"You... don't want to use your powers against the aliens?" Argall's eyes were confused, frustrated even. But Thragg couldn't blame him. After all, if he interfered, then this whole thing would be over by tomorrow. The aliens would cease to exist and, likely never come back in fear of his power. And Argall was a very logical person. When there was a problem, the boy came up with a solution to solve it in the most efficient manner possible, using up as few resources and as less time as was necessary. If his son somehow already knew of Thragg's abilities, then it'd make sense of him to ask such a question, because – indeed – any rational and efficient individual would ask that very same thing.
Thragg shook his head. "No... not unless it is absolutely necessary, when all other options have been exhausted."
Argall's brows furrowed, a million thoughts likely running through his mind as he considered Thragg's words. And then, a moment later, Argall nodded. There was a sort of understanding that dawned in his eyes and whatever conclusion he might've arrived at, Thragg mused, was very likely wrong. Still, he wanted to hear the boy's theory. "I see, father... is your power limited? Are you only able to use it in short bursts? Is there a price of some kind?"
Thragg shook his head. Not even close, it seems. "The simple answer, my son, is simply because I choose to. This is your moment, Argall. This is your struggle, the forge that will either make you stronger or break you. I am here because I want to be there to see you succeed and, if necessary, save you from certain death. I will only step in if you fail. Do you understand?"
Argall's brows furrowed for a moment. He looked as though he wanted to say something, anything, but no words emerged from his lips. In the end, Argall nodded, even if his eyes still appeared conflicted and frustrated. He didn't fully understand, Thragg mused; that, or he couldn't understand. But, that was fine. Wisdom and understanding came with age and experience and, ultimately, Argall was still just a child. For all his gifts, his talents, his physical prowess, Argall wasn't even ten years old yet. For Viltrumites, who lived for thousands and thousands of years, only aging externally, Argall couldn't even technically be considered a child; he was an infant. "I understand, father. I will do my best to prove myself to you. I will win."
Thragg shook his head. "You have nothing to prove to me, my son. Instead, I want you to prove it to yourselfthat you are, in fact, capable of defeating this race of aliens, that you are capable of becoming the leader that you were always meant to be. And, if you fail, worry not; we all fail at some point. Your mother and I are proud of you, either way."
Argall nodded again, but this time, he did so with understanding. Still, there was some hesitation there."I will... try my best, father. But, if there comes a time when I can see no other option for victory, then... am I allowed to ask for your aid?"
Thragg smiled and nodded. "Of course, boy. Besides, you won't even have to; if the entire planet is threatened, then I will step in. This place... it is my home. I will not allow some alien empire to destroy it."
"Now then," Thragg stood up and turned to the weapon rack closest to them, whereupon a relatively small rifle dangled, a glowing crimson line running down its spine, emitting a soft crimson hue. The racks beside it were empty. Thragg had never seen such a weapon before, but – luckily – it came with instructions in the form of a panel that described how to properly wield it and what sort of projectiles it spat out. This one apparently did not shoot projectiles; instead, its internal core provided enough energy for a sustained laser beam, as hot as the core of a star, for about five seconds, before having to cool off for another five seconds. It should work well enough for him.
Why no one else had taken it baffled him. In fact, it was probably powerful enough to kill a weaker Viltrumite in about four or five sustained shots. Ah, radiation discharge. At the bottom of the instructions, a part he'd apparently missed earlier, stated that the rifle, in fact, had a mechanism that forced it to periodically release excess heat, through a series of vents, in the form of steam – hot enough to melt a human's flesh from their bone, regardless of armor. This must've been a mounted weapon, then, not meant to be carried.
Shrugging, Thragg reached out and grabbed the weapon off the rack, before turning to Argall. "You should get a weapon of your own, boy. We're moving out soon."
Argall nodded, smiling faintly. From the look of his eyes, however, Thragg knew that his son, at the moment, was likely running through thousands upon thousands of simulations and calculations in his mind, all in the effort to arrive at the most efficient and most effective method for dealing with the aliens. The boy's greatest gift was his mind, because not even a Viltrumite could think the same way Argall could, couldn't even begin to fathom the depth and complexity of his son's mind. The inventions and technological wonders were merely a byproduct of it, Thragg mused. "I've already chosen a weapon for myself, father."
Argall stood up and walked towards another nearby weapon. It wasn't a rifle. Thragg wasn't well-versed with the shape of projectile weapons, he'd be the first to admit, but the weapon his son chose appeared to be a heavy machine gun of some kind, something meant to unleash a hailstorm of bullets at the enemy. No one else in the Gathering Hall, Thragg mused, could even pick it up and he was fairly certain it was meant to be attached to a vehicle or something just as large. Argall's choice bore the appearance of a large tube, which, itself, was comprised of numerous barrels, each one the size of a Boom Shooter's barrel. The projectiles it spat out, then, Thragg mused, would be the same gargantuan bullets as those used by the basic rifles of rookie Scrappers.
The only difference was that this particular weapon would unleash its payload indefinitely, apparently able to devour just about anything and everything with mass to be manufactured into ammunition on the go. So, Argall could stuff just about anything he could get his hands on into the mass-conversion chamber of the massive gun. Fortunately, they were on a planet that was covered in scrap. "Yes, this will do quite nicely."
"Any particular reason why you chose that?" Thragg asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
The Scrappers had chosen their own weapons and most of their choices were small or medium-sized rifles; likely far less powerful, but no less deadly.
"Until the alien masters of the slave armies show themselves, then our goal should be to eliminate as many of their soldiers as possible." Argall's eyes narrowed as he tapped the massive gun in his grasp. "This weapon can unleash over a thousand slugs in the span of a single minute, each one capable of piercing through dozens of slave aliens at once. Quantity, I think, in this case takes precedence over quality."
"The other weapons, like the one you carry now, father, and like what everyone else have chosen for themselves, are indeed powerful, but they are... inefficient for the task. I dare say, the weapons they've chosen are too powerful." Argall shook his head. "It'd be akin to killing an ant with a Boom Shooter. It works. The ant is going to die. But you'd get the same result by simply stepping on the creature. Inefficient."
Thragg nodded. True enough, the weapon he carried now was a bit of an overkill. But, he was, in many ways, rather used to the concept. Viltrumites, in general, possessed more than enough strength for just about everything they fought, which was how they came to be conquerors of thousands and thousands of worlds, a race so dreaded and so feared that the mere mention of them was enough to drive entire races to perform foolish exoduses across entire systems. Shameful. He could've led his people to greater and better heights, not to sink even deeper into conquest, violence, suffering, and fear. The Viltrumites could've been so much better. He could've been so much better.
Thragg could only hope that Mark was doing a good job as their new leader.
He, himself, certainly didn't.
"Interesting observation," Thragg said. But, the boy's words were true. Spending more than what was necessary to achieve a desired effect was... wasteful. And a wasteful warrior was one who'd lose the long war, even a Viltrumite knew that much. In this case, however. "I would like you to note, however, that even our weakest weapons, that being the Boom Shooter, is, frankly, overkill."
"Hm, I suppose that is true," Argall conceded. "And, I believe this disparity should be enough of an indication of our initial advantage against these aliens and their slaves. Though, I suspect, with everything we do not yet know about them, it would be prudent to assume that the masters of the slaves are capable of escalating further."
"If they do," A Scrapper, one Thragg kind of recognized – a face he'd seen maybe once or twice over the last few weeks – chimed in. It was a rookie, he figured, one of the latest batch of recruits who recently graduated the Scrapper Academy, a young man, barely out of his teenage years. "The Iron Men will already be waiting for them."
Argall nodded. Though, his eyes seemed pensive as he spoke. "Indeed. If the stories are at all real, then the Iron Men should have no trouble with these creatures."
The Iron Men was the planet's last line of defense should it ever be invaded and overwhelmed, an army of machines, vast beyond imagining, loyal to humanity and ready to march to war. Supposedly, Thragg mused, the automatons were already here when the ancestors of the people who'd come to dominate the planet arrived to form the great cities, only sinking into their subterranean strongholds when humanity grew capable of standing on its own legs. At least, that's what Nareena told him, something she learned from the history books. However, his wife would agree with him in the belief that the story... had a lot of holes in it, points that made no logical sense. However, no one could ask the right questions or search for any of the answers as no one could access the resting places of the Iron Men and only the Great Council, through the Geomantic Web, could initiate the Rite of Reanimation... or something like that.
Thragg hadn't exactly been paying attention at the time.
But... he didn't trust this supposed last line of defense. He'd never been fond of sentient machines. He didn't put much faith in beings that relied solely on cold calculations, rationality without heart; it was what led to machine revolts. Thragg had seen many such fallen worlds, its populace reduced to little more than batteries or slaves or, amusingly, decorations for their soulless automaton overlords.
He'd hold his voice. Perhaps, these Iron Men were, in fact, allies of the people; if so, he'd breathe a sigh of relief, glad to be proven wrong in his suspicion. But, if they were, in fact, not allies of humanity, well... this wouldn't be the first time he sentan entire race of sentient machines into the depths of oblivion.
"Alright!" The Guild Master called out, once more loudly clapping his hands to catch everyone's attention. The Scrappers paused all that they did and silence bloomed in the Gathering Hall. Both Thragg, Argall, and the rookie turned to the Guild Master, waiting for the man to resume speaking. Thragg's eyes narrowed, his instincts, honed from thousands upon thousands upon thousands of terrible wars, were suddenly on edge. "The Armored Transports are here! We're moving out!"
Something was wrong.
And then, the ground shook... and thunder boomed from the sky.
AN: (Pat)reon's up to Chapter 10.