Settling dust, fractured rubble and stone skittering in the haze of the cloud of dirt and debris stirred up, it was a scene of disaster from a civilian standpoint, but the mounded pile that severed several city blocks in two that was the remnants of the manufacturing facility was a thing of beauty to the Irken Empire. A crushing blow had been dealt to the Vortian war machine by a select few of the Armada's finest, almost guaranteeing that the front would shift in favor of the Irken with less hardware making it there…but it had come at a cost.
"Commander, respond, what's your status?" Corr called into his helmet comm., trying to raise their commanding officer, "Vult, please respond!"
The rest of the unit had gotten clear of the debris, but the damage wrought was clear as the cloud was settling, piles of fractured masonry and steel buries many smaller buildings for a few blocks easily. Volx tugged on the Captain's belt to get his attention being noticeably shorter.
"We need to get going, Sir…Vort regulars are sure to swarm on the area, we need to get out of here before we get surrounded. Vard already gave Command a sitrep."
He sighed, knowing he had to take command and order them so, the longer he dwelled here, the more jeopardy he put everyone else in. Half-tempted to order everyone to begin picking through the rubble to find him where he last saw Vult, he gives the silent hand signal for everyone to move out in patrol formation, "…come on…still have a war to win. Move out."
Though silent, everyone present in the unit was more than agreeing with Corr's mindset, noting the Irken Elite that were still on their feet and amongst the living to move, there was a particular individual that wasn't present, either. The Vortian Nightmare's right-hand man of sorts, his second-in-command was looking around as the fatigued bunch of soldiers began shuffling along to move out as well and make it back to Empire-occupied territory.
"…where's the Captain?"
Time passed, minutes gave unto hours, and later, well into the twilight hours or the evening. Save for the occasional shifting of rubble and the gentle wind, the area was oddly serene and silent, all except the distant ambience of battle as it continued to rage on the Vortian homeworld in its attempt to defend itself from the oppression of the Irken Empire. A former sprawling modern metropolis pristine and near-utopian in comparison to Irk's utilitarian and lifeless palette, Vort and its people were slowly seeing the beginning of the end of their reign as a free species. Their invading aggressors were void of emotion and at the pinnacle of biomechanical technology to further assist them in laying waste to all their people held dear. Their culture…their honor…they would be no more in due time, no matter how many Irken soldiers fell to their guns.
Distant echoes of firefights raging across the planet accompanied the symphony of a dying people and planet as they knew it. Vortian Defensive Forces in the area had long since moved on from the day's earlier traumatic failure. The line faltered without the support provided by the now-decimated factory. The battle was lost, holding their ground would be futile on such terms against the likes of the Empire. The Irken Elite and their unorthodox accompaniment of Spec Ops soldiers had accomplished their mission much to their dismay. Their success, however, had come at a steep price.
…or so assumed.
A sputtering cough, labored with pain and grit struggled for breath. An all-over ache of exhaustion and bruising throbbed at the surface of his emerald skin. Tired eyes behind his shattered visor fluttered open, only to be greeted by encompassing darkness. Was this death? Had he failed in his mission and returned to Processing for selection into a new PAK? No…it couldn't be. The pain was still present. His knee the worst culprit…he had been shot only moments before an entire building came crashing down atop him.
Wound aside…he was alive and on Vort…certainly to major pluses to be optimistic about.
Taking a moment to regain his bearings, mentally blocking out what pain his PAK's medical suites could not filter through sedatives and painkillers, his gaze panned up and down, to and fro. Establishing he was alive, albeit injured and seeing better days, the next step was to get free of his impromptu tomb. Vort would not be his grave, most certainly not a coffin made of twisted metal and broken concrete sprinkled with shattered glass.
His attention landed on a pinhole of light…a way out. Focused with renewed vigor, ignoring the protest of his worn and battered body, he pulled himself up inch-by-inch, navigating the treacherous terrain of rubble. One errant shift of the wrong piece of debris and all his efforts would be for naught. What miraculous, protective cocoon that managed to form would cave in, taking him with it. Carefully, three-digit hands firmly grasped solid bits of stone and steel, climbing closer and closer towards the shaft of light.
Squinting as the first of the fading day's rays shone directly on his weary, filthy face, he pushed on, clawing at the pinhole of light. Slowly, but steadily, the hole grew and grew. With it, more light filtered in. It was only then Vult realized just how much time had passed. Their mission had expired hours ago…several hours at that. Yet another violent, blood-soaked day on Vort as the war raged across the planet was drawing to a close.
As the Commander emerged from his artificial sarcophagus, wary of his surroundings, his mind raced as he came to terms with what transpired. The facility was no more, a resounding success of his unit in conjuncture with Captain Saro's Irken Elite…Saro…the civilians…it all came rushing back like a tidal wave. Shaking his head free of the frantic screams and panic of those caught in his path, Vult forced himself to bury it for the time being. He had more pressing matters to contend with.
"...it has been hours…I didn't expect any of them to expose themselves for my sake to only find a mangled corpse," He mentally lulled over, carefully navigating the mounds of rubble. Exposed, alone, and with night falling fast, he needed to find secure shelter before any Vortian soldiers found him. "…no rifle…no sidearm…my helmet is damaged, with it, comms and navigation…deep in enemy territory and all alone…nothing I haven't trained for or expected…"
Remaining calm was vital. Panicking would only earn him the expected fate of death. Either a quick and painless one via a well-placed gunshot…or risking capture and interrogation for a slow and antagonizing demise at the hands of the very species his superiors sought to conquer. Neither was terribly appealing to the Commander in the slightest. Putting his situation into perspective cleared his mind in favor of analytical thinking. He was alive, drawing breath on his own power and unharmed save for a healing graze of a gunshot on the outside of his right knee.
Carefully navigating the strewn rubble, mangled metal, and broken glass, the displaced Shadow Striker masked his movements. Light on his feet and moving swiftly from cover-to-cover, he refused to remain out in the open for longer than necessary. Regardless of his unit's actions that brought the structure down, enemy forces could still be in the area.
Odds stacked against him aside, Vult took solace in night falling fast. The cover of darkness would work to his advantage, his only ally of the moment. Something the Shadow Striker took pride in. The ability to move unseen, unheard, and undetected…when armed and equipment wasn't malfunctioning. With no other choice, he had to press on without his cloak and other gear damaged in the collapse. It was fortunate a vital aspect of their continued training beneath his guidance was to never fully rely on technology. A good soldier did not use his gear as a crutch, but to enhance inane ability. The Commander only hoped his was sharpened enough to see him through.
Lacking his combat mask through the dust-choked air that continued to settle long in the aftermath, his throat threatened to retaliate with a cough. Unhindered by the faint discomfort of his spooch breathing tainted vapors, Vult's azure eyes locked onto an object a few short feet away. With renewed vigor, he approached, realizing just how fortunate his luck had just changed.
Partially buried and protruding was a standard-issue Vortian plasma rifle. Typical of their military, compact, lightweight, simple in design and operation, it took all of a few minutes to instruct even a civilian on using it effectively. Blocky and rectangular with a retractable, sliding stock, it had a distinct look to it. The Empire knew and understood its foes' armaments well. That went doubly-so for the Shadow Strikers. Unlike Spec Ops that refused to lay hands on enemy weapons, Vult and his unit were not going to pass up opportunity.
Moving a few chunks of concrete and twisted rebar, he unearthed the rifle. It had seen better days, but to be expected being caught in the maelstrom that was the building collapse. Being remotely functional at this point was all the Commander asked for. However, it did not come free with a simple tug. Perplexed at the resistance, Vult inspected further by leaning to look under the weapon.
Clinging coldly to the rifle's grip was its former owner, a Vortian soldier given his tattered and bloodied uniform exposing grey skin and similarly-constructed three-digit claws. Unfazed by the sight as he remained in survival mode, Vult unceremoniously pried the soldier's unfeeling hand from it to lay claim to the foreign rifle.
"…I need this more than you do now," He concluded in thought, remaining ever-vigilant as he checked the weapon. Full power-cell…sights in alignment. It wasn't pretty, but it'd work. Something was better than nothing. He wasn't about to look a gift-beast in the mouth.
Rearmed and vertical, the Irken nestled the stock into his shoulder, weapon at-the-ready to engage if spotted. For now, he sought nothing more than to make it back to friendly forces without incident. This far behind enemy lines and alone, the last thing he favored was fighting against overwhelming numbers and superior firepower.
As Vult came to terms with his unfortunate predicament, Captain Corr and company solemnly soldiered on. The grim precession moved in patrol formation in front of the remnants of Saro's company of Irken Elite. Even hours after the fact, after a supposedly successful mission, none of the 9 surviving members of the Shadow Strikers could bring themselves to be pleased with their service and duty to the mighty Empire. The cost had been far too great.
"...I can't believe he's gone," Aero muttered, wincing and limping along with her tender ribs plaguing her still. Saro's sadistic actions hadn't helped matters any.
"Aero, please...don't." Sula softly responded, not wanting to chastise her friend on a fresh and painfully sensitive subject. It had been a long, terribly awful day, losing composure and mourning the loss of their commanding officer would do them no improvement on morale.
The taller, fully-matured female all-but-rounded on the Medical Officer. Behind her opaque visor of animosity, her brow furrowed in a combination of anger and guilt, neither of which enjoyed by the mechanic.
"So that's just it then, huh? He's gone and we move on just like that?" She all but demanded of the meek woman. Like a frightened mouse at the adamant response, her gaze shifted away and towards the ground, exhaling shakily with a reaffirmed grip on her rifle. Anything to take her mind off of Vult's death and Aero's scathing questions.
"N-no...that isn't what I meant...I.." She managed, her overtly curly antenna drooping further down in her face in shame.
"Back off, Aero," Haxx surprisingly stepped in, briefly breaking formation to catch up to the taller female in front of him, acting as an organic wall between her and Sula. "It's not her fault, it's no one's...don't you remember what he always said? This is our job, it's what we do. Someone has to do it and it's us. We did it, risks aside, and we will keep doing it. Me, you, Sula, and everyone all know that. I know it hurts...hurts bad...but taking it out on each other isn't going to change the fact that he's gone. We keep doing what we do...we move forward. He's not forgotten, he lives on through all of us..."
As touching as his words were to the unit as a whole, Aero had nothing of it in her grief-stricken mind. Huffing incredulously with a forced, sarcastic laugh, changing her focus to the unarmed Heavy Weapons specialist.
"Not anyone's fault, huh? What were you paying attention to other than the Lieutenant's c'hurta?" She spat, gesturing to Corr leading on-point with her unarmed hand. "...Corr could've saved him. He was RIGHT there! Ran back, picked him up, drug him, anything...but he didn't. He tucked antenna and ran with us. You can bet I would have went back for him without a second though."
"...then you would have joined him in death, Sergeant," The accused Captain plainly spoke, lacking malice in defense through their helmet radios. His tone alone seemed to simmer any boiling-over attitudes from Aero and company. "...Hate me if you must, but I considered it...I wanted to...and in that moment, I chose survival over heroics. Am I a coward for wanting to make sure as many of us made it out alive in my duties to honor him? Maybe, maybe not...that is something for my conscience to determine..."
Pausing momentarily, he turned while keeping pace, looking over his shoulder back at his squadmates...his unit now in the wake of the Commander's passing.
"...I was the last one to see him before the facility came down...I watched with my own two eyes in that moment as he was taken by the tidal wave of stone and metal... He told me to get you all clear of the same fate…to protect everyone else over him. Like Sergeant Haxx said...all we can do is push on and move forward. There is nothing we can do for the Commander now other than ensure his death wasn't in vain and we take this wretched rock in due time."
As Corr finished addressing them, merely turning his head to face forward once more, the Mechanic's head lowered in shame realizing she was upset and passing blame everywhere imaginable, anything to alleviate the heavy pain of loss hanging on her heart. In her own selfish emotions, she hadn't considered how their second-in-command felt. Corr witnessed it all first-hand...to look into Vult's eyes just as the cascading rubble consumed him. She understood how tight a bond Corr shared with him being groomed for the possibility of this very moment becoming an unwanted reality.
"...'m sorry, Captain, I didn't th-" She finally mustered, digging deep for humility in spite of how quick she was to accuse moments ago.
"Think nothing of it, Aero," Corr assured solemnly, "I understand, you need not explain yourself to me. As trying as this is, we will overcome it. It is our duty...it is what the Commander would want of us. We have come this far together, we will continue to do so unto our dying breaths. It is how he would want it."
Spoken or otherwise, the consensus among the Shadow Strikers seemed to be in agreement. They hadn't been selected randomly. Vult chose them based on their expertise and ability to survive...ability to overcome. They would overcome this just like any other challenge placed before them. As personal and deeply-demoralizing as it was to be struck where it hurt most, where no armor could defense or weapon could protect them...they would prevail.
Desiring an immediate change of subject, even if to momentarily forget the casualty of the day, Haxx cleared his throat in preparation to speak. With Volk's leg slowly but surely healing to the point of her to limp on and without his primary weapon, he was thankful for an uneventful evening. Tired from bearing the burden he sowed himself and unable to effectively fight off any enemy save for a borrowed sidearm, Haxx was effectively spent and useless. Not that he minded in the slightest assisting his ally. Despite his mistakes and grievous lack of oversight that got on others' nerves…he was dependable. Not the brightest, nor most respectful, but he could be relied on in the thick of things when it mattered most. Everything valued in a soldier…not so much off-the-clock when forced to be around him in enclosed quarters.
"...yeah, well, for your information, I wasn't starin' at nobody's c'hurta...Volx has been a pain in mine carting her around like some beast of burden, just so you know." He commented with a smirk, only to jump at the force and sound of a sizable chunk of stone flung hard at the back of his helmet. Wheeling around, it didn't take long to determine the culprit as the shorter female in question. He could almost feel her oily black glare from behind her visor. "Hey, I was kiddin', seriously! Small as you are though, it wouldn't hurt to lose a few pounds."
Rem, much like her squadmates, had been silently somber up until now…up until Haxx continued to press his luck and Volx's buttons at the same time. It was painfully obvious as to why he was doing it, they all knew. She masked a stifled laugh nevertheless. His boldness was only matched by his stupidity. A byproduct of that happened to be humor even in the darkest of moment.
Moments like this is what Vult would have wanted to continue in his passing.
"…suppose there's one thing we can be somewhat thankful for…" Rha hesitantly began, garnering the group's attention as they marched on, destined back for friendlier places in control of the Empire.
"Being optimistic is always a plus in times like this," Vard added timidly as his tiny legs waddled along, barely able to keep pace with his much taller company. "…it helps…a little…sometimes." He added nervously before gesturing to the scarred Demolitions Expert. "…c-carry on, sorry for interrupting."
Offering the short Communications Technician a faint smirk of assurance in not minding, Rha continued.
"As I said…we can be thankful for one thing coming from all of this," he continued, trying his best to lighten the mood.
"Please, do tell," Rem pursued, speaking for the consensus in an incessant manner. As hilarious as it was to watch Haxx get smacked around by a female half his height, she favored more engaging conversation.
"…Saro didn't come out alive, either. The price was high, but lookin' at it that way…that vodeto got what was comin' to him…At least we can go on knowing the Commander didn't go alone and managed to take out that vile ikvedo c'hurato with him in company."
"Yeah, no kiddin'" Aero huffed, her blood boiling at the mere mentioning of his name. "I know we aren't the most cuddly-cutesy types of people in the universe, but I am almost ashamed to be Irken knowing Saro is one, too. After what he said…how he treated us…what he did to the Commander…to me…I hope his death was as slow and antagonizing as possible just to feel an ounce of the unnecessary pain and suffering he's caused others. Maybe some of Vort's critters are pecking out his only organic eye socket now as we speak." She mused, almost taking solace in knowing that disgusting man was taken by the same debris their commanding officer was.
Such morbid, dark thoughts coming from the cheeriest and notoriously optimistic, carefree spirit among them did not go unnoticed. While disturbing, even they could find common ground to agree on with her.
"…do you really think he's dead though?" Vard innocently questioned as he peered towards the much taller, fully-matured female of the unit.
"Well, yeah…he's got to be…if the Commander was taken by it, so would he. No way that jerkface is as tough as him," the Mechanic responded, her confidence waning slightly at the mere notion that through some means, even sheer stubbornness alone that notorious soldier surviving sent chills down her spine.
"…right?"
As the Shadow Strikers dragged themselves back towards friendlier territory in somber morale, their commanding officer was alive and well. "Well" being relative and alive quite possibly a temporary arrangement with the factors in play. As resourceful as ever, Vult did not hesitate to pilfer any spare ammunition for his borrowed rifle of enemy origin. Knowing prior to the operation of what sort of enemy strength was to be expected, it was unsurprising to find dozens of twisted, mangled Vortian corpses among the debris. Some protruding like grotesquely-planted flowers. Others barely visible with single limbs extended as if clawing at one last vain attempt of survival, forever frozen in the moment. Such a horrible way to die.
Vult was yet to determine if surviving the ordeal was a good thing or not given the circumstances. Surrounded by nothing but dead Vortian soldiers with naught but a stolen weapon and his intuition to rely on, the odds did not favor him. Nothing but gray-tinged, violet-blooded limbs and antenna kept him company. Wait...antenna? Yes, it was antenna! Irken antenna! Zeroing in on the break in monotony like a hawk, the Commander rushed forward as fast as his feet would quietly carry him.
A multitude of thoughts washed over his stress-wracked, fatigued mind. Was it one of his own? One of his 9 hand-selected soldiers he poured so much time, energy, and effort into honing to near-perfection? One of his brothers-in-arms he prided camaraderie over quantity with an individualized and personal approach? The thought of them losing their leader would have been devastating enough, but anymore was far too great. The sick feeling in his spooch only grew all the stronger at there mere notion.
"No...no, no, no...please, no," Vult played over and over in his mind as he magnetically secured the Vortian plasma rifle to his back before dropping to his knees and furiously digging at the rubble near the protruding stalks of barbed black. Plain in appearance with angled barbs, the Commander determined they belonged to a male Irken...optimistically, it meant Aero, Sula, Volx, and Rem survived...or he assumed so and hoped to Irk that was the case.
Before losing his mind to "what ifs", his efforts paid off finally. Gripping one last, large piece of crumbling stone, Vult gave it a mighty lift, heaving it off to the side. Somewhat winded from his frantic digging, all he could do was look down in disbelief and awe at what he saw...at who he saw.
Saro.
The sadistic Captain seemed no worse for wear other than a series of minor scratches and bruises from being buried. Alive, was yet to be determined. Then and there, the Commander lulled over his options. To even bother with the man responsible for driving him into a blind rage and harming innocent civilians...to attempt to resuscitate him in any capacity after directly harming Aero. The constant belittling, taunting, and false sense of superiority through insults combined with irrefutable witnessing of atrocities by his hands...Vult honestly considered going on without even bothering to check for vital signs. A small part of him, the deep-seeded rage that only Saro knew how to drag out kicking and screaming into the light within the normally reserved and humble Commander wanted to take some enjoyment in the Captain's fate. To know one of the worst Irken to ever draw breath had finally been silence.
Then again, logically, together they would have a better chance of making it back to safer pastures. Even Vult was not so cold and heartless to leave a fellow Irken soldier up dookie creek without a paddle...even if that soldier happened to be the infamous Captain Saro of the Irken Elite. Leaving him to his fate, should he even be alive and ever awake would have made him no better. In the end...Saro would have still won by compromising his moral compass.
Reluctantly with a sigh, Vult leaned forward over Saro's supine form in his concrete coffin, pressing a single digit of his right hand to the Captain's throat. A pulse...steady, not weak, not strong...but steady. Alive...unfortunately. Despite hating the man with every fiber of his mortal coil, he was not going to pass up the opportunity to give himself an evening advantage over the Vortian soldiers in the area. Saro was many things...many horrible things, but he was still a highly-trained soldier of the Irken Elite. A competent leader, not so much...arrogant and prideful, yes...but a trained killer, most certainly.
Moving his hand to Saro's shoulder, Vult gripped, giving him a forceful shake.
"...Saro..." He spoke, his tone low and hushed, wary of any enemy soldiers in the vicinity overhearing him. With another insisting shake with more force, his tone grew equally so, "Saro, Get up."
Surprisingly enough, with his uniform torn and tattered, emerald bloodstains, and the matching scratches and scrapes about his form, the Captain stirred faintly with a groan. Breathing and responsive...of all the Irken to survive a building being dropped on them, it had to be the one he hated the most.
"Whhaaa...whaaaat..." Saro blearily responded, squinting with effort to focus on the figure hovering over him in the gloom of darkness. "...wwho are you? What's going on?"
Vult gave him another forceful shake. Responding with a firm grasp of the Commander's hand, Saro threw it off with a furrowing of his brow in annoyance.
"Enough! I am awa-" He managed before Vult's hand clasped over his mouth tightly.
"Shut your ikveda mouth," the Commander hissed, looking over his shoulders, ever-vigilant. "...story time later. Right now, I need you off your c'hurta and on your feet. We need to get out of here before a patrol finds us."
Finally coming to and fully alert, recent memories came flooding back. Working with Vult and his "special" unit at the beck-and-call of the Almighty Tallest...the factory...and the ensuing destruction of said factory. It was early afternoon when that happened though...now it is nightfall...how long had he been unconscious? With his company of Irken Elite nowhere to be found, likewise for Vult's misfit parade of smeet-brained defectives, the reality of the situation quickly settled in. A smug smirk of satisfaction tugged at the sharpened corners of the Captain's mouth.
"...so you can't make it back without my help, is that is?"
Unamused at Saro's lack of courtesy when he could have just as easily left him buried and to his fate at Vortian hands, Vult stood to his feet with a stonily-set glare, quite visible with his ruined battle mask and visor.
"Differences aside, now is not the time for this," Vult made abundantly clear, unkindly tossing a second Vortian plasma rifle into his spooch, audible knocking the wind from Saro's body. "...if you want to make it out of here alive, come with me and follow my lead. Otherwise, stay here and take your chances. Those are your options."
Almost physically disgusted as the foreign piece of military equipment was thrust into his hands...how could Vult so willingly soil his hands with inferior technology of their enemies? It was degrading...but...seeing how he lost his own rifle in the collapse, beggars couldn't be choosers. Slowly standing to his feet, with a brief dusting off of his tattered uniform, Saro drew a deep, irritated breath.
"I never took you as one for ultimatums with your bleeding spooch for our enemies," Saro scoffed, sighing as he checked the power-cell of his rifle, ensuring Vult wasn't setting him up for death with an empty magazine. "...with my options limited, I suppose we have a mutual goal of survival...for now. I could just as easily make it back by myself without you." He boldly proclaimed as he shoved past the Commander with a shoulder into his form.
Ignoring the unnecessary physical contact from Saro, Vult merely turned with it, narrowing his icy azure glare at the overzealous Irken. Keeping his comments to himself for the time being, the Commander chose silence until the pair made their way out of the rubble-strewn streets and into more clear, level terrain. The urban environment didn't offer a lot of choice with narrow corridors of glass and steel…deathtraps to any force movements, ripe for ambush. Vortians maliciously exploited Empire tactics by picking off soldiers from the buildings with guerilla-style tactics…the same tactics Vult and his unit employed with resounding success. The same tactics that the "mighty" Empire was too stubborn or stupid to utilize, favoring a grand show of force with overwhelming, expendable numbers.
As the pair of displaced Irken soldiers, separated from their respective units, found a moment's reprieve in a shrouded plaza of an office building, Vult jogged up after sweeping their rear, ensuring they weren't being followed, grasping the Captain's shoulder.
"Hold up here for a moment," the Commander whispered with an insisting tug on Saro's Irken Elite uniform. Sighing in annoyance with great reluctance, he turned to face the source of his ire.
"What? What is it this time? Why are we stopping?" He demanded, gesturing towards the street. "You said it yourself, we need to get moving before we're discovered…unless you WANT to embrace the filthy horned freaks with open arms. That's treason…you know that, right?" Saro needled with a sadistic smirk.
"We'll get moving soon enough, patience," Vult assured him with a deeper breath, regaining his strength from navigating the treacherous terrain. "…couple of things…assessment of our equipment. My helmet was damaged in the collapse, with it, my communications, navigation, and encryption. None of my long or short-wave transmission gear is responsive. I lost my weapon and procured a couple of Vortian Defense Force rifles…any of your comms responsive?"
Rolling his eyes as if unbelieving a supposed officer of the Armada was so thick to believe their equipment was prone to failure. They were the best, by default, so was their equipment. His radio never failed him before, why would it now?
"Of course they're responsive, you idiot," Saro chided, unceremoniously yanking the device from his belt before looking it over. The protruding shard of metal that formerly reinforced concrete spoke otherwise. "…no matter," He shrugged, tossing the ruined device without incident as if wasted refuse. "We are Irken, the finest soldiers the universe has ever seen. I'm not going to let a bunch of peace-loving, goat-legged vodeto wastes of genetic material intimidate me like you."
"…so I take it you know what direction to go in then, do you?" Vult pursued deadpan and lacking amusement by his theatrics and abuse of Empire property. The query alone seemed to deflate Saro's throbbing ego on the spot as he wheeled around, daring the Commander to speak further on the matter.
"Are you implying I don't know how to navigate, Commander?" He sarcastically addressed. "Of course I know where I am…we're behind enemy lines and we need to find…less hostile surroundings."
Vult strongly resisted the urge to clasp his face in aggravation at his sheer stupidity only masked by bravado. Headstrong and arrogant, like a typical Irken…a typical, good little drone that the Tallest wanted. It was amazing he survived so long as one of the regulars in the Irken Elite himself.
"…let me worry about that. Nothing finding a functioning communications array and a map won't fix," He finally mustered, struggling to not let pent-up annoyance filter into his tone.
"Yes, yes, I will allow you to feel important," Saro waved off with a smug smirk, his artificial eye projected on a miniature screen, the haphazard replacement to the one the man before him ripped out with his bare hand years prior. "…so there, situation assessed…what else was there that you thought so important to discuss here and now before continuing on?"
"You wounded?"
"As if these pathetic weaklings of a species could hurt me…" Saro scoffed at the notion despite emerging from a concrete tomb thanks to Vult only minutes prior. "…to answer your question, nothing aside from a few minor scratches and brui-"
WHACK!
The Irken Elite Captain found himself cut-off mid-sentence with an interruption in the shape of Vult's cybernetic fist crashing into his jaw. Sucker-punched with the force like the Massive itself smashing into his face, Saro quickly found himself dazed in a heap on the ground with the taste of blood thick in his mouth. As the haze of confusion wore off at what had precisely happened, he found himself looking up at Vult, glaring daggers as he maintained contact throughout a turn of his head to spit a shock of collected emerald onto the ground.
"…and secondly, that was for Aero and those civilians," Vult made abundantly clear, "…you want to make something of it, we can. I will move on with or without you, dead or alive…it is nothing compared to what you deserve, but I refuse to stoop to your level for petty revenge. No matter how tall you are, Captain…you will always be beneath me."
Despite striking Saro with force, Vult offered his hand nevertheless to Saro. Naturally, he eyed the gesture with suspicion as he rubbed at the corner of his bleeding mouth. The man had just punched him, now he offered assistance and gratitude? Was this another ploy?
"Stand with me or against me, it's that simple," Vult added at his apprehension, shaking his hand insistently for him to take. "I won't let the likes of you keep me from reuniting with my soldiers. I've come too far and worked too hard to make them into what they are now and watch that all fall apart without me. Your men need you, too. You may not be a good leader as far as I'm concerned, but they think so. That's enough. They need you like my soldiers need me. Get up."
Huffing at his overly jingoistic words, Saro ignored the offered hand up, swatting it away as he collected himself and his rifle.
"…the sooner we do that, the less I see of you…lead on."