Spoiler (click to show/hide):
Action 4: Ensign Teuschle
D-15 to Cleansing. Remote Observation Established.
[begin trans]
“I surrender!” Teuschle screams over the dirt embankment and toward the steadily advancing troops. She tucks the pistol into the waistband of her utilities and carefully slides the large-bladed combat knife into the gap behind her Collar. All this as she slowly stands, turning to the enemy. Her hands feel like they could touch the blue sky and scatter away the few white clouds. The weather is too nice for this sort of thing, she thinks. Fear has covered her in sweat, but the fear is subsiding like waves breaking from a beach and rolling back and away from something deeper and more primal than fear. Survival. Need. A burning violent thought that manifests in flashes of sight, sound, and smell.
The pig men of Pressia, she thinks to herself as she takes the first shaky step over her tiny bit of cover. She notes as she passes that her and Tanner had been hiding behind only a foot or so of dirt, and the area of impact from the Pressian rounds had dug away yards of the stuff and left behind a roiling pit of steaming pinkish fluid. It coils and dissipates in the cool ocean breeze.
She is twenty feet away from them. One of them is dead, face down in a pool of blood as red as her own. A hole the size of her fist takes up most of the back of his head, her handiwork. Ten feet. They aren’t as hideous as the posters on the ships make them out to be. The look like pink and black men with upturned noses. Five feet. One has blue eyes and he glares at her with a hatred she can’t quite put into words. Two feet. A pair of shackles is held out. There are two rifles pointed at her face, but the rest of the Pressians are looking away, scanning the trees.
The blue-eyed Pressian doesn’t move fast when she whips the blade out of the back of her collar and knocks his weapon toward his body with her right hand. The knife enters his eye socket and he fires in pain and fear, the brilliant white light of the laser cracking the air as lances out and eviscerates his incredulous friend. Time is inexistent. Inconsequential. She side steps the falling pig man and pulls the blade out with her right hand, moving to beat the devil and drawing her pistol just as a crystalline bolt sears the air in front of her, drying her eyes and making them burn. Another step and her knife is in the Pressian’s back as she turns him into a body shield and fires one, two, and three over his shoulder.
A meaty palm flies at her gun arm and she moves in the last moment while watching her target drop his gun and try to stop the blood flowing out of his stomach. She drops to one knee, hamstrings her shield with her knife on the way down and rolls backward in one clean motion as another white needle bloodlessly cuts the shield’s arm off. As she rolls to her feet she finds her vision blocked by bootlaces and the world detonates into stars and the smell of blood and then she is jumping back and firing four, five, six, seven, and eight into the chests and faces of the one who kicked her and the one who had picked his gun back up even while clutching the purple coils of entrails that had found their way outside of his torso. She turns once again to bring her gun to bear and--
[signal disturbance]
[waiting]
[reestablished]
The world swims around her. Light hurts. She shakes her head and remembers the little black switch he was holding. Her gun is heavy, but she brings it to bear.
[signal disturbance]
[waiting]
[reestablished]
She can’t find her gun and she can’t stop throwing up. Teuschle tries to blink the tears out of her eyes but they won’t stop unless she breathes again. Some big, heavy thing hits her in the ribs and she goes limp until she stops rolling. Then she’s on her stomach again, heaving and coughing and her vision too blurred to even make out her hands on the ground. The big thing hits her again and she can vaguely hear someone screaming. Maybe at her, she doesn’t care. She just wants to breathe again.
“…Fucking cunt! Offer to…” the big thing hits her again and she becomes almost vaguely aware that she may have broken a rib. Maybe all of her ribs are broken, who knows. She writhes in her universe of pain, then someone grabs her hair and she can feel herself getting pulled to her feet. Her foggy vision comes back and she sees the face of her tormentor. He seems to ask her a question and she spits blood in his face and tries her hardest to smile at him. He slaps her and she kicks him in the groin in response. He screams in rage and the last thing she sees is a fist and darkness.
[transmission interrupted]
[checking signal quality]
[ad hoc devices a00001-a00021 unresponsive]
[intermission sequence]
22 Mega cycles before the scuttling of the Orion.
Office of the Consul, Earth.
“Strange, don’t you think, what men will sacrifice for safety?” Asked the Consul, twirling the fascinating black piece of cloth and metal about his finger as he sat at his desk and pondered it. He set his hand upon the red surface of the Weight and leaned forward to hand the Collar back to his Pro-Consul, who sat across from him in the lavender velour chair.
“I’ve always found it stranger still, worthy Consul, what artifacts the minds of men create to protect themselves. By far, this thing here is the strangest.” The Consul cocked his head in agreement and sat back in his chair, then tapped out the reservoir for his pipe and began to clean it with a thin-bristled brush he had left sitting on the top of the desk. The Pro-Consul thumbed the iron gray Proclaimer that hung around his neck. “I guess when these Thought Collars start to catch on they’ll stop making Proclaimers. You won’t be able to find a guilty man in a thousand, but you’ll know the thoughts of every single one of them if you feel like looking.” The Consul fixed his gaze on the Pro-Consul and took the first tentative puff of his pipe. It was clean, and he began to pack it without looking away.
“It does worry me.” The Consul packed and lit the pipe, blowing soft white circles of smoke into the dim light of the desk lamp. The smoke passed through the beams, seeming to exist only in that brief moment where the light trapped it as it passed, twirling through the darkness. “These things keep me up at night. So many decades gone by, so many decisions for one man to make. A lifetime of missed opportunities and bad judgment calls that eclipse any of my greatest accomplishments. The last Earth Consul, the last to swear his oath on the Weight. Those stupid Collars will be my legacy, you know? After every person that knows the truth about the Metatron order passes away I’ll only be known as the man who stole the sanctity of Human Thought.” He took a long, pensive pull off the pipe. “Though, at least I’ll be remembered, right? I can’t say the same for you Tanner, you’ll make a boring fuck of a Consul.” They shared a grin and the Consul chuckled past his pipe, casting out a few hazy clouds that vanished over the desk.
“You know,” said the Consul, pulling up his key ring and thumbing the black, plastic shell of his key-fob. “There won’t even be a chance for shows of violence anymore. This little thing right here will turn people right off if they get too out of hand. One little press and everyone in sight just shuts down for a few seconds, like turning off a lamp. Click, pop, and we all fall down. Terrifying really.” He looked down at the little black oval with the tiny red button and soon seemed lost in thought.
“Worthy Consul,” said the Pro-Consul, hesitating a bit before adding: “Magwe. It’s for the best. After all, what alternative could we consider?”
“The truth, of course. There’s always that.” The Consul once again fixed him with that dark stare, and Tanner could see the strain he was under. The last few months had turned his face grey and the alert, brown eyes that peered from the sunken eyelids were empty. Haunted.
“They wouldn’t be able to take it, sir. The mob would fall on their selves like animals and Grand Station would fall into Sol. All of the options were to avoid that end. You’re doing the right thing sir.”
“Yes, I suppose,” he responded, leaning back and breathing a final halo of smoke up and out of sight towards the ceiling above him. “All hail the Living God.”
“All hail the Living God sir.”
[end intermission]
[signal degraded]
[rerouting…]
[signal located]
[pinging ad hoc devices a00001-a00021]
[signal found]
[reestablishing connection]
MEDLNDR 3A5 “Selecois”, Unknown Landmass, Pressia
28 Hours after the scuttling of the Orion.
D-14 to Cleansing
Around Ensign Teuschle, the universe is dying. White and black blobs of color melt into themselves, forming pools and streams of gray that interlock into a nebula of static that burns with an incessant hiss in her ears. Her senses are melded and her consciousness exists separately from everything. The void is calm and deep until pain explodes at the core of it. Pain needs a place, a spot to occupy, and when it can find none it sinks back into the hole it created. I hurt, therefore I am, she thinks. The single thought finds the whole in the blind universe and her consciousness passes through it. The white and black recede and the static roar fades into something more real.
Rotor blades, she thinks, and the void falls away completely as everything slowly falls into place around her. Again comes the pain, and this time it has a place, a function. Her cheek hurts. I hurt, therefore…
Smack!
The Pressian slaps her again and this time her lungs go into overdrive and she sucks in air so hard her back arches off of the stretcher she’s secured to, causing the heavy red canvas straps to groan from the strain. The air is sweet spring water as it passes her throat and when a burst of heavy coughing cuts her inhale short. The passing breath tastes stale and dead.
Her eyes burn and she can feel hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Her torso tries to curl around each deep, dry cough but the binds keep her pressed down through each wheezing breath.
“Slow down,” says the calm, detached voice of the pig-faced man leaning over her. “You were dead for ten minutes. Take deep breaths, your lungs are readjusting to the fact that they were out of business for awhile.” He smiles and she sees that his façade of a grin is perfectly straight-set and white. He has caps on two teeth.
“I didn’t think there were dentists on Pressia,” she says. Her voice is gravely and hoarse. Her tongue feels like a dry sponge. The doctor is bald and piebald in color. “Two balds for the price of one.” The doctor cocks an eyebrow and shines a bright light in her eyes.
“Will the Imperial live?” asks a familiar voice from somewhere to her left. He doesn’t seem concerned.
“Yes, and with a full recovery. Other than some superficial damage from you, the Switch only seems to have incapacitated her. Severely, but no lasting effect as far as I can tell. Though there is one other thing.” The doctor turns away from her, towards the unseen speaker. “Her charts say that her original eye color was blue. Look at her now.”
A rough hand comes into view and grabs her by the chin, roughly turning her head to the right. Another pig face comes into view. This one has short, coarse black hair shorn close to the scalp. He’s handsome, in is way, though his brilliant gold eyes are darkened by the scowl twisting his face. His eyes narrow further when she meets them with hers, trying to glare but failing to find the strength.
“Fuck me,” he says, looking over his shoulder to address the doctor. “What does this mean?”
“For starters, it’s good that you didn’t kill her, because that would have been a whole thing,” the doctor replies as the other one releases his grip on her and turns to sit on the stretcher. Teuschle notices that he isn’t wearing a shirt, and his heavily muscled torso is wrapped in thick bandages. Did I shoot him, she thinks, or was it the laser fire? “Secondly, she needs to be brought to the Low King. Obviously she’s of higher value than the others.” As he finishes she feels him tap her softly on the lower part of her stomach, just above the pelvis.
“I figured as much. Fecund?”
“Extraordinarily so. I suspect you may find yourself in high graces when we return, Eld.” The last comment makes the two of them laugh for a moment, and it causes the stretcher to shake, making her woozier. “Do keep her restrained though, she did a number on your boys. I’ll keep her sedated for the ride though.”
“Thanks doc,” replies Eld, standing and making his way off the craft. Turning her head to the left Teuschle sees that the bay door has been left open, and she watches as the pig commander jumps down and slaps the side of the lander, walking out of sight. A few moments later the pull of in-atmosphere takeoff grabs at her stomach and then they’re rising up and away from the green moss. She feels a bit of pressure in the side of her neck, something cold and hard that makes the pounding in her head subside bit by bit.
The lander flies low over the canopy of the jungle. It becomes a blur of black and green as they pick up speed and the wind rushing through the door pulls at her hair. The bootlace holding her ponytail flutters and comes loose, flying through the hatch. Her blonde hair billows in the air like a golden pennant, a victory for the home team.
They soar over the wreckage of the Orion, a smoldering black scar that cuts through the jungle. Hundreds of aircraft circle the remains, dumping water and pulling up huge chunks of smoke blackened steel with long cables.
The drugs begin to take hold and her eyes grow heavy. The constant drone of the rotor blades is soporific, and she finds it hard to fight against the hum of the engine as it vibrates the hull and the stretcher attached to it.
The lander finally passes the border of the jungle and Teuschle sees that the landmass is an island. The local star has set, turning the sea a deep red. Through the haze of the drugs she thinks she sees a face in the long shadows at the end of the island. A hundred meters wide, looking up at the passing ship with the mournful eyes of a recent widow. Then comes darkness and sleep.
[transmission interrupted]
[sleep mode activated]
[searching for other signals]
[…]
[signal found]
[ad hoc device a00015 online]
[connection established]
Corporal Akira Goto
Unknown Landmass, Pressia
28 Hours after the scuttling of the Orion.
Akira struggles against the vines, but can’t seem to free himself. He is trying not to panic, but after watching the worm thing below the ground swallow Natasha it’s getting hard not to. His captor is ten feet in front of him, astoundingly beautiful and incredibly insane, talking to herself again. She paces back and forth through the clearing, her bare feet disappearing into the plush moss with every step. She’s tall, much too tall for a normal girl, nearing eight feet at least. Every so often she pauses her ludicrous conversation and flashes her bright green eyes at him. She shrugs her shoulders in exasperation each time, as though she were apologizing for the long wait. He wishes she would give him some of his clothes back. Even thought they are the only two left in the clearing he’s still embarrassed about his nudity, casting his dark eyes to the ground every time she meets his gaze.
“Well I can’t help that!” She yells aloud at no one. “I don’t have full control yet, what was I supposed to do?” She puts a hand on her forehead and leans her head forward. “Oh that’s mature, like they’d just… really? I wish they had this religion on the station I grew up on. Still, it’s much better than the whole ‘our Living God is watching you masturbate crap I got all through tertiary school’.” She leans back and laughs, startling Akira. “Yeah, totally repressed. Hmm, matter at hand being what it is, could we speed up the process? Fertilizer, huh? Would he work?” She jerks a thumb at Akira and thoughts of being mulched and fed to horrible plants with green human teeth flash through his mind. He has to go to the bathroom and briefly considers just letting it fly. The lunatic turns towards him and flashes a smile that’s so beautiful he can almost feel his heart break. “Perfect.”
Her walk is graceful, her long tanned legs scissoring as her hips rock rhythmically back and forth, approaching him. Through the terror he can feel the beginnings of an erection and his cheeks and neck burn as she gets within a foot of him.
“You have to pee?” She asks, leaning forward and resting her forehead against his. Her lips brush his as she talks. Involuntarily, his neck arches to try and meet them, but they stay out of his reach. “It’s ok,” she whispers, reaching down and gently wrapping her fingers around his penis. “I’ll help you.” She aims it away and to the left as he urinates, her eyes never leaving his as the stream patters almost soundlessly into the moss. He finishes and she shakes it off for him and almost immediately he goes erect, groaning when she gives him a playful squeeze.
“Are you scared of me?” She asks, gently tugging at the skin of his cock as she leans around to breath heavily onto his neck.
“Yes,” he answers. She moves her free hand to the back of his neck and gently scratches his hairline with her fingernails. He shivers and when she pulls at the hair on the back of his neck he let’s his chin rise to meet the soft, plush kiss she plants on his lips. An electric charge passes through the skin-to-skin contact and he trembles in her hands.
“You don’t need to be. What’s your name?” She asks. He responds “Akira” and she smiles again. “My name’s Mira, and I need something from you Akira. Then, I’ll let you go.”
“What do you need?”
Mira smiles and backs away. She reaches up and runs a slender finger down the rough, scaly bark of the vines around his wrist and he feels himself being lifted up higher. She bends over and takes him into her mouth, giving him a view of her ass in the process. Her tongue flicks over his head as her big lips form a perfect little circle halfway down his shaft. He groans as she applies a bit of suction, only toying with the end of him. As she sucks him off she reaches underneath herself and begins to play with her pussy, gently rubbing her lips in wide, slow circles. She moans with him in her mouth and Akira begins to breath heavily.
Mira touches another one of the vines and it pulls legs up so that his feet are by her shoulders. Taking care not to be to rough, she slides one of her long fingers into his anus and begins to rub at his prostate. He blushes from the violation and his knuckles go white from clenching his fists. Sweat pours down his face and back, dripping from his buttocks to the jungle floor. She begins to take him all the way into her mouth, never pausing as his cock pushes to the back of her throat. Akira can’t hold it any longer and he begs her to stop before he comes. She takes the signal and presses hard against prostate and slowly suckles up his member from the base to the shaft. Akira’s body shakes from the orgasm, and he fills her mouth. When he is finished his head slumps forward and he falls unconscious.
Mira suckles at him for a moment more, taking time to milk him as dry as possible before backing off and wiping his mouth clean. In the waning shadows of the clearing her green eyes glow with an ethereal light. She plants a kiss on Akira’s brow and whispers a thank you too him before snapping her fingers and walking back to the center of the clearing and plopping down on her back. The vines holding him slowly set him down in the moss, and after a few moments the moss itself opens wide. A great, glistening pink maw nearly a meter wide forms around his unconscious body and he slowly sinks into it as numerous tentacle-like appendages wrap his arms and legs and pull him down into the unseen depths below. The last thing to disappear is his foot, and as the jungle floor closes around it, it makes a wet plop and vanishes.
[signal lost]
[ad hoc device a00015 offline]
[ad hoc devices a00001-a00021 offline]
[begin intermission sequence]
Consul Rick Tanner Sr.
Forum Mezzanine, Political Sector, Grand Station
20 Cycles after the scuttling of the Orion
The human animal is the most terrifying in the universe, thought the Consul as he surveyed the attending crowd through the monitor screen in the staging hall. He was twenty feet away from walking out there and facing the thirty thousand or so eyes that would be all staring at him as he gave the speech he had written over the course of the last few hours. Yeomen scurried through the halls around him, checking they myriad dials and knobs and screens that would run all the lighting and video feed from the stage. They averted their eyes as the passed and made sure to avoid contact with Praetorian Guardsmen that orbited him like planetoids, watching hands and shadows and occasionally feigning interest in the goings on of the backstage area.
“Worthy Consul, sir,” piped up one of the Yeomen. He was shorter, a squirrely little man with close-cropped auburn hair that peaked out from beneath the grey watch cap that was uniform for Political Sector Yeomen. “Yeomen Courdrey reporting.” He popped a crisp salute and waited for the Consul to acknowledge him. The Consul waved his hand dismissively.
“What is it, Yeoman?” The young enlisted man dropped the salute and put himself at ease.
“Your cue is in five minutes sir, and all the preparations for your address have been completed.”
“Thank you for your report Yeoman.” He turned to leave but the Consul stopped him. “Is there a mirror in the immediate area?”
“Sir?” The Yeoman asked, a quizzical expression crossing his face.
“A mirror, Yeoman. To check my appearance?” The young man looked to the ground, confused, then muttered something self-deprecating under his breath and moved past the Consul and made a few deft selections on the viewing monitor. A moment later the picture wavered and was replaced by a reflective, silver screen.
“I’m sorry sir, I thought asking for the operating group from a laser pistol for a moment. I didn’t recognize the old colloquialism. This reflect screen should do the job just fine.” The Consul turned and looked into his reflection, then realized it was just his video image, reversed and superimposed onto a silver background.
“Thank you, that’ll be all.” The Yeoman popped a quick salute and disappeared into the crowd of his peers. In the “mirror” he could see the darkening, deepening lines beneath his eyes. The battle-scars of constant worry. He made a few arbitrary adjustments to his grey garrison cap and ran his fingers along his chin to check his shave. All perfect, and everything in place save the sense of impending dread that had stuck with him since his meeting with the Metatron earlier. He turned to his security detail.
“Let’s do this.”
The last few quiet footfalls were always the worst, and he felt, as usual, like a man approaching the gallows. He could hear them out there, breathing, shifting, and squirming over each other like maggots in a corpse. None of them knowing yet whether they would support their Consul or the Pressians, but all of them thirsting for blood. The Consul wondered if all leaders felt like this at times, simultaneously doing everything you could to help people and despising them to their core while you do it. He missed Magwe. He missed combat. He missed his son. Most of all, he missed being useful.
The last step from the backstage shadows into the light was greeted with a roar of applauding, screaming, booing, and an erratic mix of hand gestures that ranged from obscene to fanatical. The Consul hardened his face and hoped to god that he wouldn’t piss himself while he was walking across the stage. To his right, away from the crowd was a massive forest-colored banner with the words of the Counterweight embroidered upon it in silver-trimmed gold lettering. He had never approved of such gaudy shows when he was Pro-Consul, and now couldn’t escape them.
He arrived at the podium and began the speech. The words tumbled over his tongue and out into the audience, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying, even though the crowd nodded and gesticulated along with the high and low points he had written in. None of it mattered anyway. It was just fluff, ceremonial bullshit that he had to put in before the big news hit, and he was coming up on that part now.
“Because we are who we are, we fight! We trust each other because our forefathers burned an expeditionary tract into the great unknown, together! That is why it pains me to tell you, that I, your Consul, have been propagating a lie the likes of which—” He cut short was he was saying. Someone had spit on him, but who? A vibration rocked the floor below him and he turned to see that one of his Guardsmen, Falaniko, had fallen to the floor. The deep brown skin of his forehead had been warped by something and was leaking blood. The Consul touched the side of his face and his fingers came away glistening red.
“GUN!” Screams one of the Guardsmen, and then the Consul is being covered in bodies and drug back and away from the podium. Another shot rings out and he feels himself being dropped. He can’t see through the entangled arms and torsos of the men around him, but something hot and wet splashes on his face and they are moving again. Back to the shadows behind the stage, back to safety.
[end trans]
[pinging device a00021 online]
[sleep mode deactivated]
[reestablishing connection]
[begin trans]
Detention Quarters, Relei, Pressia
30 Hours after the scuttling of the Orion
Being hosed down like an animal almost breaks her, but Teuschle stays strong through the onslaught of the ice-cold saltwater. She had woken up on the floor of this dank cell only minutes before, naked and cold. Her head still pounds, but she has reoriented herself and doesn’t let them see her need to shiver, her desire to cower in the corner and beg for a reprieve. She stands in the center of the cramped room, her feet placed on the concrete floor, and lets the waves of frigid water break over her as though she were a rock. Soon they let up the on the deluge and she rests her back against the wall, watching the mix of delousing powder and water circle the drain. The stout, fat pig man that had been spraying her down shuts the hatch and leaves her alone in the light from the dim yellow bulb set in the ceiling.
She finds herself hoping that Rick is still alive and thumbs her Thought Collar. They had taken her CommMod off while she’d been passed out. The only reason she still had it on was because of that evil little switch they had, an override for the Collar that shut down her central nervous system.
Time passes.
Minutes.
Hours.
Eventually a tray of decent looking food slides through the slot at the bottom of the door, accompanied by a small wax-paper package. She takes her time before eating, not wanting to let them make an animal of her. There’s some meat and bread, and a canteen full of stale water. They even give her a spoon to eat with. In the back of her mind, she promises herself to never eat pork again. Filthy animals.
She finishes and opens the package, which she finds is full of clothing, all her size. She shudders at the thought of them measuring her while she slept, but the cold forces her hand and she dresses. A pair of hard-soled brown sandals, soft cotton underwear, gauzy white pants, and a tight-fitting black halter top that cuts off just above her belly button. There is an assortment of jewelry that she passes up, though she does disassemble a gold necklace and use the leather thong that bound it to tie her hair back.
Time passes slowly in the cell, and she takes care to avoid the wet spots when she curls into the corner to lie down.
The heavy bolt on the other side of the door slides open with an oily snick and the door itself groans inward on its rusty hinges.
“Get up,” calls a gruff voice from the hall. “Let’s go.”
She rises to her feet. There’s no use in fighting them just yet, she thinks, better to bide my time until the best possible moment. Teuschle leaves the cell and is greeted by an accompaniment of four Pressian soldiers, all fully armed. She smirks to herself, they’re afraid of her. They form a box around her, clasp her wrists in long chained cuffs, and after the leader gives the order, and they begin to move down the hallway.
The cellblock isn’t large at all. In the short time she has she counts five cells going down the dead end behind her, and ten more ahead. They all seem to be the same size, and she finds that hers was the only one without a large two-way viewport. The cells are full of other humans. Six or more people occupy a few, though all of them calm and healthy if not scared looking. She stops, however, when she passes the second to last cell. A redheaded girl is sitting against the back wall in a seat made from wispy white strands that hang from the ceiling, and several large spiders crawl along the glass. She scowls through the window, her eyes glowing red in the darkness.
“Friend of yours?” Asks the guard behind her as he gives her a gentle nudge with the butt of his rifle. Lacy flashes Teuschle a knowing smile as they lead her out of sight.
Teuschle’s escort leads her from the building into a broad street paved with tarmac. Hundreds, thousands of pig men and women line the sides of the street. Many are obviously civilians, and she is surprised to see the women are dressed in a fashion very similar to hers. The military Pressians are all dressed in camouflage utilities, a splotchy green black pattern that seems somewhat outdated. When they see her they shout obscenities. Whore. Imperial. Murderer. The last one is the only thing that strikes her as strange, she had never thought of what she did in that capacity. Soldiers were soldiers after all.
The town is low strung and hot. The area around her must be topographically desert, she notes as tiny whirlwinds of sand kick up into dust devils in the street. Ahead of her is the town’s largest building, a big clay-brick building that shone red against the brilliant white lights that dotted its façade. After a few more minutes of walking, they were there and a wide-set staircase made of carved marble brought them to the two black wooden doors that swing open as they came upon them.
They passed through a white-marble lobby where one of her guards steps away for a moment to explain their passage to a receptionist. A moment later they move up a staircase, through a hall, and to another set of doors made of the same black wood. They slide open soundlessly and she finds herself in what must be the main hall of the building.
It’s big, but many of the chambers she’d been in on Grand Station, and even the Orion’s bridge, had been bigger. The floor was tile inlaid with patterns of trees and pig men fighting epic battles against each other. Lines of massive white and black pillars ran parallel the length of the room, leading up to the throne that dominated the far wall. Above it is an impressive golden mural of a gigantic woman holding a star in one hand and a diminutive man in the other. Sitting in the throne itself is an overweight pig man with long silver hair. He’s swaddled in rich purple robes that come to his knees. His entourage lines the walls, and he sits surrounded by ten members of his personal guard. Her escort takes her within a few meters of the throne and the Low King’s face splits into a nasty grin as he takes in his new prisoner.
“Greetings Imperial,” he says. His voice has the strangled quality of the very fat. His neck rolling as each syllable crosses his gullet. “Welcome to Crasil, city on the Golden Shore, home of the Grand Maiden, and seat of the Low King.” He tips his head towards her. “But you may call me King Cer, or just Cer if you like. We will be getting to know each other quite well as you may have already guessed.” He waits a moment, but Teuschle doesn’t respond. “For the sake of politeness, could you introduce yourself?"
“My name is Ensign Katie Teuschle. Serial number Orion Alpha zero zero zero two one. I am a free citizen and willing soldier of the Living God.” Her words echo on silence through the marble halls. He cocks his head to the side and affects a disappointed look.
“Now now, all this formality is unbecoming of the wild woman of the Empire, is it not?” Teuschle returns his gaze with a glare and remains silent. “After all, you killed six of my finest men on the back of god and, from what I hear, have been touched by the maiden’s kiss without any ill effect.”
“Blood shed for god is never forgotten!” Shout collected military personnel in the hall. Teuschle’s eyes dart back and forth. There is no escape here.
“I won’t waste your time with small talk, Katie, I find pleasantries are often wasted on the harsher castes.” His grin softens and he leans to the side to twirl his hair in his fingers. “You have become something of a commodity by virtue of your fighting spirit, and now I own you by right of conquest. Normally, you would have been simply given over to my loyal troops as payment for hard work, but you have become valuable through merit and circumstance. That said, henceforth you shall be my new brood mother. How does that sit with you?”
Nausea rocks her for a moment at the thought, and Teuschle gums up and spits on the ground in front of her, a sufficient enough response for the situation.
“As I thought, guards!”
Teuschle senses the first hit coming. They’ve planned this out, and like an idiot, the guard at her seven has been overly aggressive the whole trip. She ducks instinctively, and feels the rush of his butt stock passing over her head. She steps behind him as he passes and she throws the long chain between her wrists over his head and turns 180 degrees, throwing her hips back hard and pulling with all of her might. She smiles as she hears his trachea snap under the pressure. A moment later she is pinned to the ground while sucker-punching bastard lies face down, twitching.
“Excellent! Excellent!” Declares the fat king as he steps down from his throne and taps one on his entourage on the shoulder. “And I would expect nothing less from a warrior of your renown!” The pig man he tapped follows close behind him. “But I’m afraid I can’t have any more of these outburst from my new queen, and that said, I must show you this.” As he finishes his lackey comes up to Teuschle and pulls out a screen that he holds close enough for her to see. On it, Tanner is strapped naked to stone chair. A masked man holds a gun to his head, and waves gleefully at the screen for a moment before it is taken away. Her heart hardens in her chest.
“Now, I am afraid I’ll have to kill him if you aren’t cooperative.” Teuschle looks him in the eyes and the hate pouring from her could melt steel. “However, I am a reasonable man and a quick show of your allegiance to me would go a long way to providing this poor man the safety he’ll need to survive that room.” The Low King takes a knee in front of her and cups her chin, taking care to caress her cheek as he does so. His hands are soft, like him.
“Being the gentleman I am, I’ll give you choices. Consummate with me now, give yourself willingly to my men, or watch your pretty green-eyed friend here get turned into a mess I’ll make you clean up. By the way, option c ends with you having my children regardless.”
She clenches her teeth so hard she can taste blood in her mouth. She's chipped a molar. She thinks of Rick. Wrapping his body around her as the bullets started to fly and dragging her to the ground, and the hole in his chest he got because of it. She thinks of his stupid, happy, dumb fucking smile as they were surrounded and any hope of walking away from that berm safely was dashed away. She thinks of the last words she heard him say.
Make the call.
[end trans]
END ACTION FOUR: [capta] TIME ELAPSED: D-10 TO CLEANSING: CASA NOSTRA ON STATION IN ORBIT AROUND PRESSIA AMBASSADOR CLASS PERICLES ON STATION FOR EVAC
A LUX, DEO
by ethomas » Sat Mar 31, 2012 9:30 pm 
