as Khaless' Vengeance that you will die this day. But before you do, you will tell me where my daughter is!" Mor screamed into his one good ear.
"The Basement!" he screamed, "I was going to sell her-"
Mor didn't care about the details. With a surprising amount of mercy, he simply slit Pragg's throat and allowed the Ferengi to die quickly on his ornate maple floor. He then stood up and ran as quickly as he could through the house.
He arrived at the basement door and kicked the door off of its hinges. He charged down the stairs, weapons in hand, and found himself in a dark cellar.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but cried out anyway, "Eyos!"
Mor was a Klingon Warrior. His heart cried for battle, death, and glory. He had killed Romulans. He had killed Klingons. He had killed Cardassians. He had killed Humans. He had killed Kinshya. Mor had killed thousands of people, in countless battles all across the galaxy.
But his strength, and his will, faded into the darkness of the room, as a small voice replied to his cry, "F-father?"
Mor raced desperately to find a light switch anywhere. When he did, the lights revealed something grander to his eyes than all the barrels of Warnog in Sto'VoKor.
Eyos was seated in a cold metal chair. Her eyes, deep and green as the colour of the sea, were sad and yet full of strength. Her hair was longer now, her face more worn with age, and her ridges, not yet fully set in when Mor had last seen his daughter, were now deep and strong as his own.
She jumped to her feet and ran to his arms, just as she'd done all those long decades ago on Kronos. Mor dropped his weapons, and held his daughter in his arms tightly, never wanting to let go.
"Forgive me, Father. I was so frightened. I tried to be brave like you were, but-" Eyos cried deeply in Mor's arms.
"Hush child, It's alright. I'm here now. Everything will be fine" Mor said, quietly, comforting his child in a way he'd seen Humans do.
It may not have been tradition for a Klingon Warrior to comfort his children in such a way, but Mor cared little about tradition. And anyone who dared to question him would be drowned in a geyser of their own blood.
"How did you find me, father? I haven't seen another Klingon in so long" asked Eyos, as Mor released her from his arms.
"It's a long story, child. We can talk about it when we get home. Come, you must be hungry, and we'll have to get you some new clothes, and-" Mor wanted to continue, but a new thought entered his mind.
He raised the gauntlet on his shooting hand, gently undid the chain of the red jewel from his lacing, and turned with the jewel in hand, "This belongs to you, Eyos, Daughter of Mor"
Her eyes went wide, and she gently caressed the chain, "You, you kept this all this time? I never thought I'd see this again..."
As Eyos admired her long-lost treasure, Salimov came charging down the stairs and shouted at the Klingons, "Hey! Boss Mor! We have fucking problem here!"
Mor turned and shouted back, "What?!"
Salimov held up a small, and blood-soaked, iso-chip, "Pragg have sub-dermal transmitter, set to go off on death. Is transmitting now, he call in back up that is thirty minutes out"
Mor scoffed, "What, more of these worthless Naussicans and Cardassians? I'll kill them all myself!"
Salimov dared to shove Mor and continued screaming, "Put chip in wrist-comm. Is not fucking beard monsters or spoonie. Is fucking Klingons! Imperial 3rd Fleet or some shit!"
Mor put the chip into his slot, which analyzed the subspace transmission signature. He recognized the signal instantly. It was a response request transmitted to the 3rd Imperial Guard Fleet, a Klingon Fleet that served roughly the same purpose as Starfleet's own Home Fleet. The 3rd Imperial Guard Fleet was responsible for guarding the Home World and consisted of the most powerful and capable ships in possession of the KDF.
Their flagship was IKS Kor, and it was commanded by a member of the High Council that Mor should have killed decades ago.
Volkol, Son of Hegan. The man who had stolen Mor's lands, titles, and honour. The last remaining vestige of Gowron's incompetence. And as persistent a pest to Mor as the Kinshya Illuminated Faithful were to the Klingon Empire.
"I should have killed him when I had the chance" Mor sighed as he closed his wrist-comm.
He felt Eyos' hand on his arm, and looked as he saw her eyes fill with tears, "Father, what's happened? Are more men coming for me?"
Mor realized in disgust that Eyos' innocence had been taken from her all these years, to make money for the now-dead Ferengi in the bedroom above the basement. Pragg had already paid with his life for that disgrace, and Mor would make it his mission in life to track down every last person who had dared to lay a single finger on his daughter and make them suffer beyond even Fek'lar's darkest nightmares.
But he took the effort to reassure Eyos, "Men are indeed coming. But you have my word child, no one will ever touch you again for as long as I draw breath."
He turned next to Salimov, "Take her to the car and get her out of here. Once you're back at Elysium, call Mark at once and have him send a ship to collect-"
Mor's orders were interrupted by Eyos taking his dak'tahg from its place on his belt. She opened the blade, and held it with surprisingly practiced hands, while she spoke again with even more surprising strength, "No! I'm tired of running and being afraid. I'll fight beside you, Father, no matter what happens!"
Salimov returned a smile, "She is your daughter Boss Mor, I not want to fight her"
Mor shoved him back and began walking up the stairs, readying his disruptor. Eyos followed behind him closely and matched his movements as he cleared the immediate area around them. Her instincts were good, and with some training, Eyos would make an extremely effective Marine, one day.
It was all Mor could hope for in his daughter.
Looking around in the living room, Mor asked, "How soon will Volkol arrive here, and do we have any idea what he's bringing with him?"
With one hand on his QC earpiece to fact check his statements, Salimov replied, "Trackers at office say one ship, KIS Kor or some shit like that. One Negh'Var battleship. She have three hundred Klingon soldiers on board, and twelve shuttles plus beaming and weapons. We have more problem though, Boss Mor"
Salimov opened his wrist-comm and accessed a holo-display, showing just a single Black Star ECS Raptor above Cetlus Minor, "We only bring one shuttle with us and twelve guys. I get office to send fucking everything here, but Klingons come in twenty minutes. Our backup not get here for one hour. What you want us to do?"
Mor thought for a long moment. The old Klingon way was to die in glorious battle, no matter the odds. And the Old Ways had reduced the once mighty Empire to a collection of scattered colonies that could barely defend their own stars, much less wage conquest and terror upon their enemies.
With but a single action, The Federation, The Romulan Republic, and perhaps even the New Cardassian Union could, at a heavy cost to be sure, bring the Klingons to their knees and put an end to twenty thousand years of history and death in glorious battle.
Mor was a believer in the Klingon Marian Reform, as was Martok, and Noble Worf. Rather than die needlessly in glorious battle, a true Klingon Warrior should wait. He should study his enemy, look for an appropriate opportunity, and then kill his enemy only when the time was right. But there wouldn't be time here to retreat or study Mor's enemy.
He looked at the blade that his daughter was wielding. There was an inscription on the blade, ben qo' vIDameH mIw vISovchoHpu'.
In English, the words read, "I belong to the Warrior in whom the old ways have joined the new." With that inscription in mind, Mor planned.
"Most of this house's ridiculous defences are still intact. I say we put them to effective use. Let Volkol come and bring his mindless followers with him. We will give him his place beside Lady Death that he craves so dearly" Mor said as he pushed a switch to activate the mansion's battery of phase cannons.
Eyos spoke up next, and Mor fell in love with his daughter all over again, "QAPLA!"
