Hourly Challenge: Something that happens in a cutscene
a/n: A young Marnuck soldier reviews how extremely disappointing his tour of duty has been so far. He's not even looking forward to dinner. Then "No. EX 01" starts playing.
Spoilers to "Reporting for Duty" (among other things).
All the good things belong to Monolith Soft, including the God of the Graveyard.
The God of the Graveyard would not be pleased, he knew that much.
The young Marnuck frowned at the remaining captive and tried to ignore the pain in his left jaw, at the lower corner where it met his right one. He'd been punched there during the mission, and he was fairly certain he'd lose a tooth, maybe two. Eating dinner tonight would be agony. He probably wouldn't even be able to manage soup, even though he was already nagged by hunger. He surreptitiously flexed his toes, inwards, outwards, the back one, then the front four again. He didn't want anyone to notice his disquiet.
Thinking about the Great God usually gave him comfort, but today it wasn't helping. He'd always loved contemplating the shining balance of sacrificial tribute: add so much blood weight to the holy scales and your destiny rose that much higher and the great god smiled that much more sharply upon your life and death. It didn't hurt that your reward wasn't delayed until you yourself were sacrificed to the God's needs. The young Marnuck had done well on his exams and been placed with this advance unit, where he had been given the promise of adding to his final weight at a gratifying pace.
Except today's mission had been botched from beginning to end, and that end hadn't even arrived, he suspected. His squad had been sent to capture an isolated group of aliens scuttling across the sands of Sylvalum. The target had been ridiculously lightly armed, rushing between a Nopon caravan and a small encampment on the far side of the lake, and his team had surrounded them with ease. Soft aliens, always depending on their mechanized fortresses for success. Stripped of those machines, they were useless. Not that he wouldn't enjoy such a weapon; enjoy it, ha, he'd take it to their gates and see how long their city remained standing. Point was, the aliens were easy pickings and his team had still managed to lose half of them, slipping through their fingers like water. The escapees had been injured, he'd swear on it, but half measures of blood weight were no better than sewage.
Part of his soul wailed that it wasn't his team's fault. Surely some of the blame went to the Milsaadi observer that had initially sent them out with the foulest of instructions, "Capture the targets alive." The buzzing mechanical voices of the Milsaadi were enough to give him the creeps in normal conditions, but to hear that perversion spoken by their so-called ally was enough to turn his stomach. None of their quarry would have escaped if they hadn't been crippled by that command. None would have been delivered alive to the base, true, but certainly none would have been lost. And the God of the Graveyard would have been fully pleased.
They might as well have done it and faced the displeasure of the Milsaadi. As soon as they'd dragged their pathetic prize through the fortress gates, two Prone had popped off and slaughtered half of the survivors. He hadn't been on guard duty, thank the Mischief Twins of Sunset and Sunrise, and wasn't going to face the questioning that came from that mistake. Let his fellow teammates face the exacting displeasure of the Milsaadi. Gods, this station was hardly the reward he'd thought at the beginning, filled with as impure a mix of allies as he would never hope to work with again. At least there weren't any of the prideful cat folk.
They'd left one captive (he gagged at the word, even in his mind, or maybe it was the ache in his jaw) with the Milsaadi executioner, the one who'd set them on this disheartening mission. It was already too injured to be a full tribute, so he was glad to be rid of the reminder of their greater failure. Which left them with one alien. One stinking subject whose blood weight would go to his commander's ranking alone, he just knew it.
He touched the join between his jaws and winced. It already felt hot and puffy. He was likely to lose teeth on both sides. These aliens were unclean. Their weakness was probably protected by poison. The captive made a barking noise and hunched lower. He didn't think it was a hostile act, probably a cry of pain or maybe the creature was trying to beg in their weird manner. His own people knew fairly little about the Ganglion's enemy, and cared less. Their appearance made him squirm almost as much as Milsaadi voices, but in a watery way. They reminded him of something, he wasn't sure what.
He knew exactly what. They reminded him of his first bunkmate, the one that would not keep quiet even when lights out had long passed. A religious zealot and in the end completely insane. While he himself had always found comfort in the God of the Graveyard, as was natural, his bunkmate had been a freak for every second and third level god of the pantheon. Always a new whispered devotion, always an excited explanation of benevolence. He'd been glad at first when the man had settled on one single god to praise, but the depths of his obsession had been worse than the previous scattered nonsense. He'd whispered to him, over and over, about the Crone of the Bowl, the Kindly Auntie, that held a bowl filled to the rim ... a trough, he corrected himself, have no doubt about it, that slopped an unholy mix of milk, water, and animal blood weight, talk about a perversion, onto all below, not evenly and not by merit, but always first to those most lacking.
Disgusting. He'd rather meet the God of the Graveyard with a pan empty of tribute than go as a beggar. Even if it meant an afterlife of despair. He assured himself that this was righteous, and flexed his sore jaw again. The alien cowered and whimpered.
His bunkmate had been taken away shortly after they had attacked the alien city. He hadn't been the one to denounce him; someone else had done him the kindness. At first, he'd been nervous. Would the authorities think he was a supporter? He'd had a few worrisome days, wondering if the fellow would denounce him in turn, but time passed and nothing further was said. It had been a relief to be free of the madman. Still, he wondered. Was this posting proof of unspoken punishment? Was this mission?
The last night they were together, his bunkmate had whispered that their lack of combat during the attack on the city was proof that the Crone knew they were worthy already. That they did not need to demonstrate loyalty to the Great God because they already carried his mother's favor. That their exile to this worthless planet with the most hapless of leaders and fighting a doomed campaign was proof that their reward was assured afterwards, because they were certainly not receiving it here and now.
The open criticism of their Ganglion masters had thrilled and terrified the young Marnuck. It was for the best that the madman had been taken, imprisoned, silenced. Surely he had been executed by now. No one missed such a crazed voice.
The captive looked up, toward the door. He croaked out words, ones that the Marnuck assumed were names. The guard swerved his massive head and fury filled him a the sight. An insult stood at their doorstep: an alien rescue party no better than children. Two were literal children, one a Nopon of all things. One stood in delicate armor, finely detailed but no match for his gun. At the back stood one who looked more respectable but without any balance. And the last one, stepping to the front, he was the final insult. He was garbed in soft cloth, with a sword made of unfinished metal. A old man, surely, for he was weathered and armed only for ceremony, who would try to beg for mercy or peace or even friendship. The Marnuck would have spat at the thought if his jaw hadn't ached.
His commander greeted the Earth alien as was right, with disgust and impatience. The Marnuck guard smiled, although it pained him. He awaited the coming combat. Not even his commander could hog all the tribute. The young man hoped he would face the strongest one, standing at the edge of the door.
Mist filled the room. The guard hadn't seen the aliens launch a gas canister, couldn't spot it rolling on the floor, but his vision was definitely blurred. He wasn't quite sure how the old alien could run so quickly at his leader, or why there hadn't been a struggle. He wouldn't be able to explain, but in his defense he had immediately dropped to the ground in order to dodge the bullets from his own teammate's gun. His irritation at the friendly fire vanished as he watched them being impaled as a stack on the alien's ceremonial weapon. He showed admirable cool and returned fire but somehow the alien almost disarmed him with ... he really wasn't sure. A projectile? The alien had vanished and before he could recover, his weapon had disintegrated in his hands.
His last thought was that his jaw no longer ached and that he wouldn't mind drinking from the bowl of a kindly Auntie.
a/n: Best cut scene of the ENTIRE GAME BAR NONE. I DO NOT NEED XCX2 I JUST NEED A PORT, AN EVENT THEATER, AND THE ABILITY TO LOOP IT. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (Why yes I haven't managed to stop replaying the opening battle of XCDE why do you ask?)
Crone of the Bowl and the Mischief Twins are my own humble addition to the Marnuck religion, the rest is fairly canon. Took longer than an hour but I do not care, this was too fun for words.