"I am afraid that is all I have time for this evening, Cadets," Corr's weathered voice sighed from behind his desk, wearing a weak smile. "Unfortunately even the simplest of things tire me in old age. I envy your youth at times." He added with a chuckle as he stood to his feet.
"What about the Commander and Saro? What happened to them? Did they make it back?" Digits all but pleaded of the retired soldier's tale. He wasn't the only one that was on the edge of his seat wanting to know what happened next.
Never in their young lives had they expected to hear such accounts of bravery shrouded beneath nearly-impenetrable veils of secrecy and conspiracy. It all but blew their collective minds to know their elder...this old, withering Irken...was a former special forces operator. Not just any operator, but a member of an elite sect that was of notoriety and mystery all in the same. Many had heard rumors of the Shadow Strikers, but very few, if any, knew anything beyond that. The Republic never officially confirmed or denied their existence, adding fuel to the fires of conspiracy. Corr's recounting of events only fanned those flames into a roiling inferno for three very lucky Cadets of the Republic Armada Academy.
"Of course they made it back, genius," Joker chided his friend with a rolling of his eyes. "Commandant Vult's statue is out there on the parade grounds...the Republic Armada exists as it is today because of him...just never thought they were one in the same. I mean...the stories about him, not including this one, of course...just how he was...I never imagine him being a black-ops operative."
"The very same element we all used to our advantage," Corr concluded as he hobbled with the aid of his cane for the door. "...enemy and ally alike are at their most vulnerable when taking us for face value."
"Commander Corr?" DZ cautiously began as the trio of friends took the hint that tonight's story time had come to conclusion as they followed after the elder Irken.
"Hmm? Yes...DZ, what is it?"
"...Captain Saro...the Vortian Nightmare..." He hesitantly began, grasping Corr's full attention at the mere utterance of the name. "...why did Vult save him? After everything he's done...after everything's known for...and especially after what he did to Aero and made Vult do what he did...why?"
Silence fell over the quartet of Irken as Corr's gaze drifted elsewhere in the dimly-lit amphitheater of a classroom. A question that he and just about anyone else privy to the subject in the unit had asked themselves many times over. Vult was probably guilty of that as well. Of all the Armada soldiers that could have survived that ordeal with him...it was Saro. After all that wretched excuse of an Irken Elite had done in the name of "glory" for the Tallest...Vult still managed to find the compassion to
"That..." the retired soldier turned instructor began with a small sigh, "...is something only the Commander himself could answer. If I knew where he was or if he was, if he is even still alive...I would likely ask him the same thing just as I did all those years ago. It amazes me still at the great lengths he went to save that man's life despite the atrocities he committed..."
"How can you tolerate these cowardly tactics?" Saro sneered in a hiss as he followed the wretched Commander. "We spent all night moving from one pile or filthy rocks to the next, not a single disgusting freak in sight. If they were anywhere nearby, we would have seen at least one by now. They have pulled back and cower before the Empire's might as we march forward to victory."
The more time Vult spent in the Captain's company, the more difficult it became to not shoot him himself. Certainly frowned upon to kill one's own faction and people that normally resulted in deactivation for treason, the Commander had a feeling that the Control Brains would be inclined to overlook that with leniency if Saro was the victim.
"These tactics are keeping us alive and unseen," Vult plainly spoke as if it were common sense. Saro did not have Spec Ops training, so naturally he was more a traditional soldier in standing his ground and fighting the enemy on even terms. The Shadow Strikers took Spec Ops training and ran an entire marathon with it by including influence elements from elsewhere in the galaxy. Indirect conflict resolution, as it were known as a strategy on paper...out of sight, out of mind, disappear before the smoke clears. Tactics of misdirection, confusion, and sabotage to keep the enemy off-balance and unable to effectively counter-attack or recover. Destroying them before they even became a threat. Simple and sound...such was not the Irken way, unfortunately.
"When are we going to stop and rest? My spooch hungers," Saro declared as he kept pace with Vult's flighty movements. For someone wearing considerably more armor than the average Irken soldier, he did not seem terribly affected by it. "How do you know we are even remotely close to finding this communications array you speak of?"
Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Vult forced an exhale to alleviate his stress as he stopped at the next outcropping of building debris in the war-torn street.
"You whine worse than a smeet straight out of the tank," he chastised, "...you can eat all you want once we get back to base. The longer we're out here, in the open, the more likely the chance we'll be spotted. Until then, shut up, suck it up, and watch our six."
Saro scoffed as he stood proudly.
"Please...we have likely been spotted a dozen times by now. Their cowardice affects their aim, they can barely hold weapons as it is, let alone engage one of the mighty Irken Elite...and whatever you consider yourself to be, which is beneath me."
Before Vult could lay into him verbally again in retaliation, the arrogant Captain willingly stepped out of cover, his hands aloft as he turned about in the streets with a smug sense of amusement about his face, daring all to lay eyes on him.
"Attention you inferior, horned wastes of organic matter!," He bellowed in defiance, his voice echoing distant in the sporadic silence only broken up by distant firefights. "I am Captain Saro of the Irken Elite! I have come to eradicate all those that oppose the mighty Empire and enslave those who succumb to the will of the Almighty Tallest! Lay down your weapons and you may live a wonderful life of servitude beneath your lords and masters! Feel the Irken might as I lay waste to your precious homeworld! Those that dare oppose me make yourselves known!"
Vult was awestruck at the sheer stupidity and lack of mental fortitude his Irken Elite counterpart held. The idiot was going to give them away! Entire companies of Vortian regulars would descend on them like an angry swarm of piranha ready to rend flesh from bone with an insatiable appetite for revenge.
Saro refused to return to cover, ignoring the safety provided as he stood in the open still, looking around with his arms outstretched, daring any and all to fire upon him. With an amused huff, his seemingly trademark smirk of arrogance never leaving his twisted maw as he turned back to Vult.
"See? They lack the courage to face us like true warriors...like Irken. Now, can we please move faster than a slorrbeast's pregnant gait since there's nothing but the wind out here?" The Captain requested, dropping his hand to his sides.
No sooner than his gloved and gauntleted hands clasped his thighs with emphasis at Vult, mocking his desire for discretion against their inferior adversaries, a white-hot streak of plasma sliced through the air faster than the eye could track. Slightly bluish in hue and compact, the lance of super-heated gas contained in a charged cloud of electrons found its target a split-second before the deafening crack of a long-range rifle shattered the brief silence between Saro's tirade and the shot itself.
It all happened so quickly, yet was painfully expected by the Commander. After all the commotion his moronic tag-along had attracted. He would be surprised if no fewer than three companies of the Vortian army would descend upon the area and scour every nook and cranny for them. He sat there, crouched safely behind cover as Saro's form fell limp, crumbling in a heap to the ground in silence. The fraction of a second he saw the shot, it likely pierced the Irken Elite Captain's skull…a lethal placement of a shot by a skilled marksman of a supposedly "inferior" species.
Vult faced a dilemma…to check Saro's status despite obvious signs of death with his still body lying in the street, his cybernetic eye strewn in broken shrapnel in a pool of blood and fluids from the device…or to flee the area and seek refuge elsewhere. Some Vortian sniper had did his people a great service and became a hero by killing such a notoriously sadistic Irken plaguing their people…and Vult did not feel terrible or in any way remorseful over the loss. It seemed his decision was made for him already as he cast one final, long look at Saro's body.
"…better you than me, Captain," he thought coldly as he slunk along the makeshift wall of rubble for a way off of the street. With a functioning weapon and distraction in the form of Saro's death by sniper, he may survive yet at his expense. At least his death was not in vain and surely someone in the universe mourned him…or it was quite possible that no one would miss the man in the slightest.
Without so much as a second glance, Vult quickly departed the area in favor of cover, seeking asylum from the formidable opposition that was sure to descend upon the area after all the commotion. His return delayed further thanks to Saro's mouth at the expense of having a second hold in his head to talk through. Only this one spoke nothing but silence as life departed his mortal coil.
"...so you belivin' any of this in the slightest?" Joker question of his compatriots as the trio of Republic Armada Cadets found themselves amidst a long, grueling pack run. Isolated from most of their fellow potential graduates and in the middle of nowhere, there was very little risk of anyone eaves dropping.
"Believe what? Commander Corr's story?" Digits queried in clarification.
"Yeah...I mean, I'm not sayin' that it isn't possibly true...but a lot of it seems awfully coincidental...and stuff."
"Of course I do," Digits quickly answered, focusing on controlling his breathing as his body cried in protest at the immense weight of equipment bearing on his frame. A full, simulated combat load and orders to move non-stop...one of the least enticing parts that the Republic conveniently left off of the recruitment pamphlet. "I've heard rumors around base about the attempted robbery the other night at the corner store…the clerk wasn't too talkative and two armed, healthy men about our age were taken down by an elderly Irken. They're still in critical condition in the hospital if you believe the buzz…c'mon, Joker…connect the dots. Only one man fits that sort of description and capability if it is true."
"I ain't calling the man a liar, just...yo gotta admit, it's a lot to take for face value. He doesn't look like the stone-cold special forces type, even in retirement."
"Hiding in plain sight and being as inconspicuous as possible are staple fundamentals for any level of special forces operators...even black-ops ones," DZ sagely added to the conversation, words recited almost verbatim from the former Shadow Striker the evening before. "Just like what he said last night...the less suspicious and obvious someone looks, the easier it is to operate under adverse conditions. Wisdom to live by if you ever want to get into Special Forces in the Armada."
"I'll pass," Joker chuckled, "I have a hard enough time keepin' secrets as it is...this one excluded of course...I sure as Irk couldn't keep a secret as big as what Corr's sharing with us for over a century and manage to not tell a single living soul."
"I'm sure with the incentive of not being "silenced" in the event of a security leak would be motivation enough to keep your mouth shit," DZ reasoned, his friends nodding silently at that realization. "...you don't thing the Republic would come after Corr after all this time if word got out that he told anyone anything? What's to stop them from doing the same to us?"
"Just like you said," Digits added with a reassuring pat on his comrade's shoulder. "...motivation to keep things to ourselves."
"...one thing's bugging me about his story though, at least up until this point," Joker commented, breaking a brief silence during their strenuous road march. "...Captain Saro...he lived will on after the war and occupation of Vort ended, right? So how is he dead from what Commander Vult stated?"
"He never said he was dead specifically," DZ specified with a stipulating finger. "...Vult assumed Saro had bought the farm. I can't blame him though. Rarely, if ever, does anyone survive a gunshot wound to the head. Maybe Saro was one of those "lucky" few to have half their head excavated and the agonizingly painful stubbornness to refuse to die."
Seemingly out of nowhere, their high-and-tight, by-the-book commanding officer, Sergeant Gis, came jogging up. A career soldier and long accustomed to the physical demands, his full combat load did little to sway his physique and stamina. The expression on his face spoke volumes alone without a single syllable uttered.
"You three think you're on a leisurely stroll?" He demanded of them.
"No, Sir!" The three Cadets responded in near unison.
"Then why do I hear chatter half a klick behind you? If you got time to waste talking, you got time better spent breathing and keeping pace. This is a simulated training environment. You are in hostile territory. Silence on all fronts unless I give you a directive otherwise! Is that clear?!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Good...don't need any of my Cadets ending up like Saro, now do I?"
"No, Si-..." Digits, DZ, and Joker began to respond in protocol, all three immediately realizing the error of their ways. Had Gis overheard their conversation in their eager carelessness? How much of it had he heard? Before panic could set it at the very real possibility of an unintentional security leak that could implicate Commander Corr, the drill instructor allayed their fears to rest.
"Corr likes you three enough to trust you with his secrets. You all are the first three he's said two words to about that stuff since telling me decades ago...Take that however you want to. To me, that means you had better watch what you say, how you say it, and who you say it to before you get him, yourselves, and others into BIG dookie. You get me?"
"...yes, Sir,"
"Good...and I was serious 'bout putting a lid on it and bucking up. Double time, hop to it, go!"
Nearly a full day had come to pass for Vult since watching his...counterpart, for lack of a better term, meet a fitting end at tempting fate. As callous and cold as it may have seemed, he was detached at best over the graphic sight. War was horrific. Soldiers died. It was that much easier to get over with the amount of karma Saro had collected over the years. The Commander was not quite heartless enough to go on and say he deserved every bit of what he got...but when one poked the slorrbeast in the eye, the expected to get the horns, as the saying went.
Throughout the daylight hours, Vult kept his antenna sharp and rifle across his lap while attempting to get some rest. It wasn't deep by any stretch of the imagination, but sitting still for an hour here and there with his eyes closed did wonders on the body. The fantasy of hot food in his spooch, a warm bed, and security surrounded by his fellow squadmates once again battled off the pangs of hunger and exhaustion from core to extremities. He was alive and had come this far, no sense in giving up now.
As predicted shortly in the aftermath of the sniper's shot, several squads of Vortian regulars canvassed the area in short order. A lone Irken soldier was a rare occurrence. Empire tactics always deployed them in force with overwhelming numbers. Irken Elite, maybe not so numerous, but even they were deployed at the company level with now fewer than 100 at a time. Their assumption that Saro was not alone was not incorrect, but Vult made it a priority to be out of sight and out of mine. He watched from afar cautiously, tracking the soldiers' activity. Even at a distance within the confines of an abandoned apartment complex, much like most of Vort in the surrounding area, he could see the fear…the desperation…the pain etched into the worrisome lines of their faces.
Even as their enemy and aggressor, Vult understood why with his new freedoms as a Shadow Strikers operative granted by his PAK. These men and women…people just like him and his comrades…were fighting tooth and nail to oppose the Empire. They wanted nothing more than to live in peace and independent without the fear of tyrannical oppression. Corr had told him many things about the Vortian people's culture and history…even the most recent, darker times where the Empire was quick to bury a blade of betrayal to the hilt in their back. Only the softest of minds could not see the logic behind attacking a powerful ally unprovoked, the very same that thrust the Irken to the technological apex they now enjoyed. The Tallest feared the Vortian and their technological capabilities. All Empire tech was in some way stolen or based off of cutting-edge Vort tech, after all. A little research and reverse-engineering could turn the "mighty" Empire on its head in a matter of days with enough proverbial wires crossed. It was frightening at how…fervent the Irken blindly followed the Tallest, completely oblivious to such facts. Maybe being given these personal liberties and freedoms was not as great a gift after all. Then again, ignorance is bliss. Knowing what he does now, there is no way possible he could ever go back to being blindly loyal like so many before him.
As Vult fought off fatigue to the point of exhaustion to remain alert in enemy territory, the activity abuzz in the streets for what seemed like an eternity had come to pass. With no sight or sound of any additional Empire presence in the area, those searching returned to their various posts. Energy could not be wasted on chasing ghosts with the very real threat of being overrun by the invading Irken a mere dozen or so klicks away, they needed to remain at-the-ready. Excluded from those standing orders and given more operational freedom, however, was a very familiar face, yet a complete stranger in person to the Commander.
The man responsible for dropping Saro on the spot with a single, well-placed shot walked in tow to his mentor and commanding officer. With the swelling in his face going down and empty eye socket tended to medically, he looked worn and haggard, a living victim of war. Bloodstained and battered with no end in sight, surviving another day in this nightmarish hellscape of a world he once called home was a miracle worthy of praise on a day-to-day basis. Despite it all, through his excruciatingly painful wounds and hardships they faced in desperation...he could not even begin to imagine the righteous fury felt by Rub'Akho.
A man that had lost everything...his mate...his son...his home...all he had left was his life. A life he had dedicated to avenging those he cared deeply about even in their wake. It was their memorial that fueled him when his body screamed in protest for rest and sustenance. At times, he witnessed the infamous marksman among the Armada ranks lie in wait for days on end, stalking a single priority target like the master hunter and tracker. Chilling best described the cold, calculated nature Rub held about his morbid occupation. A job of necessity and desperation, it made sense to put his generations-long skills passed down from father to son for many years against an unyeilding foe that threatened everything they held dear.
He was honored despite the man's cryptic and sometimes backwards nature hailing from deep in the untamed southern hemisphere of Vort. In the short period of time since his completion of basic training and placed under Lieutenant 'Akho's command, he had learned so much to place him well above his peers. After all, he owed that diligent training and guidance to the steady shot that put down an enemy combatant at nearly 2 kilometers from an elevated position. Not an impossible shot, but a difficult one worthy of respect.
"Why are we still out here?"
"Because," Rub responded quietly, their species' unique, double-jointed legs and claws gripping the uneven surfaces of rubble to move about freely through the street. "...you and I both know better than to simply give up like everyone else did. There are more Irken nearby, I know it. You know it. Never do they travel alone unless they are Invaders. Your target vas in Elite garb. Seasoned veterans of var and very dangerous, they still travel in units. Something is not right, not this far behind the line. Ve are going to get to the bottom of it one vay or another."
"Okay, why are we checking the body again then? He's dead, I know he is. Dead people tend to not move, Rub...especially the ones that are shot cleanly in the head with a high-power rifle. Unless animals have been picking at it between now and then, half of his head should be splattered on the pavement. I put the crosshairs right where you've always told me to and gave the trigger a light, even squeeze."
"I know you did," the marksman answered, leaping over one last gap between larger masonry from a collapsed building before topping the berm, seeing the Irken Elite soldier sprawled out still where his protege had laid claim to his life with his rifle. "...a good, clean shot. As it should be, one shot, one kill. He vas dead before he hit the ground...unfortunate."
"Isn't it a good thing I killed him though? One less Irken, right?" He questioned of his mentor and superior officer, confused.
"Of course," the Lieutenant assured as the pair approached Saro's body, "...it is unfortunate he did not suffer. The Irken and all those loyal to it deserve every ounce of agony equal to the innocent blood they spill here."
Curious, but wary of his tone, the question lingered in the protege's mind.
"...wouldn't that make us no better to stoop to their level of atrocity? I am not saying we show them compassion, Lieutenant...not at all...just...mercy. They may not show our people any, but you see what we fight...who we fight. They care not the value of others' lives. They care not for our culture...our people. They simply do not care. If we don't care as well...then there is nothing to care about...nothing to fight for...and everything would be loss or fought for all the wrong reasons. As much as I hate the Irken for all they've done and continue to do to us and the universe beyond…I do not want to become anything like them…"
Honestly surprised with such a statement from a man that had several teeth smashed free of his face, others broken and chipped by a wrench-wielding Irken female, Rub was at a loss for words. Even more so after his second unfortunate run-in with the Empire's might in the form of a counter-sniper that nearly took his life, surely he would understand his plight…his rage…his fury for the Emerald Tide.
Before the Lieutenant could begin to mouth a response, something unexpected happened.
A groan, weak and obviously labored with pain, immediately set the pair of Vortian snipers on high alert. Snapping to full attention with rifles grasped and at the ready, they searched the vicinity for the source. It could have possibly been the howling wind through destroyed husks of buildings accompanied by the soundtrack of distant firefights raging across the planet. That theory went right out the window as soon as a wheezing cough followed and something stirred…the Irken Elite's body made a vain attempt to move.
"…Mother of Vort," the lower-ranked of the two stammered in a combination of awe and horror. "…he's still alive…"
Rub's features twisted with barely-contained anger as he quickly approached the Irken's supine form. As he moved, his nearly-antique bolt-action rifle swung around on its sling to his back, his right hand freely drawing a razor-honed vibroblade from its sheath, his intentions clear.
"Not for long he isn't," he muttered, hovering over the body as his left hand unkindly grasped the invading alien's antenna, jerking his head up in preparation to slash his throat wide open.
"No, Rub, wait!"
The edge kissed his exposed neck in preparation to finish him; the blazing emerald gaze of the Spectre himself silently dared his compatriot to continue further. The Irken barely clung to life by appearences alone with thick, sticky, drying blood streaked down his face, an eye socket all but exposed with wrecked cybernetics. Rub saw as a spotter it was likely once some sort of ocular implant given the existing scars. His temple blown out with exposed bone fragments jutting from the exit wound…much like the man that nearly took his life, he suffered a similar, miraculous injury. Weakened from the trauma and ensuing bloodloss, the Irken Elite Captain was limp and unresisting in Rub's grasp.
"…we've never taken an Irken prisoner since this all began…Command is looking for anything to give us the edge over the Armada…something to push back with. Maybe he can be the source of it. Think about it…they always fight to the death, we have one clinging to life…I know he deserves it and more…but he's more useful to us…and our people as a whole alive. For all we know, we're holding the key to our victory over the Irken aggressors, Rub…I know it's asking for a lot…but spare this one. We need him alive."
It took every ounce of willpower the Lieutenant had left to not flay this Irken's throat wide open and let him bleed for the soil he so desperately tried to lay claim to in the name of his leaders. Waging a mental battle before arriving at the logical conclusion that his fellow man and understudy was right, Rub relaxed with a reluctant sigh, sheathing his knife as his other hand moved to the Irken Elite's collar and hauled him up. A big, strongly-built Vortian for his height of just past six feet, their prisoner's weight did little to inhibit him.
"Somehow I doubt he vill be very talkative," Rub commented as he forced Saro's wrists behind his back and procured a plastic quick-tie from one of his belt pouches. Forcing the loops over the Irken's gauntleted hands, he pulled the slack from both, effectively restraining their captive before pushing him forward to walk on his own power. "…no matter…he vill speak one vay or another. I pray that you do not come to regret sparing this disgusting creature's life."
"I understand the consequences," he solemnly nodded to his mentor, grip tightening on his rifle. "…sooner we get back to our post, sooner we can radio Command and inform them of our find. Surprised no one else noticed it sooner."
"I'm not," Rub sneered, his glare burrowing into the back of the green-skinned head of the Irken Elite Captain before them. "...unconscious with a grievous wound…pretending to be dead vhile his bastardized technology of our people repaired and mended the damage done by your shot…our enemy is resilient and hardy. This is good to know…it means ve do not have to vorry about him expiring in captivity."
Unsure as to what the Lieutenant meant, he followed on nevertheless in silence. At times, even his own confusion was better left a mystery. The look in Rub's eyes…his tone of voice, body language, just how…tense and angry he had been in those short moments before narrowly stopping the execution of their current prisoner. He had a feeling all of his questions would soon be answered. With hope…many of their peoples' own hopes they clawed at for in survival.
"…if you expect me to betray my leaders…you are gravely mistaken," Saro commented, finding his voice, albeit dry and weak from his ordeal as he barely had the strength to stumble along on two feet. "…I fear no man…especially not some filthy, horned bustrado." He concluded in malice, going as far to accent with a Vortian curse in utterance as if to patronize them further. Despite his macabre appearance, a tooth-filled grin of malice, of defiance, spread across his face.
Something about this particular Irken Elite soldier was most…unsettling. In the short time the Empire had put forces planetside and laid waste to all that opposed them, he and Rub had seen many atrocities through their scopes…massacres of all scales, direct targeting of the civilian populous. With it came horrible stories of these acts witnessed first-hand. Blood-soaked nightmares torn straight from the pages of madness that no one should ever wish upon another sentient being under any circumstances.
He was snapped from his thoughts at the sound of Rub's rifle stock smashing unkindly into the back of the Irken's head. Unexpecting, he was sent to his knees and promptly face-first into the ground in agony, dazed from the heavy blow. The vision in his remaining functioning eye swam hazily through ringing as he writhed before finally succumbing to the darkness once more.
"Ironic you should say that, Irken scum…" Rub answered, his features stonily-set in deep-seeded rage clawing and scratching as it tried its damnedest to reach the surface. "…I am yet to meet a man that doesn't fear me. That sounds like a challenge."
Unceremoniously grabbing the Captain's collar, rifle slung across his back once again, Rub drug their prisoner-of-war. Thankfully, he would not have to listen to his jingoistic tripe for the remainder of the short jaunt back to their outpost a klick or so away. There, however, at least until Command decided what was to be done with their "precious cargo"…Rub would drag a conversation out of him one way or another.
"Captain…please…" Aero all but begged of her superior officer as she followed after Corr.
"First Sergeant, enough," He sighed in exasperation as he stopped in place, turning to face her. Things had not been all that upbeat as far as morale was concerned since the loss of Vult. What made it harder was those in sheer denial of the notion. He would be lying if he didn't say at least a small portion of his mind wasn't clinging to the remote possibility the Commander survived somehow. In the end, it mattered not. If he had made it through by some miracle, they would have heard from him by now. Going on two days with no signs of survival…accepting it may have been for the best.
"Corr, c'mon," She pleaded, forgoing pleasantries and respect of rank. If he wanted to get snippy and technical with her, she was taller. At least around the normal conscripts of the Armada, she was of a higher rank and respect by several inches…then again, she was a Shadow Striker and that went out the window the day she signed on. "…you and I both know he's still alive out there…somewhere…he's got to be. It's the Commander we're talking about here."
Sighing once more, the Captain turned to continue about his business with his squadmate in tow. Having made it back to relative safety at an Armada forward operating base hours ago, the unit had the opportunity to get warm food in their spooches and much-needed rest. With the grim mission report tended to, Corr had earned a little downtime himself. He was going to need it for certain now as the Commander's responsibilities were thrust upon his shoulders. Fresh in memory, they already felt unbearably heavy.
"I never said that wasn't a possibility," he reluctantly acknowledged the underlying truth in Aero's words. "...but Supreme Commander Grimm is not a man of patience. Our commanding officer is missing and last seen buried beneath a collapsed building. Stalling on my behalf will not be kindly accepted. I am doing what I can, but it may be for the best to...accept it...as difficult as it may be."
"So because someone else is too impatient, we're just gonna throw away his life and move on, just like that?" She huffed, not liking what she was hearing. It wasn't Corr's fault, but damn it, the situation was frustrating. "...I guarantee you each and everyone of us is willing to go back out there and look for him. I don't care how long it takes or what we have to go through to find him...but its worth it. Maybe not to Grimm...maybe not to the Tallest...but to you...to me...and everyone else, it is. Captain...please...do what you can to not file that report. The moment you do...we're back on assignment elsewhere...and abandoning Vult. You don't want that, neither do I. Irk, none of us do."
"Our hands are tired...orders are orders," Corr reluctantly admitted. "We both know what happens to soldiers that disobey orders. I don't want to risk that with any of you, even with our elevated position in the grand scheme of things."
"If the Tallest told us to go jump off a bridge or, oh, I don't know, murder unarmed civilians like that vodeto Saro...would you follow those orders blindly like any other good little drone?"
With his helmet clutched in one hand, his other smoothed back his typical, barbed antenna synonymous with males of their species. She was persistant, that much he could respect of her and saw why she was worthy of standing side-by-side with him and the others. A master of her assigned duties and trade of mechanics, she refused to simply accept fate. If there was an alternative to a terrible situation, she would pursue it no matter what. Corr had a feeling even if he told her to drop the matter and forget about it entirely, she would disobey him just as she had done before as an Imperial Trooper. Risking her deactivation was not on his to-do list in the slightest.
"...I will do what I can to stall for time," the Captain finally spoke, quick to quell any optimistic outburst from the overly-cheerful Aero. "but...I promise nothing will come of it. If I can buy the Commander time, if he's still out there and alive, to make it back to us, I will do what I can. Until then, you need to get food in you and some rest. I'm sure we'll need in in the near future."
Merely smiling, she stepped forward and leaned down ever-so-slightly to give her superior officer a small hug. A sign of trust and affection, or so she had learned through Sula...and the emotional and chemical reactions of the brain that spurred the inspiration to do such things. Tak nearly killing her and messing her PAK up had done her a world of wonders, opening her eyes up to a whole other facet of life the Empire shielded them from.
"Likewise to you, Sir," She answered in releasing the somewhat confused Corr.
Hours passed, the last ember of daylight fading over the horizon as night fell into encompassing darkness. Raging infernos across the city as far as Rub could see illuminated the surrounding area for several blocks. Bursts of anti-aircraft fire dotted the star-filled sky as the defending Vortian fought tooth-and-nail for their right to exist and remain independent upon their homeworld against the Irken invaders. Despite their valiant efforts and the staggering losses suffered by the Armada, they pressed the attack like the flesh-and-blood robotic slaves to their "Almighty" Tallest.
Their presence desecrated the beauty of technological apex and urban sprawl. They laid waste to all before them, destroying centuries upon centuries of history, culture, and ideology. Every moment that passed as Irken boots marched to the drums of war, more and more of Vort suffered in a slow, antagonizing death. To most, it shattered morale and instilled panic and fear en masse. This was the beginning of the end. All that awaited them once the Empire ruled over them was a future of enslavement and servitude to an undeserving "superior" species.
Most...not all. To some, it was motivation to fight like they had never fought before. It was amazing what could be accomplished when faced with an ultimatum of survival over annihilation. Rather than roll over and submissively accept defeat, they struggled to the last man and the last round. Vort would outlast the Emerald Tide or die trying. There would be no other alternative. Rub, the infamous "Spectre of Vengeance" among the Irken ranks and a battlefield hero of seemingly supernatural proportions by word-of-mouth alone, was one such individual. The pains of loss...his peoples' suffering...the destruction of all they knew before their very eyes, did not corrupt the marksman. It did not weaken his resolve. It hardened his nerves to unbreakable steel, stoking the motivating fires of retribution.
The Empire and its leaders would pay for all they had done in blood. He would see to that becoming a reality before he drew his final breath. It was better to die free and fighting for a worthy cause than to live a subservient coward to an autonomous race such as the Irken. One day...their people would flee in terror, their planet drenched in emerald blood as the rivers ran over their banks with it.
For now, however...one step at a time. To endure, to outlast, and overcome was of the highest priority. Their people needed some advantage, an edge over the Irken. Their superior numbers and stolen, modified technologies surpassed even the most cutting-edge at the Vortian military's disposal. A race bred for war with peaceful means turned into war machines, they were still reeling from their ingenious blows.
Rub intended to do more than simply endure their transgressions.
"Vake up."
No response from his "guest". Furrowing his brow in a mixture of agitation and anger, the Vortian sniper brought his right hand back and crisply brought the back of it across the unconscious Irken's face with a resounding smack of flesh.
"I said vake up!"
Grimacing from the sting and sharp turn of his hanging head, Saro groaned as he blearily came to once again. Blinking his remaining eye several times as the room came in and out of focus, he finally pushed through the haze to see the sturdily-built, horned man standing before him. Right away he felt things amiss with a constant discomfort in his shoulders and arms. His booted feet hung helplessly just inches off of the ground, bound at the wrists and suspended by the ligature. This posture was obviously less for restraint and more to cause discomfort to the captured as his full body weight bore down on his shoulder sockets and twisted arms.
"Good...I vas beginning to think you vere already dead," Rub chided as the Irken showed signs of life once more.
Gritting his teeth through seething breath, Saro attempted to alleviate the stress on his joints in effectively being strung up like an animal fit for slaughter. Unpleasant mental depictions of his demise quickly flooded his subconscious. Flayed alive by a disgusting, horned creature in a hovel of a dank, dark building…a fitting end for anything but an Irken. He flexed three digits apiece on both his hands, trying to loosen his bindings to no avail.
"Struggling only makes it vorse. If you vant to dislocate every joint in your arms, by all means continue."
"…whatever it is that you want from me, you will not get it," Saro hissed with malice, remaining defiant as he struggled in vain to free himself. His movements only intensified the pain on his taught muscles. "Your kind physically sickens me, your appearance repulsive…you should be begging for the Tallest's mercy for even thinking to spare your people and this wretched rock."
Rub lunged forward, seizing his captive's jaw with a single hand, clutching it powerfully as he forced his partial maroon gaze to lock with the Vortian's own blazing emerald.
"The only one that should be begging for anything should be YOU for your life!" Rub snarled, only to reel as Saro spat in his face. A smug laugh followed soon thereafter as the Lieutenant wiped at his eye with the back of his hand.
"…do you have ANY idea who I am, freak?" The Irken Elite Captain sinisterly spoke with emphasis dripping from every syllable. His injured, grotesque appearance didn't help matters any. Bruised, battered, and bloodied with half of his face blown off from a well-placed, yet unfortunately inaccurate shot and strung up like a demonic marionette, he flashed a grin of pure malice. "…there are many like me, but none exact. Your people cower in fear at my name. The sight of me alone sends them scattering in panic fueled by pure fear. Hundreds…no…thousands of your kind have fallen before me. Mass, unmarked graves across this planet are full to the brim thanks to my selfless duty to the Empire. Your pathetic military offers little resistance…men…women…children…they all bleed the same in the end. I will grind all who resist the Empire and the Almighty Tallest beneath my heel into dust where they belong to grovel!"
As if trying to lunge hard enough to break his restraints, Saro's body quivered with force as he attempted to get to Rub, growling with effort, dark intention visible in his eye and etched into his damaged face.
"I am Captain Saro of the Irken Elite! The Vortian Nightmare! Kill me or release me at once! I will not listen to your drivel!"
His outburst earned him a solid punch into his jaw. Unable to block or avoid such a powerful strike, he grunted in pain as his arms held him aloft still, immediately tasting thick, emerald blood from his throbbing maw. This Vort hit quite a bit harder than Vult had what seemed like an eternity ago. For once in his entire life…he actually missed the man's company and all his faults in being soft-headed and a bleeding heart.
"Should I be impressed by your acts of atrocity? Do you expect me to run and cower like those you terrorize?" Rub antagonized him of, watching Saro spit a dribbling mouthful of blood on the concrete floor with a splat. "I am vell avare of who you are, Saro…I know vhat you've done…you should be grateful you still draw breath under your own power this long. I should eviscerate you vhere you hang and string you up by your entrails to even come close to a deserving fate of vhat you've done to my people."
The Captain pressed his luck with a dark chuckle, huffing.
"Then why don't you? I'm right here…helpless…vulnerable…just like all those children I slaughtered in front of their mothers…I deserve the same treatment, right?"
The sniper narrowed his steel-hardened glare, clenching his fists so tight to pop and crack his knuckles in an effort to stay his hands.
"…because you are unfortunately vorth more to our efforts alive than dead…for now. My superiors vill be shortly avare of your capture in due time. I made certain your allies vould not hear of your capture over the radio by sending a runner instead. I am sure you have many interesting things to share."
A prisoner of war? Him? They intended to interrogate him, to make him turn against those he so faithfully served? Never! Not in a million years! With renewed vigor, Saro struggled against his ligatures, seething in a combination of rage and pain.
"Your leaders waste their breath just like you do now. I'd rather DIE than betray my Tallest! Vort WILL be ours! Do your worst, I'll never talk! NEVER!"
Rub ignored the angry Irken's outburst as he retrieved a particular instrument off of a nearby table. A simple tool by appearances, a baton, even. Standard-issue to law enforcement officers and military police. Collapsible, lightweight, and sturdy, the Vortian gave a flick of his wrist, extending the contraption to its full length of a foot and a half or so.
"Fortunate for you I have nothing but time and patience then, Irken," Rub plainly spoke with ulterior motive underlying in his tone. "…it vill be hours before my runner returns vith news on vhat to do vith you…plenty of time for me…for Ora…for Mur…and all the blood that stains your hands."
Depressing a button on the baton, an obviously-tampered mechanism arched electricity from tip to handle, illuminating the darkened room. His dark gaze travelled from the baton up to Saro's eyes. For a moment, he saw the flash of uncertainty…of fear…the very same things he terrorized his people into doing.
"Command vill vant you alive…they did not specify your condition…"