Chapter 18: Scant Options

It was Adrien's personal opinion that things, to put it crudely, were in the shit.

Two weeks had passed since the Federation had torched their supplies and already, the fruits of their labors were showing. Frustration and humiliation at their impotence in the face of the enemy, coupled with the constant fear of another attack that might come at any moment, had contributed to a collective mood among the Turians that was both morose and volatile. And to add to the problems, Adrien's efforts to formulate the miracle that Tarkin wanted had thus far amounted to nothing.

Adrien was sprawled out on his cot, staring up at the ceiling as though he could somehow find an answer to his problems if he just stared hard enough. If there were any to be had, then they weren't being very forthcoming. All Adrien saw was a blank, colorless surface.

The knocking on his door provided a welcome distraction. Without moving from where he laid, Adrien called out, "Come in."

The door swung open to reveal Viggo standing there. The past couple of weeks hadn't been any kinder to him than Adrien. There were bags under his eyes and he looked a bit thinner than he had been.

"Hey boss," he said, pasting a small grin on his face. "How's it going?"

"Oh, things are going just wonderfully, Viggo," Adrien said with exaggerated cheer. "In fact, everything is so great that I could just dance for joy."

Viggo chuckled. "Well, I'd put the dancing on hold there. It's almost chow time; the rest of the guys already left, so we should start heading over the mess."

Ah yes. Chow time. One of the ironic torments to crop up in the past couple weeks.

As it turned out, when the quartermaster had said that they would have enough to last a month with proper rationing, he hadn't meant that they'd be able to eat their fill for that time. Instead, all that the newly-enacted regimen permitted was the bare minimum calorie amount to keep them from dying. That meant no one got more than nine hundred calories a day, which essentially broiled down to one meal stretched out over the course of twenty-three hours. In essence, everyone got to eat just enough to survive but still feel the need for more.

It was torture, plain and simple. There had been no less than three attempts by hungry soldiers to steal extra portions from the stores, each one ending in a fight between the store's guards and the would-be thieves, with the latter being tossed in the brig. It was a small mercy that at least none of the confrontations had ended fatally.

Adrien's stomach gave a loud gurgle and he sighed. A small part of him wanted to just stay where he was and spare himself the agony of not being satisfied, but the logical part of him prevailed. Better to have something than nothing, and if he didn't get his portion, then someone else would take it in a heartbeat.

The two Turians arrived at the communal mess area, which was already jam-packed with their fellow soldiers. Some of those that had gotten their allotted portions polished them off in just a few bites, though most opted to eat as little as possible at a time, as if by prolonging the meal, it might somehow satisfy them. The rest stood in line, faces drawn and hungry as they shuffled forward to where the quartermaster was set up. He divvied out carefully measured portions of food to each soldier. Nobody looked particularly happy with what they got, but the armed guards that flanked him discouraged any troublemakers.

Adrien and Viggo took their places in the line and waited for their turn. Some minutes later, they reached the quartermaster, who promptly handed them their servings. It was a truly pathetic sight: one scoop of some kind of stew and a side of protein crackers to go with it.

"Spirits, that's just depressing," remarked Viggo as he stared down at his ration with a sour look. "I think this is actually smaller than what we got yesterday."

Adrien hoped he was wrong. If the portions were already being cut back, then they were in a worse state than he feared. The last thing he needed was an even shorter deadline than what he already had.

He spied his troops across the hall and he briskly strode over to them, Viggo trailing at his heels. Most had already finished their meals and were staring intently down at their metal plates, as though they could somehow make more food materialize by sheer force of will. Their plates had been quite literally licked clean. A few members of his company noticed his arrival and gave him cursory nods of acknowledgment.

Company? Adrien thought bitterly. I barely have a platoon now.

He began to eat his own ration in silence, hardly even tasting it. Though they tried to be discreet about it, Adrien noticed several of his troops shoot yearning looks at the food. Despite knowing that there was nothing he could do, a pang of guilt lanced through him and he quickly shoveled the bits of food into his mouth.

He was finished in mere seconds, leaving not even a smear of food behind. Far from satisfying him, Adrien felt, if anything, that he had just grown hungrier. His last full meal seemed like a memory years in the past, and the puny morsel had barely qualified as an appetizer. His stomach let its displeasure be known with a loud, gurgling growl. The sound managed to elicit a few soft chuckles from his troops, so Adrien marked that as a small victory.

A part of him wanted to say something encouraging to boost their morale, but he ultimately dismissed the notion. What would he even say? "Come on, men; cheer up. Sure, we're completely surrounded with basically no hope of getting free and we'll be out of food in just a couple more weeks, but it's not so bad!" Yeah, real inspiring.

With his meal finished, Adrien took the opportunity to observe the other soldiers around him. He noticed that they had organized themselves into groups based on their home planets. Nowhere did he see any intermingling of different colonies. He also noticed more than a few dark looks being exchanged between them

That wasn't good. Colonial rivalries were an ever-present problem among the Turians, and even more so in the armed forces. Usually, they amounted to nothing more than some sharp banter or the occasional brawl. But in a situation like this, trapped by the enemy and living on meager diets, an unstable cocktail of old grudges, distrust and pent-up frustration was being stirred up. Right now, it was contained, but there would be a breaking point. Adrien just hoped it wouldn't be reached for some time.

Then, there was sudden clang of metal hitting the floor, followed an instant later by a bellow of terrifying rage.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

Adrien spun around to see where the commotion was coming from. A large Turian was standing in the middle of the room alongside an overturned tray that had fallen to the floor, tiny brown streams of spilled stew flowing out from underneath it. He held a smaller Turian by the neck with both hands, fingers squeezing with vice-like strength. His eyes were wild with murderous fury. All around, Turians turned to stare at the spectacle, but none made any move to intervene.

It seemed that the breaking point had already been reached.

"You fucking piece of varren shit!" the bigger Turian snarled. "That was my food you just knocked to the floor! My entire ration for the whole Spirits-damned day, and you made me drop it!"

"I'm sorry!" the other Turian gasped out. He was young, probably no more than nineteen if one wanted to be generous, and clearly terrified. His hands pawed weakly at the fingers gripping his throat, breath sputtering out in gurgling wheezes. "It was an accident! I didn't see you!"

"Oh, you're sorry, huh?" The assailant lowered his face down to his victim until they were almost nose to nose. "What the fuck does that do for me? I've got no food now, thanks to your stupid ass! So what are you going to do about it?"

"I-I-I," the poor kid stammered, eyes bulging with fear. His lack of a coherent answer served to only make his attacker even angrier.

"'Ay, Ay, Ay," he mimicked in a high-pitched tone. "What's wrong? Can't fucking talk right? Well, if you're not going to do anything, then maybe I'll just smash your fucking head in! Maybe then you'll watch where you're going!"

"Come on, Tarkus, leave the kid alone." Another Turian, most likely from the now-named Tarkus's unit, had stood up, obviously intending to play the role of peacemaker. "Beating him to a pulp isn't going to help with anything."

Tarkus laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound, heavy with unbridled savagery. "Oh yeah? Well, I think it'll make me feel a lot better!"

Without another word, he hauled back with one blunt sledgehammer of a fist and dealt a devastating punch straight into the kid's face. There was a crack of bone and the smaller Turian was knocked to the floor, whimpering with pain. Blood dribbled in steady streams from his nose and mandibles.

Tarkus moved toward the younger Turian, a mad glint in his eyes. The soldier who had attempted to talk him down rushed forward and grabbed hold of him.

"Tarkus, stop!" he bellowed. "That's an order!"

"Fuck your orders!" Tarkus growled. With an almost casual air, he elbowed his restrainer squarely in the gut. With a grunt that sounded almost embarrassed, he slumped down gasping for breath. Now free again, Tarkus resumed his attack.

Like a varren going in for the kill, Tarkus pounced on the young soldier, pinning him down with his weight. The poor kid didn't even have time to defend himself as the older and more experienced Turian rained down one heavy blow after another on his prone victim. A couple of troops from what looked to be the kid's own unit tried to pull Tarkus off of their comrade, but he smashed them aside without even standing up. He was clearly a skilled fighter, and he was putting every ounce of that talent towards reducing the unfortunate soldier to a stain on the floor.

Adrien was about to get up and try his luck at stopping the scene, when a gunshot rang out with a deafening retort. Tarkus stopped pummeling the smaller Turian and glanced over at where the noise had come. Colonel Tarkin marched towards the crazed trooper, a heavy pistol leveled at him with rock-steady precision.

"Get off him, soldier. Right now." Tarkin's voice was colder than arctic waters and his mismatched eyes were empty of all emotion. He stopped just out of arm's reach, pistol aimed right at Tarkus's head.

Tarkus glared up at the colonel, his breathing deep and heavy. His eyes were still glinting madly with unspent bloodlust. He stopped his assault, but he made no move to obey Tarkin.

"Or else what?" he sneered between breaths. "You'll shoot me?"

"Well, let's see," Tarkin mused laconically. "Unauthorized fighting with intent to do grievous harm, striking a superior officer, and most importantly, disobeying a direct order. That's more than enough to warrant capital punishment." His finger began to squeeze the trigger. "Last chance, soldier. Stand up now, or you die."

If Tarkus was intimidated, he gave no outward sign. Slowly, he stood up, as though it was only because he chose to and not because it was a command. Blood dripped from his knuckles and spattered to the floor. The unfortunate trooper he had been pounding lay prone on the ground, his face an unrecognizable mess. Adrien couldn't tell if he was still alive; the beating had been particularly vicious.

"So what happens now?" he asked in a tone that was far too nonchalant for the situation. "Is this the part where you shoot me anyway? Or do you want to set up a court martial and make it official first?"

"If this were any other time and place, I'd have put you down without the warning," Tarkin informed him coolly. "As it is, I'm not exactly in a position to just discard warm bodies, so consider yourself lucky."

Tarkus began to laugh hysterically. It was a disturbing, unhinged laugh that sounded as if he were about to start sobbing at any moment.

"Lucky?" He spluttered, still laughing. "Look around you!" Tarkus gestured expansively around the mess hall. "We haven't had a decent meal in days! Pretty soon, the food we've got left will run out and then we'll really be fucked! The Hueys won't have to do a damn thing about us! They'll just have to wait until we've eaten each other and mop up whatever dregs survive!"

"That's enough, soldier!" Tarkin barked. "Stand down and get back with your unit before I change my mind!"

Tarkus stood there for a long moment. A strange light suddenly flicked on behind his eyes. He locked eyes with the colonel and said a single, damning word.

"No."

Tarkin actually blinked in surprise, but that was the extent of his reaction. An instant later, the hard-bitten officer returned, demeanor a dozen degrees colder.

"What did you say soldier? Are you refusing to obey a direct order again?"

Tarkus cocked his head patronizingly, as if he were addressing a particularly dull child. "I'm saying that I don't care anymore. I'm done with all this." He suddenly relaxed, as if a great weight had just been lifted from him

"I've been here since the invasion first began. I've lost all my closest friends and saw them die in the worst ways possible. I've fought in harsh winters, baking summers, and a dozen other conditions that made me want to die. And what is there to show for all that? It's been one defeat after another, retreat after retreat. The Federation keeps pounding us into the dirt, driving us this way and that like a flock of herd beasts. Now they've got us trapped here, and the only things I have to look forward to are starvation and a miserable death."

Tarkus shook his head resolutely. "I'm not going out that way. I'm not."

"So you want to surrender then?" Tarkin growled, contempt layered thick on his every syllable. "Fine. Then go, get out and try your luck with the Hueys. Most likely they'll just feed you to one of their pets for fun."

"You're not listening, Colonel," Tarkus said, almost smugly. "I said I was done with all this. While I'm sure that the humans would be happy to oblige me, I'd rather not throw myself on their mercy. I'm going out on my terms."

Then, before Adrien knew what was happening, Tarkus rushed at Tarkin, a wild, satisfied expression on his face. There was no mistaking his intent. If the colonel didn't shoot him, then he was going to end up dead.

Tarkin didn't so much as flinch as he pulled the trigger.

Once more, a loud bang sounded out in the mess hall and Tarkus slumped down to the floor with half his head missing. Tarkin stared down at the body for a few seconds before holstering his pistol, shaking his head in disappointment.

"You three." He pointed at some members of Tarkus's unit. "Get him out of here. I don't care how you do it, just be sure there's no risk of the corpse spreading contagions. And someone get that kid to the medic."

As soldiers hastened to obey the colonel, Adrien found that he was now truly faced with the reality of their situation. If things were already this dire not even halfway into the month he had, then he didn't even want to imagine how bad it would get should the deadline run past. He was going to have to be much more proactive in the coming days.

Proactive, and very unorthodox.

#

Once mealtime was over and everyone had filed out of the mess hall to do whatever it was they did now, Adrien headed over to Tarkin's quarters.

He soon found himself facing a door that would have been perfect for the entrance of a Volus bank vault. It was an immense slab of metal that looked thick enough to be rated for a starship hull. Nothing short of a shaped explosive charge would get through that thing. Well, unless you cheated by walking through walls like that thing that had attacked him. Yes, that was probably filthy rich coming from a member of a race who only applied the concept of total war when fighting, but still.

He rapped smartly on the door, the sound seeming almost hilariously muted. Still, it must have carried through, because no sooner had it faded, when Tarkin's voice crackled to life over an intercom next to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Captain Victus, sir," Adrien said into the receiver. "Do you have a minute?"

Tarkin didn't respond, but the door slid open. That was as good an invitation as any and Adrien stepped inside.

As the most senior officer present, Tarkin had taken up residence in the command station, which was considerably roomier than Adrien's own modest billet. The interior boasted a main room for holding meetings, an actual bathroom complete with its own toilet and a section made for sleeping.

Rank definitely had its privileges, Adrien reflected.

He found Tarkin sitting in a chair near the holomap display where he had only a short time ago informed everyone how badly they were screwed. The colonel looked the very picture of forlorn misery. The unwavering and disciplined officer from earlier was gone; in his place was someone who looked as if he were a step away from collapsing in on himself. The colonel looked up at Adrien with sunken eyes as he approached.

"Ah, Victus," he said by way of greeting. "I don't suppose you've come to tell me that you've found a solution to our problems?"

It was clear that he intended for it to be a joke, but there was a distinct undercurrent of genuine hope. Adrien actually felt guilty that he was going to have to disappoint him.

"Sorry sir, but no," he said.

Tarkin sighed, seeming to crumple in on himself. "Well, can't say I'm surprised. Maybe there really isn't any way out of this." He lowered his head into both hands and sat there like that for a long moment. Then, he heaved out another sigh and stared up at the ceiling.

"Spirits, I knew things were going to get bad, but I didn't think it would happen this quickly. That's the first time I've ever had to carry out a field execution, you know." He looked off into the distance, a dour expression on his face.

"That lunatic was right, though: we're living on borrowed time. That scene back there won't be a one-time thing. I'm sure you've noticed that tempers are already starting to flare up and there's no outlet for them except at each other. If things get much worse, then everything's going to fall apart and no amount of disciplinary measures will keep it together." He let out a disgusted breath and then seemed to remember that Adrien was there.

"Sorry about the rambling, Captain." He adjusted himself to a more comfortable position. "What did you want to see me about?"

Awkwardly, Adrien cleared his throat and stood at parade rest. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to go up top to scout out the enemy's positions."

Tarkin stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind Adrien's request. Apparently coming up with nothing, he asked, "Are you actually volunteering for recon duty?"

"Um…yes?" he said, caught off guard by the question. "Is that a problem, sir?"

"No, there's no problem," Tarkin said. "It's just something of a surprise to have someone actually request to be part of a recon mission."

That took Adrien aback. It was true that recon was one of the most dangerous assignments a soldier could receive. He had done his fair share of patrol duty throughout his career, and counted them to be some of the most stressful times he'd ever had. You expected an attack at any moment, from anywhere, even if the enemy was nowhere in sight, and were almost constantly wired with nerves.

But even so, there were always those who wanted to distinguish themselves, and since the Hierarchy wasn't easily impressed, volunteering for a recon assignment was a good way to get some accolades attached to your name. Assuming you didn't get killed in the process, that is.

Tarkin seemed to guess what he was thinking, and let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "This might come as a shock to you, Captain, but nobody here is interested in getting recognized for heroism or securing a promotion. They just want to get through another day, alive, intact and sane. Since performing reconnaissance in this war carries a very high mortality rate, the soldiers aren't exactly lining up around the block."

"How high of a mortality rate are we talking?" Adrien asked, suddenly feeling his nerves start to get twitchy.

"High enough that plenty of soldiers consider it a death sentence," said Tarkin gravely. "Most patrols don't come back from their missions. Whoever does is almost always a nervous wreck and often becomes suicidal. I'm willing to bet that the Hueys let those few get away to spread panic around." He glared sourly into the distance. "It's damn effective, too; nothing like seeing a fellow soldier break down in tears before blowing his brains out to make morale plummet." Tarkin's anecdote had the ring of personal experience to it.

Well, now that was an unhappy bit of information. The thought of getting ambushed by Federation forces and dying a gruesome death did nothing to help Adrien's nerves. But in the end, he knew that he had no choice. Unless he saw for himself how the enemy had organized themselves, he couldn't plan anything.

"Well, regardless of the risk, sir, I still request that I go on the next recon mission," he declared, pleased that the apprehension that was curdling in his stomach didn't show itself in his voice.

"Really?" asked Tarkin in genuine surprise. No doubt he had fully expected Adrien to do an about-face and walk back out the door. "After what I just told you, you still want to go up there?"

"In all honesty, I don't," Adrien admitted. "The very thought of going up and putting myself at the mercy of whatever's out there scares the hell out of me. If I thought I could, I would happily stay down here to work out an idea, but the fact remains that, unless I see for myself how the Federation has set its forces up, I can't make any plans."

Tarkin favored him with an appraising look and Adrien had the distinct impression that the colonel's opinion of him had just ratcheted up a few notches.

"You've got guts, Captain," he said with a respectful nod of his head. "All right, if that's what you want, I'll send you up tomorrow night. I need to get some eyes up there in any case."

Adrien returned the nod. "Thank you, sir."

Tarkin let out a bitter laugh. "Captain, in all likelihood, I'm sending you to your death. I hardly think that deserves any thanks." He stood up and rotated his neck around, the tendons popping like firecrackers. "Well, if that's all, I've got a team to assemble. Some poor bastards are about to be very unhappy."

#

Adrien left Tarkin's quarters, not quite sure how he should feel. On the one hand, he'd gotten what he wanted; the colonel was willing to let him go up and scout out the enemy positions for his own ends. On the other hand, he would be leaving the relative safety of the bunker complex to venture out into a warzone that was filled to the brim with all kinds of terrible deaths that could potentially befall him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so confused.

Well, no point in thinking on it, Adrien said to himself. You've got things to do before you leave.

"Victus!"

Adrien stumbled to a halt as the harsh voice rang out. He turned around to see who it was that had called him. Whoever it was, they didn't sound very friendly. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the owner of that voice.

There, only a few strides away, stood his nemesis Ferox.

The big Turian was as physically imposing as he had been before coming to Digeris. While definitely leaner, his muscled frame was undiminished and he still towered over Adrien. Mentally, though, it was clear that he was not well. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, glaring out from sunken bags of dark skin, a clear sign that he was losing sleep. A fevered, almost feral light gleamed in them and they were locked squarely on to Adrien.

Immediately, Adrien was on his guard. By the look of him, Ferox wasn't here to engage in idle conversation.

"What do you want, Ferox?" he asked.

Ferox didn't answer at first. Instead, he stared at Adrien with a sharp, calculating gaze that put into mind a varren sizing up a rival. Just as Adrien was about to ask again, he finally spoke.

"You've been talking with the colonel," Ferox observed in a low voice.

"Very astute of you," Adrien remarked. He subtly shifted his position so that he had the bigger Turian squarely in front of him. "Is that a problem?"

Ferox let out a deep growl, further enhancing the varren analogy Adrien had made. "Don't play dumb with me, Victus. You think I haven't noticed what you both have been doing?"

In spite of himself, Adrien felt a twinge of amusement. This was too good a verbal jibe to pass up. "Oh Ferox, I wouldn't dream of playing dumb with you. You'd beat me easily there. But you know what? I'll humor you. What exactly have you noticed about me and the colonel?"

A fierce, almost feral scowl twisted the big Turian's face. "You're trying to find a way for us to run away." From the way he spoke, one would have thought it was the most heinous crime imaginable.

"Well, yes, although I prefer to think of it as a tactical maneuver."

"It's cowardice!" Ferox snarled, advancing a step further. "We are Turians, fighters born and bred! We should be out there taking the fight the enemy like honorable soldiers, not running away like frightened pyjaks!"

Adrien began to laugh. He couldn't help it. Ferox's notion of attacking the Federation, who had them outnumbered, outgunned and outmaneuvered, like a horde of mad Krogan warriors was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks.

"You can't be serious," said Adrien once his laughter had passed. "Did you not see the map back there?" He jerked his head towards Tarkin's quarters. "You know, the thing that showed how we were surrounded on three sides with the biggest river on the planet at our backs? Attacking the enemy forces in our current state would be suicide!"

"Then we would die in a blaze of glory, the likes of which will be immortalized in legend," said Ferox, voice heavy with fervent tones of a true zealot. "And we'd make those arrogant monkeys quake in their boots with our ferocity!"

"We'd make them laugh their asses off with that dumb stunt, you moron!" Adrien was through being diplomatic. He was hungry, stressed, and soon to go on a mission that would probably get him killed. The last thing he wanted was Ferox preaching about honor and glorious last stands.

"Maybe you think that we're in a war drama, where the stalwart Turian soldiers manage to rout the enemy with only our guns and sheer willpower, but this is the real world. If we did things your way, we'd get slaughtered; the Federation's artillery batteries would wipe out half of us before we even got within firing range of their lines, and then they'd just finish off the survivors. It wouldn't even be a fight for them, just pest control.

"You think that would earn us songs and monuments to our memory? We'd be lucky if we even got a single passage in a history textbook that says 'One army stationed on Digeris attacked a superior enemy force without any kind of plan, where they all died in the dumbest, most meaningless way possible. The end.'" Adrien skewered his opposite with a glare of his own. "So, unless you've got something helpful to show, I suggest you go back to your part of the bunker and let me do my job." With that, he turned his back to Ferox and began to walk away.

There was one universal rule when it came to confrontations: never turn your back on an opponent unless you know they are no longer a threat. Otherwise, you're just giving them a free shot. Adrien, who was most definitely not in the best state of mind, failed to follow that rule.

Before he had even gone three paces, a hand grabbed hold of his collar and wrenched him backwards. He barely had time to process what had just happened when he was suddenly slammed into the wall with teeth-rattling force and pinned there by an arm as solid and unyielding as an iron bar.

When his vision cleared, Adrien found himself staring straight into Ferox's eyes. The feral gleam he had seen earlier was now an inferno of unreasoning rage and hatred, directed squarely at him. Adrien, however, barely registered them.

He was more concerned with the very sharp combat knife that Ferox was holding against the side of his neck.

"You must have been so pleased," Ferox growled, his mandibles flaring wide in a horrific leer. "You finally found an officer who shared your contempt for the doctrines of war. They were created by the greatest scions of the Turian race and have served the Hierarchy for millennia, but you both think you're better than them, that you can just toss them aside as if they were nothing."

"Ferox, take it easy," said Adrien, willing himself to stay calm. One wrong move and that knife would open up his jugular.

Ferox laughed nastily. "What's wrong, Victus? No clever tricks this time? Still think you're better than the ancients?"

"I never said I was better than anyone," Adrien assured the big Turian. "Come on, Ferox. Think about what you're doing."

"Oh, I am," Ferox breathed. It was a low, viciously satisfied sound that made Adrien's blood run cold. Sanity had clearly begun its exodus from his assailant, if it hadn't left him already.

"And you know what I think?" Ferox asked, his voice becoming conversational. The knife turned upward at a slight angle, just barely digging into the vulnerable skin on Adrien's neck. "I think I've had enough of you scorning the very foundations of our military and disgracing the Turian race with your abominable deviations from the very principles that make us what we are." The glare he hit Adrien with was so intense that if looks could kill, he would have been immolated then and there.

"You've spat on our traditions for the last time, Victus," he snarled. The knife began to press down.

It was at that moment, a voice called out, hearty and jovial. Adrien instantly recognized whose it was, and he had never been happier to hear it.

"Well, well, well, what is going on over here?" Captain Julek stepped into view, a wide smile plastered on his face. He studied them with mock confusion, as if whole scene was something completely alien to him. Then, he clasped his hands to his face in a pantomime of utter shock and disbelief.

"Gasp! Do my eyes deceive me? Is this an attempted murder that I'm seeing?"

Ferox let out a low growl as he turned his burning gaze on the new arrival, no doubt frustrated that he had a witness to complicate things. Julek, for his part, remained unperturbed by the savage gaze Ferox threw him. If anything, it seemed to amuse the veteran captain.

"This is between me and him," said Ferox, indicating Adrien with a sharp jerk of his head. "If you know what's good for you, you'll turn around and go back where you came from."

Julek hummed thoughtfully and tapped his chin with a talon, as though Ferox's warning was great philosophical concept that he needed to contemplate. After a while, he made a dismissive gesture.

"Nah. This is far too interesting." He looked intently at Ferox, and his eyes suddenly widened in recognition. "Hey, I know you! You're that captain with an obsession for protocol."

Ferox's eyes narrowed dangerously at Julek. Adrien, while thankful that his attention was no longer focused on him, remained motionless. That knife was still too close for comfort. Julek, apparently oblivious to the murderous intent radiating off of Ferox, kept talking.

"Oh, don't get me wrong; I know everyone has their own personal fetishes. Some Turians go for porn magazines, you go for a copy of military guidelines and regulations. To each their own, I say." He threw a mocking smile at Ferox. "But still, I can't imagine how that gets you off."

The eyes went from narrowed to bulging in a split second. Adrien wanted to tell Julek that maybe he could avoid taunting the homicidal Turian until his knife wasn't so close to a vital artery, but decided that it would be best not to attract attention back at himself.

"I mean, that stuff's not exactly quality literotica," Julek continued. "It's just a bunch of dry, boring words about tactics and regulations. How do you do it?" He sounded honestly curious. "Do you flip open to the section about weapons maintenance and do the old rub-and-tug? Or is it the part about proper unit formation?" He giggled. "Get it? Unit?"

What happened next happened so fast that Adrien almost missed it. Ferox, enraged beyond coherent speech at Julek's crass joking, let go of his victim and charged straight at the smaller Turian, bellowing like a Krogan Battlemaster in the throes of bloodlust. Julek, without batting an eye, calmly stepped forward to meet him. As he did, his omni-tool flared to life and the blade that he had used to hamstring a rampaging Nephilim sprung out.

With one smooth, practiced motion, he flicked the blade upwards. Ferox, realizing the imminent danger, began to backpedal frantically. He managed to stop himself just in time; he stood there, stock still, looking down at the silicon-carbide blade that was tickling his chin. Julek beamed up at him.

"Temper, temper," he chided Ferox in a singsong voice. "This conduct is quite unbecoming of an officer. I should write you up." His jovial smile suddenly turned wicked.

"Actually, I have a better idea: why don't we see who's faster with a blade?" He glanced down, noticing that Ferox's own knife was held outwards, well away from him in what was clearly meant to be a gesture of surrender.

"Oh! I'm sorry," said Julek, and he actually did sound apologetic. "That's hardly fair for you, isn't it? Let's fix that."

To Adrien's shock, he grabbed hold of the hand gripping the knife and pressed it up against his own neck. Ferox stared down at him, surprise and fear running rampant across his face.

"There we go," said Julek cheerily. "Now we've both got an even chance. One quick slice and one of us is on the floor, gurgling out our last breaths. Isn't it exciting?"

Adrien could see that Julek was dead serious. His whole body radiated with enthusiastic eagerness, eyes shining bright with anticipation. Ferox, for his part, was anything but excited; it was obvious that he was currently regretting the choices he'd recently made.

"Aw, what's wrong, big boy? Is this not fun for you?" Julek asked with a noticeable pout. "What if I double-dared you? Huh? Come on, I'm ready to go, ready to cut to the quick!" He let out a mad cackle.

For a long minute, they just stood there, still as statues while Adrien looked on in blank astonishment. It didn't even occur to him to do anything, so complete was his fascination with the scene before him.

Finally, with deliberate slowness, Ferox carefully removed his knife's blade away from Julek's neck and held up his hands in a nonthreatening manner. The other captain made no move, just kept grinning up at him with that mad smile of his. Ferox quickly stepped back, never taking his eyes of Julek, and didn't stop until he was well away from him.

"You're crazy," Ferox muttered, naked fear etched in his features. "You're fucking crazy!"

"I know you are, but what am I?" retorted Julek in a childish tone. His omni-blade dissipated with a ping and he stood there, his posture proudly proclaiming that he was the victor in their contest, the alpha predator laying low an impudent upstart.

Ferox walked away, muttering the word "crazy" over and over again like a warding prayer. He kept casting furtive looks over his shoulder, as though expecting Julek to come charging after him. When he had vanished from sight, the veteran clapped his hands together gleefully and looked around as if addressing a crowd only he could see.

"Well, that was fun. Who's up for a game of cards?"

#

For the next several hours, Adrien effectively barricaded himself in his quarters while he prepared for the mission. While he was reasonably sure that Ferox wouldn't try to ambush him again, he still aired on the side of caution. Fits of madness weren't exactly one-time occurrences around here anymore.

Fortunately, the time passed without incident, and at exactly two hours before sundown on the next day, Adrien's omni-tool chimed with a message from Colonel Tarkin. It was a brief, curt missive that said all selected soldiers for the recon mission were to report to the map room for a briefing.

Adrien soon found himself among a platoon-sized team of his fellow Turians. As was expected, none of them looked happy to be there. In fact, several of them wore expressions that said they were wondering what they had done to enrage the Spirits so badly that they had been chosen for a recon assignment.

In the middle stood Tarkin, who didn't look any happier than the soldiers he had picked. Beside him was a younger male Turian, his colony tattoos marking him as a native of Digeris. The insignia on his shoulder pad said that he was only a Trooper, but from the way he was standing with Tarkin, it was clear that he had a higher position that what his rank would permit. He looked familiar, but at the moment, Adrien couldn't place him.

Tarkin's half-blind gaze roamed over the gathered soldiers, regretful but resolute. He gave them a short nod of acknowledgement.

"All right, looks like everyone's here." He paused, as if collecting himself, and then went on. "First of all, I'm sorry as hell that you guys drew the short straw here. However, out of all the soldiers here, you lot are perhaps the best suited for this assignment.

"Your task is to scout out the enemy's front lines and see if there are any weaknesses that we can exploit. Given our current predicament, I would advise that you complete it as quickly as possible." He reached over and gripped the younger Turian's shoulder.

"This is Trooper Taeden Gilis. He's a born and bred native of this planet and is perhaps the most skilled commando we've got."

As the soldier stood at attention, Adrien suddenly recognized him. Taeden was a member of Julek's company, a light infantryman who favored a submachine gun over the typical assault rifles most others went with. By Adrien's estimation, he was among the few members of Julek's unit that was actually sane and not a homicidal maniac. Then again, that bar wasn't exactly high with that collection of head cases.

"I've given him total authority for the duration of this mission," said Tarkin, "so until you come back, you will obey his commands as if they came from the Primarch of Palaven himself. Is that clear?"

There was a low chorus of "Yes, sir" from the gathered soldiers, some with distinctly sullen tones.

"Good." Tarkin nodded at Taeden. "Trooper, you have the floor."

The young Turian took a step forward and surveyed the team he was to command. Though his eyes shone with a youthful light, there was cold steel behind them as well. It was a clear reminder that, in spite of his low rank, he was a hardened veteran and that, if nothing else, demanded respect.

"Listen up," he said without preamble. The steel in his eyes was mirrored in his voice. "While I'm sure I don't need to remind you all that recon missions are dangerous, in this theater, it's even more perilous. So, while I don't have the time to train you to be masters of recon, I'll lay out a few cardinal rules." He held up one talon.

"Rule number one: stay together and nobody, and I mean nobody, goes anywhere alone. Everyone must have at least one partner watching their backs at all times, no matter what. If you have to answer the call of nature, you're going to have someone shadowing you through the whole trip." A second talon joined the first.

"Rule number two: if you hear anything that sounds like a cry for help, ignore it. It might sound like a wounded soldier, a woman screaming in terror, or even an infant wailing, but odds are it's a trap that the enemy is waiting to spring."

One of the soldiers spoke up. "But what if it's real?"

Taeden shrugged. "Then that's their bad luck. We don't go searching for survivors anymore; it's too much of a risk." Without so much as a pause, he resumed talking.

"Rule number three: regard every nook and cranny as a possible hiding place for an enemy unit, no matter how unlikely it might seem. Those beasts of theirs might not look it, but they can hide very well and are perfectly capable of sneaking up on you. The Hueys themselves are even better at ambushes, so don't be careless."

Adrien had honestly expected there to be some snorts of derision from his fellows that this mere trooper was instructing them to basically have common sense, but there wasn't so much as a sniff. Apparently, the taste of battle they had gotten beforehand had knocked out any sort of self-confidence they might have had previously. It was actually a bit spooky.

"Finally, rule number four: unexpected things are going to happen. There's no way around that. When they do, nobody takes unnecessary risks. Stay calm and collected, and with any luck you'll live through it." Taeden looked around the group of soldiers. "Any questions?"

There were none, and Taeden nodded once more. "In that case, I suggest you make any last-minute preparations before we get underway. I can't say how long we'll be out there, but expect it to be at least a day or two." He checked the time on his omni-tool.

"We'll meet at the main entrance of the bunker in one hour, on the dot." He glanced up at the group of soldiers as if daring them to contradict him. When no one did, he spoke his last words in a solemn tone fit for a eulogy.

"Then, we head out."

AN: Taeden Gilis belongs to Blood Raven, who has been immeasurably charitable with his input.