Scorpion: ermm, this is really just a filler, I have no idea where it's going, I just needed to put something in here, and this is what happens when you head bang to Pet by A Perfect Circle and Tool songs really loudly… Thanks to all you guys for your reviews!

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Chapter 4 – Slum Rats

It had been seven months…

Seven months of being the biggest and the best, controlled only by the Baron himself. Months of plotting and planning how to screw over the metal heads, months of playing with the prisoners…

Yes, it had been that long…

It was early morning, sunlight filtering through grimy windows, casting sickly light on the troop of men gathered below, pooling over red armor, splattering on tattooed faces and the occasional charcoal stained chest. The troop of guards were shuffling around in the locker room, slipping on training gear, ruffling through lockers and cocking guns. There was the occasional grunted conversation, consisting of a few barely coherent and sordid remarks, quickly dwindling into nothingness.

The room was dirty, looking more like the prison, with bars in front of the grime encrusted windows - a couple of which were shattered where a few unfortunate guards had lost articles of clothing or the occasional weapon. Or where those who had simply been feeling vindictive towards the glass had decided to let off a bullet or two, punching ragged holes and letting in undiluted light.

The guards came to attention at the sound of boots clanking, leaping to their feet, and seconds later Erol was leaning idly against the doorframe, eyebrows raised as he surveyed the men. No one moved, as those dark eyes flicked to each individual, sometimes trailing down a tattooed chest, other times flicking on, barely pausing. It was an uneasy silence, broken only when the commander laughed, the sound rich and throaty and undeniably disgusting. His head was thrown back ever so slightly, showing the stains of tattoos trailing down his neck, disappearing into his own armor. The men shuffled, put off guard by the surprising turn of events, but froze almost immediately as the laughter shut off without warning, leaving only uncomfortable silence.

"Get dressed and get down the hall, I have some slum rats for you to play with." He hissed, lips tugged into a sneer before he turned on his heel and stalked off down the hallway, towards a pair of large black and red doors, a few security cameras pivoting on their stands and fixing him in their bulging lenses. The door slid open with a hiss as soon as he drew near, and the sounds of raucous laughter and gunshots filtered through before they shut with a loud clang.

The men in the locker room didn't look at each other as they shoved on the last pieces of clothing or armor they needs, slipping guns into holster and striding off down the hallway, boots thunking in perfect military precision.

The door hissed open…

The training room was stuffed full of, well, training things. Down the whole right side of the massive underground room was a multitude of gun courses, with the highest-ranking members scores displayed on flashing screens, which changed often as guard after guard took to the courses. The left side was what one might call a course, with targets popping up in the most unexpected places, red-eco charged weapons sending streams of bullets on the first guard who came within range. There was the occasional hail of bullets from the roof, or from the walls, making everyone in the room duck for cover or roll.

A mass of men were standing in front of Erol as he leaned back on a part of the course, the electronics whirring beneath him. He was, as always, decked out in navy and yellow, the red-eyed helmet pushed back off his face, flaming hair sticking up, dark eyes surveying the men who were gathered before him.

He motioned behind him, and a couple of guards stepped forwards, dragging forwards three elves, who struggled violently, screaming, swearing, their faces contorted. Erol winced, and motioned against, his fingers flicking as he nodded his head ever so slightly. Guns were removed from holsters, metal resting against necks, a kiss and a promise of cold death.

Only when there was silence did the commander turn back to the men, smiling slightly now, lips thin and cruel, eyes glinting with malice.

"Now who will I pick today?" he mused, pursing his lips as his eyes flicked over the crowd, each man watching his every move eagerly. They all wanted to be picked – to prove their worth to their commanding officer, to get in his good books. Every man's hand lingered on his gun, fingers drumming armor, eyes gleaming behind heavy KG helmets.

Erol spun on his heel, his hand arching out, and finger stabbing forwards towards one of the men at the front, eyes narrowing. "You" he hissed, staring at the man, who was decked out in rough hand-me-down armor. Defiantly a newbie then, who had not yet proved his stripes, so to speak. Erol studied him for a moment longer, before his hand slumped down to finger his gun, a dangerous gesture.

"Name!" he snapped, showing just a tad to much teeth for comfort. The guard did not hesitate – he knew he was being tested. "Tor, sir." His voice was cool and calm, and he ignored the murmured remarks of the guards who stood around him, some of whom eyed him with contempt, others with a hint of jealousy.

"Tell me, Tor, have you ever killed someone?" Erol muttered conversationally, the smile still on his lips. The guards stiffened as one, and all eyes turned to the newbie. Tor managed to keep calm, "No sir." Erol nodded slightly, before motioning the man up to stand before him, stepping aside so he had full view of the captives.

"Well today's your lucky day."

Tor nodded slightly, and eyed the three prisoners. One was little more than a boy, dark haired and chubby faced – he looked like he should be at home sprawled on a couch, with his mother waiting on him hand and foot. His rich clothes were torn and grubby, and Erol's nose wrinkled ever so slightly at the smell that wafted from them. Stolen then.

The next one was an older man, middle age if not a bit above. He wore barely any clothes at all; simply tattered rags that clung to his decimated frame. His face was gaunt and white, without the rosy tinge that decked out the first prisoners cheeks, but his eyes were defiant…

The third was a woman, young. She would have been beautiful if her face wasn't so harsh, her nose long and hooked, her straggly hair cropped down to mere pricks of brown. She didn't look all that lucid either, for her eyes were unfocused and the pungent smell of drink hung around her.

Erol eyed them all up before pointing towards the woman, motioning for the guard who held her to step away. Tor immediately took his face, pressing his own gun to her jugular. The guard who had been holding her stepped into the crowd, his yellow armor glinting, showing clearly against the mass of red.

The commander immediately turned to find his next candidate, eyes skimming the crowd, before fixing on a guard three rows deep. With a sinister chuckle he flicked his fingers, curling them rounds towards him just once before pointing absently at the chubby boy.

The guards cocked his gun and strode forwards, as the second elite dropped the kid, moving to stand by his fellow. The boy grunted and tried to scramble to his feet, only to find himself with a gun pointed squarely at the middle of his forehead. The guard grabbed him by the hair, hauling his head back.

Erol then picked out his next guard, a tall and slim man whose armor was adorned with strips of red cloth – much like the one Erol himself wore one his right arm. In the guards case it showed his kills under Erol's command, memorabilia basically.

The man said nothing as he came up, relieving the third and final elite of his duties. The three yellow clad guards grouped together and waited for their commander, a solid stain in a sea of red.

"My family!" screamed the older male prisoner, thrashing in the grip of the guard who held him. Erol paused, about to make his way towards the elites but instead turning and crouching down, so his face was so close that the man could see the brooding malice in his eyes and feel his breath on his face.

"They don't care about you," he hissed; smile drawing up his lips, thin and vindictive. "At least, not like I do." With that said he rose from his crouch, and surveyed the prisoners and the three guards who held them once more. His eyes stuck on the boy, and the smile turned to a sneer in a heartbeat. "Cut some of the flesh from his bones and give it to him" he muttered, finger stabbing out towards the man he had just spoken to, before he turned on his heel and strode towards the three elites.

"Have fun with them boys" he remarked as he made his way through the crowd, pulling the helmet down over his head, eyesight immediately stained crimson.

There was the sound of cocking guns and laughter behind him, followed by gunshots and loud, thundering cheering, pressing down on Erol's ears…

He laughed…

Oh how he laughed…

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Scorpion: humm, weirdness. Sorry, once again it is just a filler. Didn't have that much Erol in it actually. I'm actually watching Pirates of the Caribbean out of the corner of my eye at the moment, so I was tempted to put 'nigh' in their somewhere. Lol, it just wouldn't fit…

Erol: You make me seem like a loon…