Good day to you people, its good to see you all again. Rather nervous about this chapter (jeez, what an earth-shattering bit of news that is). This chapter marks what will hopefully be a three part "mini-series" if you will, about some of my take on Torn's past, staring with a brief introduction of him and his squad buddies, one of whom will likely be very familiar to you people (dear God, I know I'm gonna get lynched for this).
Anyway, my own fears of impending doom aside, to those of you kind enough to review:
Xeno-Freak- I'm glad that you enjoyed the chapter, I was more than a little worried about how that would go over (laughs nervously). As far as D.J. is concerned, I'm really not sure if the Dark Eco will effect his personality at all, though I have an idea of what to base it off of, and I'm fairly certain that it hasn't been done yet. As far as the whole flight deal...weeeeeellllll...we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Thanks again.
Light-Eco-Sage- Yes, the movie ruled, and Anakin kicked so much rear...right up until he got overconfident and screwed up royally...oh well...lesson to be learned. As for Keira and her own back story, I'm still trying to pin down some more precise details, so it'll come along a little later, once Jak has stopped being an idiot.
Farr2rich- Don't worry about those two, rest assured, they'll patch things up soon, I wouldn't dream of just leaving things like that. Jak will fill you in more on why he did that, though most will probably think he's being a bit of a blockhead. At any rate, I checked out your story, and you're doing pretty good, and I hope you've found my would be advice useful. At any rate, hope you like this chapter too.
Lunatic Pandoar1- Don't worry about Jak and Keira, this story will adhere to the rules of all fantasy and video games, namely in this case, that the good guys win and everyone goes home happy, so to speak. About our favorite inner demon, the reason he seems so...angry, when he makes an appearance is that he's always showing up when things get shot to hell, so the only side we see is the amped up super warrior that count chrome dome and his right hand psycho were trying to create. Now that he's learning how to talk, I'll try to show the other side that I've always thought was there. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.
GoodMorningBeautiful2005- Glad you liked it, may this one be just as enjoyable.
ChibiSess- Lol, can't say that my computer's ever done that to me, probably because it knows better (shoots it a look). As for Jak explaining himself, I meant why he gave Keira the cold shoulder, so to speak. Also, yes, D.J. is learning how to communicate, though I'll go ahead and tell you that the others won't hear him talk until after he undergoes his metamorphosis. Hopefully, that'll add a touch of surrealism and suspense to that partiuclar moment.
Paska- (taps into telekinetic powers, grabs the freezer, and then proceeds to chuck it at younger brother, laughing fiendishly the whole time). Sorry, little bro messed something of mine up this week, and did a few more things that generally managed to piss me off. Yeah, I know Jak was being a bit clichéd, hopefully that didn't ruin the entire chapter, and the same goes for this one. About the Metal Heads. Well, in the case of the Cloakers, my first impression upon seeing those guys was: "Okay, yet another rip-off of the Predators", so I figured I'd go ahead and finish what ND started by giving them shoulder cannons, blades, and a micro-nuke strapped to their wrists. As for the Crab Head, well, the gold armor was actually an idea that I got from Halo, with the gold armored Elites. Yeah, it does make them stand out, but their armor's a much stronger, though it obviously didn't help much against a slug going twenty times the speed of sound.
DarkStarPhoenix- Once again, I'll be the first one to admit that there are authors out here wayyyyyy better than me. About Jak in the last chapter, he'll explain why he did what he did, and don't worry about him losing the ability to fight with his bare hands, as this chapter should give you a clue regarding that. Also, once D.J. final gets around to evolving, his fighting styles going to be, extremely, unorthodox, and he'll have a few moves that will actually be inspired by the way in which General Grievous fought in the first season of Star Wars: Clone Wars (the way he should have been in the movie, as in the cartoon he was taking on five Jedi at once and giving them their rear-ends on a silver platter). Also, thanks for including your email, did I manage to do it right this time?
Exardas- Actually, believe it or not, Vergil and Dante are two of the biggest influences on this story, and I'm toying with the idea of bringing in some influence form another grey haired blade master, though this one will be from FF7. Thanks again for your support, and I hope you continue to enjoy what I turn out.
Shakai- Yep, those two will be talking in few chapters (D.J. needs to expand his vocabulary first). Also, yes, Jak and Keira will patch things up later, don't worry. Though I feel inclined to say that Keira has had her own trials and tribulations while she was running around by herself in the slums. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
daxtet the otsel- Thanks for the advice, once again you have helped to steer me in a direction that's worked out quite well. As for our favorite Dark Channeler and Techno-wiz, don't worry, I wouldn't dream of trying to mess that relationship up. Regrettably, I've never actually played the first game, though I have been able to get a fairly decent amount of back story about it. However, if you still haven't been able to find what you're looking for, head to and look there, they've probably got what it is you're looking for.
To those of you who did read, but did not review, I hope you found this worth your time and effort.
To any and all lawyers looking for a frivolous lawsuit: I hereby swear that I do not own Jak and Daxter, Devil May Cry, Halo, Star Wars: Republic Commando, Final Fantasy, Ninja Gaiden, or anything else that has had an influence upon this story and the characters within.
Word of warning, this is another chapter that goes over a heap of techno mumbo jumbo, so I apologize in advance if I bore anyone to sleep.
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A Delta's Honor, Part One: Gearing Up
The trees blurred past, but he barely registered where they were, relying on his sub-consciousness to guide him safely through the forest. The world could have ended then and there, and he would not have noticed, nor would he have particularly cared, so wracked with grief was he. That last sight he had seen of Keira, of her on her knees, sobbing, tore at him from the inside, and the pleading look in her eyes haunted his mind, refusing to leave it.
The creature within him remained silent, trying to fathom what had just occurred. The way in which its host had thought of the other elf, the way his thoughts drifted to her, had left it with little doubt as to what she was. But now, now it was utterly clueless. Quietly, it probed deeper into its hosts memories, sifting through them, a strange curiosity driving it onward, demanding to know what the dark elf had turned his back on something so dear to him.
Jak was completely oblivious to its actions, so shut out was he. In fact, it wasn't until a good fifteen minutes later that he was finally yanked back to reality by, as fate would have it, none other than Daxter. The Ottsel had been stunned speechless, utterly unable to comprehend, and refusing to believe what he had just seen. He had seen the love that Jak had Keira had shared for each other during the time they had spent together growing up. And despite the fact that he had made it something of a hobby to try and interrupt their 'moments' together, he had felt so certain that the two of them we're going to wind up having one of those story book type romances, despite the fact that Jak hadn't been able to talk.
So what in the Precursor's name had just happened?
It was something Daxter intended to find out.
"Alright," he yelled, thumping Jak on the shoulder to get his attention, "stop the bike, stop the bike!"
"What is, Dax?" Jak inquired as he complied with his friend's wishes, his voice somber and broken.
"What do you think?" the former elf inquired, moving around to where he was on the handlebars of speeder and waving his arms wildly, "What the hell was that back there?"
"I don't want to talk about it." the dark elf responded bitterly, his head down low, and at last, Daxter saw the wet trail left by that single tear that he had shed.
This stunned him again momentarily, as he had never seen Jak cry before, not even that time when he had stumbled into that wump-bee nest and wound up looking like someone had imprinted brail writing onto his skin. However, for once, he was quick to return his mind to the subject at hand.
"Na-Uh, you aren't getting out this that easily." the Ottsel growled. "Jeez, Jak, the girl of your dreams was about to spill her heart to you, again, and you just turned your back on her! Come on, you're supposed to be the smarter of the two of us!" he said, exasperated.
"Daxter, think about it." Jak said, sighing bitterly. "Both Praxis and Errol are gunning for me, especially since they've seen me in action now. They want me back in their labs, and they're going to try to make that happen through any means necessary, even if that means bringing those around me into the crosshairs." He looked up, staring his Ottsel friend in the eyes. "I'm not going to put her in danger like that, I'm not going to risk her getting hurt because of me."
"Do you have any idea how moronic you are being?" Daxter shot back. The Ottsel could hardly believe the situation, Jak had left Keira in tears back at the clearing, and here he was trying to play the relationship doctor. "You don't think she'd be willing to risk that for you, and besides, you saw it, she can take care of herself."
"There's another thing, Dax." the dark elf replied, "how much longer do you think I can keep doing what I've been doing?"
"Eh?" was Daxter's reply.
"Think about it, buddy, ever since we got here, I've cheated death more times than any one person has a right too. Sooner or later, my luck's going to run out, and I'm going to slip up, make a mistake, and find myself on a one way trip to the hereafter." The former Channeler responded quietly. "I saw how much pain that our disappearance put Keira through, I could see it in her eyes. When the time finally comes when I get sent out and I don't come back, I don't want to hurt her like that again."
Daxter could not believe his ears, and found himself torn between wanting to try shouting again to get his point across to his friend, or simply opting to slap some sense back into him. In the end, though, he chose to do neither of them, opting instead to simply mutter under his breath, and once more hop onto his familiar perch.
Their arrival back at base had been a strange one. They had met the Shadow, only to discover that they had been slaving away to meet none other than "old log-in-the-head, Grandpa Green," as Daxter had put it. However, Samos had not remembered them in the slightest, which had resulted in a rather…awkward conversation. Once that had been accomplished, and all parties involved were thoroughly and hopelessly confused, the Sage, who looked as if he had gotten a good decade and a half shaved off of his age, had gotten a rather urgent call on his comm., and had left rather hastily, leaving Alex for Torn to look after. Daxter had also gone off on his own, saying that he needed to be alone.
"So, you managed to wipe out the patrols?" Torn inquired, crossing his arms.
"Down to the last snarling Grunt." Jak muttered, and the Ex-Delta standing across from him instantly cocked an eyebrow.
"What went wrong?" he asked, eyeing the dark elf suspiciously.
Jak's initial response was a glare in his direction, but then, for some unknown reason, perhaps as simple as just wanting to share where he was coming from, began to explain what had happened, from start to finish, with a few obvious fabrications to prevent it from sounding like he needed to be hauled off in a strait jacket. Needless to say, once he had finished, Torn was very much surprised. He had no idea that the Underground's arguably best, if somewhat unpredictable soldier, and the undercover tech-head had known each other in childhood. He also didn't miss the pain in the dark elf's eyes as he spoke of what had occurred after the battle. After all, the hardened commander could relate, as he couldn't forget the position that Errol had forced him into. It was a decision that he still hadn't made yet, but with a growing sense of doom, knew what he was leaning towards.
For some time no words were exchanged between the two. At last, Torn let out a bitter chuckle.
"So, you're getting it too?" he asked.
"Pardon?" Jak responded, a little confused.
"They say that soldiers, after they've been fighting for a while, start to get a sixth sense, something that warns them when danger is approaching." Torn explained. "They also say that it grows to a point to where they know when their time is about up, if you know what I mean."
"You seem rather knowledgeable about all of this." the dark elf growled, trying to once again suppress the memories of a certain green haired female.
"Don't think you're the only one to ever get that feeling, Jak." the tattooed ex-Delta shot back.
"You seem to still be breathing to me." the underground soldier said, a smirk plastered on his visage.
"What would you know!" Torn snarled, shooting him a look that would have knocked a Hellcat from the sky. "I've survived through nothing more than sheer, dumb, luck!"
Jak remained silent, stunned by the sudden change that had come over Torn. The snarl remained on the commander's face until, surprisingly enough, a certain six year old mute came over and started to hug his around the leg. Instantly, Torn's mood did an about face, and he calmed down considerably.
"What is it with you and him?" the former Channeler inquired, cocking an eyebrow.
"Never really been able to figure that one out myself." Torn said, his voice barely above a whisper. "By everything I can figure, he should hate me, after all, I'm the reason that he's in this position. Hell," he continued, his voice bitter "everything that's been happening since the Baron took over is my fault."
"How so?" Jak asked, puzzled to say the least, but grateful fro something to take his mind off of Keira.
Torn remained silent, his face unreadable. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he spoke.
"I don't even know why I'm going to tell you this." he muttered, before looking Jak directly in the eyes. "Guess I might as well start from the beginning of my career. To give you the first decade and a half of my life in a nutshell, let's just say that I was an orphan who decided to lie about his age and join the military." he began, and Jak could tell that he did not want him prying any further back than the start of said career. "You said that you weren't from around here?" he inquired, getting an affirmative nod from the dark elf. "Well, then you need to know that the Krimzon Guard isn't a new thing. That's always been the name of Haven's rank and file military, supposed to be a way to honor the sacrifices of those that have given their blood to keep this place in one piece.
"However, things were a little different back in Damas' day. Above the K.G., we had the Praetorian Guard."
"Praetorian Guard?" Jak said, again somewhat confused.
"They were the elites, their skills beyond that of the regulars. They wore blue colored armor, and usually guarded the palace, kind of like Praxis' commandos do today." the commander explained.
"Let me guess," Jak interrupted, "you were one of them, weren't you?"
"Only for a little while." Torn answered. "Command decided after a couple of months that my skills were better suited in another branch of the guard." He paused for a brief moment, his eyes shinning in a rare moment of pride. "I was commissioned to be a group commander within a division known as the Delta Squads."
"Was this one of those top secret black ops units or something?" Jak asked again.
"Yes, and no." Torn responded, before elaborating. "We were a group of covert operations squads, but the public knew that we existed, they just didn't know what it was that we did."
"Which was?" the dark elf prompted.
"Everything." the tattooed commander responded. "If Damas needed a scouting report on an area thick with Metal Heads, he sent us in. If they were setting up a base camp and his Majesty wanted it leveled, or a specified target taken out, we were the ones chosen to get the job done…"
"Alright, alright, I get the idea." Jak said with a snort.
"Anyways," Torn continued, "the Delta Squad division always had sixteen members, divided into four man squads, no more, no less. I lead my men to the best of my abilities, and I took pride in the fact that we always came home with everyone still breathing." He said, his eyes suddenly getting a faraway look to them. "I'd been in the unit for about three and a half years before our biggest mission came up…"
He snapped his left forearm up, blocking a vicious downward chop from his opponent. No sooner did that happen, than did a kick, aimed at his ribs, come sailing in, forcing him to roll to one side. He came up spinning, forcing his opponent to duck beneath a round-house that would have stretched him out on the mat.
He ignored the cheering from those standing around him, ignored the friendly wagers and comradely jeers from the others. They might as well have been on another planet, for all he cared right now. At the moment, there was only him, and his opponent. Punch, thrust, block, counter strike, there was no hesitation between either adversaries, the whole match was one continuous movement.
Finally, after several more minutes of blurred hand to hand combat, his opponent slipped up. A thrust kick aimed squarely at his chest came at him, and with a gleam of victory, he grabbed his opponent's foot, before twisting it violently. This gave his adversary a single choice: follow through with his foot's movement, or run the risk of having a very, very nasty fracture…or so he thought.
The elf's opponent did indeed twist about in mid-air, what he did not anticipate, however, was his adversary suddenly lashing out with his other leg as it left the ground, catching him squarely across the head. A couple of seconds later, down on the canvas, he felt a knee press into his spine. Groaning, he slapped the mat a couple of times to indicate his surrender.
The next thing he knew, he was being helped to his feet, and shaking his head, he saw his adversary's face, smirking in triumph.
"Jeez, Anton," he said, rolling his eyes, "that's what, the fifth time I've laid you out with that move? I would have though that you'd have caught on to me by now."
"Not my fault that you've mastered the Echani arts better than the rest of us, Torn." the Delta muttered as he got to his feet, still trying to shake the stars from his vision.
Torn chuckled, and pumped his fist into the air, before turning to face his brothers. His three fellow squad mates were whooping up a storm, even Ackerson seemed to have left his down to business side behind to watch his commander once again stand triumphant in the battle ring.
Torn had always been an unusual case when it came to the martial arts. He took his training and altered it to suit his tastes, and even stranger, seemed to purposefully throw in a mistake or two, or to possess a small flaw in the way that he fought. However, it was nothing more than a ruse, as many a foe had found out, a trick to lure an opponent into a hole in his defenses that wasn't really there.
But, while Torn excelled in up close and personal combat, and was quite handy with a blaster rifle, there were some areas that he wasn't quite as good in. And, like any decent group, that was where his brothers came in.
He looked to them, he knew them well, like he should. There was Ackerson, Delta Twenty Eight, a pure and uncomplicated soldier, who happened to serve as his squad's heavy weapons specialist. It was surreal almost, in fact, how accurate he was when it came to the massive, anti-armor fuel rod cannon that he always carried over his back, almost as if he knew exactly where the enemy was going to dodge in an attempt to evade the incoming shot. Although, many a smaller Metal Head could also attest, posthumously, of course, that he was almost as equally adept when it came to laying waste to enemy infantry with his weapon.
Standing on his left was Michael, or Hunter as he preferred to be called, designated Delta Oh Five when out in the field. He was the squad marksman, and was with his S2 AM sniper rifle what Ackerson was to a fuel rod cannon. However, the similarity between the two of them ended with accuracy.
If Ackerson was cold and impersonal on the battlefield, then Hunter brought equilibrium to the group for his sheer love of battle. That, when combined with his dark hair and eyes, somewhat Russian accent, and the ferocity with which he did his work, made others uneasy around him at times. Furthermore, the fact that he talked about some rather disturbing things in his sleep from time to time, had caused Walon Vau, the overseer of the Delta Squadrons, to order a psychiatric exam on several occasions. However, that he was still in the military testified to the fact that, believe it or not, he was quite sane.
And finally, the soul of the squadron, Jynx, Delta number Sixty Seven. He was the group's demolitions expert and a pyromaniac to the truest sense. The blond haired soldier was also something of a jokester, with his sense of humor compensating for Ackerson's stiffness and resulting in some highly amusing banter between him and Hunter from time to time. Unfortunately, there were some occasional mishaps in which he would suffer from getting a little too enthusiastic about the job, and the end result would be a crater and/or explosion several times larger than what was originally intended. On the other hand, so far, that sort of antic had only resulted with a few more enemies getting barbequed than anticipated, and therefore made the job that much easier, so no one really complained about his handiwork after the fact.
His critique of his squadron was cut short as the doors to their training facility opened up, revealing none other than their commanding officer. Instantly, all sixteen Deltas snapped into a parade formation, and gave salutes that would have brought tears of joy to a drill sergeant. It was to be expected, after all, considering the respect that the men held for their C.O. Colonel Vau was one of those older school type officers that Damas favored, the ones who had earned their promotions through battles, rather than political maneuvering, those who had, at least at some point in time, practiced what they'd preached.
The Colonel had spent more than fifteen years serving with the Deltas actively, before a cumulative injury list that was practically in scientific notation forced him into a desk job. However, with a little bit of pleading, arrangements had been made for said desk job to be overseeing the newest generation of black ops troopers.
"At ease." he growled, looking over the soldiers. "It's time for the briefing, Deltas, now report to the operations room."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the troopers were making their way towards the briefing room, their eyes shinning with eager anticipation. It was only natural, after all, they had been training for this mission for the past six months, and at long last, were going to be able to put that training to use.
"Alright, boys, this is it, your baptism by fire." Walon said, gesturing to the holo-tank, which lit up as the lights of the room dimmed and revealed a computerized image of the infamous Metal Head Nest and the landscape surrounding it. "As you all know, our not so friendly neighbors have been becoming increasingly aggressive over the past year or so, and as a result we've been planning an assault upon their living quarters. Well, Damas and Command have finally decided that it's now or never, and as per usual, they've decided to make you guys earn your pay."
Quiet mutters were exchanged among the Deltas, as they wondered what in the world their commanders could have cooked up that would be more hazardous than launching a direct assault upon the nest. Colonel Vau was quick to go into further detail in regards to that matter. He pointed the holo-tank, and the images within it changed, zooming in on several different locations around the enemy stronghold.
"Advanced reconnaissance patrols have identified several smaller canyons and tunnels that branch out away from the nest that could allow for the Metal Heads to rush out reinforcements and give the infantry regulars even more problems than they're probably going to have." he continued. "So, given our history of dangerous, and in some cases, outright suicidal, tasks, it has fallen to us to see to it that those holes are plugged."
Torn leaned back in his seat, contemplating what this would mean. At the same time, Jynx's hand shot into the air, and his squad leader smirked, knowing by heart what he was about to ask.
"Sir," he inquired, once the Colonel had nodded in his direction, "what kind of party favors are we going to be passing out to our metal skulled friends?"
"M9-DPs, Sixty Seven." Walon said, a grim smile on his features.
Instantly, the demolitions specialist's eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together gleefully, resulting various snorts and quiet laughs form his brothers, Torn being among them.
Of all the various means by which the pyromaniac had burned, blasted, detonated, or otherwise blown up his enemies, the M9-DP "Havoc" tactical charge was by far one of, if not the, favorite. It was small, almost resembling the plastique explosives used two centuries earlier in that it was a semi-pliable block that was about six by six by two inches. However, inside that deceptively tiny package was enough explosive material to level a two story house. With their small size enabling Jynx to carry almost a dozen, Torn was left with little doubt that the Metal Heads would have their work cut out for them when they tried to dig their way out cave ins they would be causing.
The rest of the briefing had gone on smoothly, and the elves were now in the armory slipping into their Katarn Mark I battle armor. Each suit was custom made for its owner, ensuring maximum flexibility and comfort, a very useful feature considering that it was often worn for days at a time when out in the field. Furthermore, each suit also held one other advantage over standard issue equipment: the material from which it was made, ferrosteel. It was a relatively new alloy, far stronger and studier than Titanium A, and also considerably lighter. However, being that it was newly discovered, meant that the process for producing this miraculous metal hadn't exactly been pinned down very well, which resulted in each suit costing more to make than a Scorpion M808 assault tank.
Adding to that already hefty price tag was the helmet of the armor. Equipped with numerous electronic systems that did everything from sense motion around the Delta, to tagging the cause of such movement with a state of the art 'Friend or Foe' system, to the macro-binoculars that were built into each one, which also possessed a low light viewing system for obvious practical reasons, not to mention a specialized private comm. frequency for inter-squad communications, it was truly a masterpiece in the realm of head protection. However, such protection did come at a price, as they were all under strict orders to keep their armor in tip-top condition…with a month's KP duty being the price for failing to adhere to that order.
Still, this was not to say that the Delta's weren't allowed to do anything to their Katarn armor, as every one of them had found some way to individualize his or hers. Torn had opted for black, which he had felt efficiently combined intimidation with practicality, as the dark color would help him to blend in better in certain situations. Hunter, true to his somewhat feral nature, had opted for blood red, painting several stripes that looked like battle wounds and at one point, had gone so far as dipping his hand into the paint bucket that he was using, before proceeding to very carefully put his own palm print on his helmet. Jynx, ever the pryo, had used orange, which if one were to look closely, would realize was actually applied in a way to make it look as if fire was raining down from the heavens. Ackerson had chosen green, for some reason that no one quite understood, nor was he in the mood to explain, so they had quickly let the subject drop.
Next, came the weapons. Again, each member of the elite squadrons chose different ones, depending upon their tastes and preferences.
Torn, as he almost always did when faced with a general mission type, chose the ever reliable BR-55 assault rifle. It was sturdy, had a decent rate of fire and high accuracy, which was backed up by a 2X optical scope, and could also be outfitted with an under slung grenade launcher for when a little extra "oomph" was needed. Backing that up was a pair of DCs-15 pistols, a bandolier chock-full of grenades, and, of course, his knife.
Deltas Twenty Eight and Oh Five chose their respective favorites, and Jynx, well, his choice of armaments was highly unusual. In the heat of battle Delta Sixty Seven was infamous for whipping out a pair of DC-17 submachine guns. Packing average stopping power and surprising accuracy when employed correctly, the "Eco hoses", as he fondly referred to them, were capable of laying down some rather extraordinary suppressive fire, and could chew their way through Grunts and Drones like it was nobodies business. The only problem with them was their high rate of fire meant that he had to be somewhat careful when employing them, as it was all too easy to run out of ammo when one got careless.
It was about that time, once they had finished gearing up, that none other than Queen Alicia herself came into the armory, flanked by her brother, General Praxis, commander of the armed forces. Before the door had even hissed shut behind them, one could have heard a pin drop as the Delta Squad soldiers snapped into a salute with almost machine like precision.
Watching them like this, staring into their eerie, glowing visors, the queen couldn't help but feel a little unnerved. And she knew that she wasn't alone, as when the Delta's made public appearances, they were always fully armed and armored, which was the source behind several popular rumors that they weren't even flesh and blood soldiers. In her case, though, it wasn't exactly fear that she felt, per say, as she had no doubt about their loyalty, but rather, the feeling that she had just barged into a highly exclusive club of which she was obviously not a member. Still, she and her sibling selected two of them, by chance Torn and Jynx, to go and help "drag her husband away from his son long enough to go win a war."
They found him exactly where they thought they would, in the training room. Not surprisingly, he had apparently just finished his routine, and was now playing around with his child.
"Little tyke's going to be just like his father someday." General Praxis remarked, smiling faintly.
"You got that right, my old friend." Damas said, before he took his wife into his embrace and kissed her affectionately.
Alex, not surprisingly at his age, made a face that caused all three of them to laugh, and caused Torn to smile slightly behind his helmet. Damas then ruffled Alex's hair, and passed him to his mother.
"You take care of your mother, you hear me?" the king said, getting a vigorous nod from his son. He then turned to his brother in law, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on then, my friend, the sooner we go to this battle, to sooner we get to come home."
The two of them walked past the Deltas, and they pivoted about, leaving the queen and prince alone within the training dojo.
"Be careful, Torn, or I swear to the Precursors that I'll prove I can be more dangerous than anything you'll face out there, you understand?" Ashelin said, prodding him in the chest with a finger.
"Isn't saying that to a superior officer disrespecting the ranks?" the Delta asked, cocking his head slightly, his voice partially distorted by the external speakers that allowed her to hear him.
The ensign standing across from him glared, which resulted in him chuckling. The two of them were always like this, ever since he had joined the military. After an initial personality clash that had landed them both in serious trouble, they'd become fast friends, and both had learned quite a bit from one another. Unfortunately, their paths had pretty much been separated once Torn had been recruited into the Delta Squads. Ashelin's scores and leadership skills had been good enough that they'd looked at her too, but her old man had put his foot down the moment he'd been notified of that possibility. It didn't take a genius to know that he cared a great deal for his daughter.
"Don't worry," the Delta told his friend, "I don't plan on dying today."
"Just don't do anything stupid, alright?" she asked, crossing her arms and frowning at him.
"You know me." he retorted, amusement present in his voice.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about." she growled as he turned around and tromped off towards his squad's designated drop ship.
Several hundred feet higher than her, Alicia stood with her son in her arms, watching as the transports loaded up. The infantry drop ships and Hellcats swarmed all over the city in numbers not seen in the last two decades. And if one were to look at the statistics for what Haven was about to throw at the Metal Heads, one would understand why.
The attacking forces consisted of three infantry divisions, more than sixty thousand ground troops, even more so when one threw in the Praetorian elites who would be accompanying them. These soldiers were going to be backed up by the Seventh, Ninth and Twelfth Panzer heavy armor battalions, which were currently loading their Scorpions, all four hundred of them, into Halcyon transport ships. And then, no less than six hundred Hellcat gunships for close air support. It was obvious to even the most simpleminded person that Damas was most certainly not going to be pulling his punches in this conflict.
In waves, the ships rose, watched by the citizens of Haven City, who prayed to whoever might be watching that their loved ones would return both safely, and victoriously.
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Unfortunately, we all know how this goes, don't we?
Once again, I apologize for the massive heaps of trivial information I threw in regarding the weapons and armor being used here. I also apologize for altering yet another character to suite my own demented tastes, and by which I do not mean Praxis' OOCness, which will be explained later. If this causes anyone of you to for a vigilante mob to try and come hunt me down, all I request is a ten second head-start.
Should you decide to spare my life, the next chapter will obviously entail the attack upon the Metal Head Nest, and all that stuff. For that reason, expect to see blood, gore, severed body parts, and people being reduced to meaty giblets...you have been warned.
Thanks, and have a great day