"It's now two hours since the black-ship raiders launched their brutal attack on Devastis, and no fighting has broken out on the planet itself." The announcer's voice is tense. I'm not anymore. I've been sitting here for an hour watching flickering lights in the streets of Devastis. Most of it is ugly crap, but occasionally I see a shot I wish they'd replay. Of course, they never do replay the pretty ones where the elites are silhouetted dramatically against a flaming power station or the incredible shot I saw of the black ship re-cloaking after its sweep. It's all about the massive search for those elusive bandits.
"The raiders are known for their stealth, but on Devastis, they cannot hide. Not with millions of the Empire's most elite soldiers sweeping the entire planet. It's only a matter of time before we wipe them out," he intones dramatically over a horrible shot of future Invaders kicking down a door.
"And we're terrified of it," says a voice behind me. I don't think anything of it for a moment, but then I notice everyone else staring at the source of the voice. I turn, and I can feel my eyes get huge.
Standing in the doorway is an Irken — at least I think it's an Irken — with a very large gun pointed at us. It's hard not to notice the gun first, but if the thing hadn't been carrying a weapon, its eyes would have gotten my attention fast. They're not red or purple or even green. They're black, just like the sky. Just like the Irken-creature's clothes. Its boots are covered in some sort of short black fur, and its long coat looks like a dyed, modified technician's cloak. Its shirt is torn, and the rips are patched with a sheer fabric. And its gloves . . . I love its gloves. The cloth of them comes down to where the claw starts on each finger, and the claw is covered by a silver sheath tipped with some kind of clear stone. The thing raises its antennae and I can see that it's male. I'm still not sure whether he's Irken or not, though. If he is, he's probably important. He's tall enough.
"Reveal," he calls, and suddenly, there are five more like him around the perimeter of the room. "No one move," he says, addressing all of us. "We didn't come for you. We came to pick up a few treats and then we'll leave."
"The vending machines are down the hall and to the left," Yall says helpfully.
The one with the huge gun laughs. "We know where to find what we want," he says. "You just stay quiet."
Silence falls. I know we could take them out if we would just try, but cleaning drones just do as told and watch entertainment unless their training chip gets activated. That's part of the reason I know I'm defective. I remember all my basic training regardless of my chip status. I can feel the strangers scanning through our thoughts to see if we pose a threat. The leader is checking me over personally. His eyes are a bit disturbing. He raises a hand over his shoulder and a PAK communicator comes to rest in it. These things are Irken, but . . . how did they get this way?
"Dire to Swarm," he says. The return message light blinks, but I hear nothing. "Excellent," he tells whoever he's talking to. "We have a slight snag here, but we'll be out shortly." He releases the communicator and it disappears back into his PAK.