Grinacanne

(Arketta Sneak: 2d8+1d12 vs. 1d8 = 9 vs. 5)
(Zaef Sneak: 2d10+1d12 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 1)
(Angel Sneak: 2d8+1d10+1d12 vs. 1d8 = 9 vs. 7)
(Hug’sh Sneak: 2d8+1d8+1d10 vs. 1d8 = 4 vs. 2)

Arketta steps deftly over the rocks on the way to her position, one side of Operation Bury Their Mistakes.The secret to making good use of the carapace’s cloak isn’t to do the exaggerated tiptoe sneaky moves, but to keep going steady and hold the same pace with minimal bobbing, giving the armor’s motion compensation as few surprises as possible. It’s more than just how you move though, a good Turai knows the environment. There’s some glare from the side and thermals rising off the rock, and she uses it to smooth out the shimmer of the active camouflage well enough even as she moves right through the distant view of the perimeter guard. Turai are trained to spot camouflaged enemies, of course, but this garrison has grown too confident and too bored to keep properly alert for threats, especially a solo elite Turai closing distance.

Failing even that level of ‘alert’ is the guard designated as the first recipient of Zaef’s tracheotomy skills. Not that Zaef gives it anything less than his best panther impression, creeping nimbly between the delicate rocks overlooking the back of the small gully, but it’s kind of a waste when your opponent just looks straight forward and doesn’t even attempt to check their flanks. On the threat scale from ‘harmless’ to ‘deadly’? Just about makes it up to ‘speed bump’.

Of course, there are exceptions to the garrison’s overall low level of response. Angel - ain’t that just his luck? - is facing off against a Turai who’s properly set up to watch over his side of the ravine, his helmet moving just enough to tell Angel that this guy is scanning the rocks like he means business. Active camo’s a wonderful thing, especially when it’s built into your bespoke combat suit without incurring the bulk of carapace, but Angel feels like he’s back in sniper school, learning to slide forward on his belly just so to evade the trained eye of the instructors. Only here, the failing grade will be in the form of incoming whap rifle beams. Still, it’s nice to feel like those skills of his are actually in demand, and inch by inch he works his way towards his designated position.

Hug’sh finds that the current state of bulk is both help and hindrance in his efforts to stick with Swims’s teachings. It takes a certain way of stepping to not thump on the ground with his weight, despite the extra cushioning, and every rock that shifts with a soft pling! under his big feet feels like an ice pick in his side. Occasionally he glances down at himself and his fur, trying to keep the shade of his fur close to the rocks around them, but it takes some concentration to calm his colors and that’s concentration he can hardly spare from everything else he needs to do to keep four hundred pounds of Wherren from blowing the team’s approach. Damn it, did he use to get this anxious in the field? His grip tightens on his own beamer, both trying to be ready to shoulder and fire first if it comes to it but also trying even harder not to steer right into that kind of moment. Breath is too quick, too. Fortunately, the other guard overlooking the rear of the camp isn’t paying much more attention to things than Zaef’s target, but the proof of the assassination is in the stabbing and Hug’sh is not in position just yet. Close, but not yet. Another breath. Focus. Just a few more steps.

(Arketta Throw: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 7 vs. 4)
(Angel Shoot: 1d12+2d10 vs. 1d4 = 7 vs. 3)
(Zaef Melee: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d4 = 7 vs. 1)
(Hug’sh Melee: 2d8+1d10 vs.1d4 = 7 vs. 3)

An electric ripple runs through Hug’sh’s fur from his hands up to his shoulders. Just two feet behind Mr. Oblivious. Hug’sh’s breath stops and the shifting gradients of color on his chest freeze. It feels like he can now count every grain of sand on his nostrils. Then time doesn’t just unfreeze, but snap forward. Hug’sh’s arms shoot out, past the Turai’s head. Just barely enough time for him to flinch, but Hug’sh is a half-step further now, just in the right spot, and his arms clamp into position as if by reflex. All too easy to find purchase on the shoulder joint of the breastplate and the ridge of the visor, respectively. In what might be their greatest total effort in the so-far short life of Hug’sh’s big muscles, his arms pull outward, yanking body and head of the turai separate ways in half a heartbeat. The carapace does two things here: one, it muffles the sound of cracking bone and tearing flesh, two, it stays in one piece. Hug’sh’s hot breath pushes out from him and fogs the mirror visor of the helmet. That’s not just a snapped neck. That’s a full 180. It’s all Hug’sh can do to pull the body close and keep it from just tumbling down the rocks like a sack of potatoes, because that guy? He’s fucking dead.

Zaef's target died no better. Lacking hands large enough to grasp a human's face, Zaef makes his own purchase in his target by taking his off-hand blade, reaching around his target, and shoving it up and underneath the pectoral plates and into his lungs to silence him. Now with a firm handle embedded in his target, Zaef has the leverage to stab the other blade in the Turai's throat and pull on the two blades, using the first to drag the second through the Turai's throat, opening both his armor and his throat up. The clean chrome of the Turai armor shimmers blood red for a moment as the hydrophobic surface sheds any trace of blood, and Zaef drops the corpse of his Turai target to the ground.

Angel's kill, no such drama. One of the projects he had worked with Yarim back on Hedion was something the Sneaky Delta Bastard had come to rely on with a .45 ACP pistol - a suppressor. Given that his new sidearm uses an electromagnetic locking mechanism, it was a doddle to work with the manufacturer on adding a "hush puppy" mode to the weapon's firmware in exchange for a demonstration and 3D scan of a suppressor can. (Where Angel sourced the suppressor, clearly stamped with English, was never asked but there were a few jokes about cities of gold.) With his excellent effort sneaking up behind his target thank you very much, Angel was able to stand up, take aim, and send a hardened Imperial .45 ACP round straight through his target's neck, severing veins, arteries, and spinal cord in one shot. The Turai drops to the ground, strings cut and bleeding out and is unconscious before the slide unlocks for Angel to cycle the action.

Arketta's efforts are less lethal (for now) but no less hazardous. Tossing charges up near and against the temporary barricades facing the mouth of the gully is simple, but throwing a kilo of charges up against the cliff faces and getting them to stick is an entirely different proposition. She slathers on the adhesive gel, then stands up what she hopes is just short enough not to be noticed, and heaves the first charge as hard as she can into the air. It splats against the sandstone face and sticks easily. Sigh of relief, wipe the adhesive off her gauntlets, and reposition to the other side. More adhesive, and another grunt of effort over comms before the second charge is stuck to the other side of the cliff.

"Party is ready," Arketta whispers, pushing herself prone again against the gully floor.
"Overwatch is ready," Angel replies, pulling his rifle off his back and taking a seated position at the cliff edge.
Hug’sh takes a knee with the greatest of care, pressing his foot down on a solid piece of rock, then brings his beamer to his shoulder and sights in for covering fire from the top. With a firing position to his liking, he signs to Zaef to get clipped in for the abseil. Behind him, Zaef presses an Imperial piton to the rock and triggers its percussive charge; an angry hiss later, its hardened tip is seated three inches deep. Wind against them, Hug’sh feels. Good. That’ll carry whatever sound that made away from the camp. “Ready for insertion,” Hug’sh voxes as Zaef feeds the line into the descender built into the carapace.
In the middle of the operation, there’s no evidence of the hesitation and doubt that Arketta had before. “Insertion go.”

Zaef leaps backwards off the cliff, the line whistling through the descender right before the carapace senses the ground approaching and hits the brakes, his descent sliding to a stop just slow enough that there’s no evidence of his landing other than a slight puff of dust around his invisible carapace. “I’m down,” Zaef calls up, popping the line out of the descender. He hustles to a nearby rock and takes up a firing position looking towards the camp. “You’re up, big guy.”

Hug’sh’s descent is not backed by the easy confidence of a human-sized, human-weight payload going down the rope the way it’s been done a thousand times before. Praying that whatever the Cyllans threw into the chamber had a little Rock-Climber heritage, Hug’sh funnels the rope through his own harness, pushes his slung beamer up against his hump and then slowly swings his feet over the edge. Padded soles hit rock face. The piton does not budge or cry out, though whether that’s better than an honest groan is anyone’s guess. But at this point, it’s too late for second-guessing the gear. Hug’sh lets out the rope and pushes off, hopping down the rock face as the rope spools off and the pulleys whirr. There’s no relief quite like hitting the ground at the speed you intended, then. Hug’sh unclips, grabs for his beamer one more time and then stalks off in search of his own cover. No conveniently-sized rock for his bulk, but a small depression worn into the gully floor by what passes for seasons around here is enough to shield him from the front as he crawls into it. ”Holding Bravo,” Hug’sh squawks.

(Hug’sh Notice: 2d10+1d8 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 7)
(Zaef Notice: 1d6+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 5)

As he waits for Go, Hug’sh counts off the hostiles he can clock and compares them to the plan. Guards at the command post, check. Lookout at the mess hall, check. Two rovers...check one, there’s got to be a second one but Hug’sh doesn’t have eyes on. Not the best vantage point here, Hug’sh figures, and when do you ever have the luxury of being 100% certain where every piece is on the board? But he’d feel better with one or two more Knowns. He voxes his observations, waiting for the others to add their tallies before moving on.
“I got the other rover,” Zaef says. “Next to the tent, checking the wall.”
“Overwatch has the whole base,” Angel calls down. “Which target do you want first?”

(Hug’sh Tactics: 2d8 + 1d10 vs. 1d8 = 7 vs. 1)

”Rover Two is out of position,” Hug’sh voxes. ”Zaef, take Rover Two, then go for Tent Two and get in position for the right guard. Angel, set up for the guard on your left. Takedown on Arketta’s go. After that, I need Rover One out of the picture ASAP. I’ll handle the guards at Tent One.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Zaef replies.
“Got it,” Angel adds.
“Distractions are almost ready,” Arketta calls back, breathing heavily. “Got four extra beamers set up for remote fire. Anything else?”
“Nope,” Angel says.
“Let’s do this,” Zaef says.
”On your go, Arketta,” Hug’sh adds.

There’s a pause, but then a fusillade of beamer fire sounds from the mouth of the gully. The beamers are all synched up to each other and firing on automatic, aimed at the barricades and doors of the tents in the temporary Turai hostage base.

(Round 1)
(Arketta Shoot: 2d12+1d8 vs. 1d4 = 6 vs. 1)
(Arketta Distraction: 2d8+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 8 vs. 4 , Surprise round maintained for first attacks on new groups)

“One down, 35 to go!” Arketta calls out. “Distraction is live, make it fast!”

Hug’sh jumps up from his foxhole and thumps forward, beamer slapping against his side as he makes for his tent at best speed. Can’t spare the time to glance to Zaef - just have to trust he’s got his flank handled - can’t think of who might see and who might shoot. Anyone in the way is just gonna have to be run over. What matters now is getting to the tent, getting the guards off their feet and keeping anyone from going after the hostages. The killing? That’ll fall in place as they go.

(Hug’sh Attack vs Guard #1: 1d8 + 1d10 vs 1d4 = 10 vs. 3)
(Hug’sh Attack vs Guard #2: 1d8 + 1d10 vs 1d4 = 7 vs. 3)

Hug’sh rounds the tent, coming face to face with the two guards in their skinsuits trying to react in some fashion to the apparent attack at the base entrance. Whether the first one is lucky or unlucky is a matter of perspective; being in Hug’sh’s way, he first takes the brunt of Hug’sh’s momentum from the charge and then finds himself on the ground. For an almost unprotected human, gully floor on one side and four hundred pounds of Wherren trampling on the ribcage is very much Between A Rock And A Hard Place, but at least it’s over quick. As for the second guy, he gets his arms up in time to shield his face, but it’s not for nothing that Hug’sh drilled shoulder checks with Swims. The final piece of momentum transfer smacks against the Turai’s defense and throws him on his ass, too, but he’s spared the trampling, at least, because Hug’sh is now where he intended to be: between the hostages and the hostiles. The next seconds will tell how bad of a place to be that is.

(Zaef Attack: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d4 = 8 vs. 2)

Zaef’s bum rush takes him right up behind the roving guard. For a knife-fighter of Zaef’s experience, carapace doesn’t even rate an annoyance, and both blades dig into his target’s back, severing her spine and cutting open the heart at the same time. Zaef pulls the knives out cleanly and starts moving towards the front of the tent to deal with the guards before - hopefully - they start taking out hostages.

(Angel Shoot: 1d12+1d10+1d8 vs. 1d4 (x2) = 11 vs. 1, 8 vs. 3)

The matte titanium can snapped onto the front of Angel’s rifle puffs smoke twice, as Angel rides the recoil from the first shot up just enough to let the clean squeeze and break of the second pull send another round into the other guard. Wasn’t what Hug’sh laid down, but Angel figured that he wouldn’t mind Angel going for some extra credit when the two targets were so polite to line up next to each other. Zaef hears the two cracks of supersonic rounds whip around the corner just in time to round to the front and see two dead Turai, both of them missing significant chunks of their heads.
“Get them moving,” Angel grunts, and turns his aim to the next target.

(Round 2, Initiative time)
(Turai #3: 8, Hug’sh: 6, Turai #1 (Tent): 5, Angel: 3, Arketta: 3, Zaef: 3, Turai #2: 1, Turai #4: 1)

(Turai #3: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 2, Targeting: 2d6(lowest) = 1, need 6 to shoot at Arketta, Damage: 3d8 vs. 1d12 = 8 vs. 5, 3/6 Wounds remaining Beamer 1)

Turai come streaming out of their sleeping tents, the work tents, and the community/meal tent, most of them in their skinsuits, some with the bare essentials of their carapace snapped on: chest panels and helms only.
“Defensive positions!” one of them, probably the Rav-Samal, shouts. “Open fire!”
A fusillade of return fire lances out towards Arketta and the dummy fire-linked chamakanas, one shot hitting right in front of one of the beamers, sending up a shower of molten rock.

(Hug’sh Fight: 2d8 + 1d10 vs 2d8: 9 vs 6 TOO CLOSE FOR INSTA-GIB!)
(Hug’sh Damage: 1d12 vs 1d8: 7 vs 7, Turai takes 7 Shock)

Hug’sh comes to two rather embarrassing discoveries. The first is that training dummies obligingly stand still but humans don’t. And added bulk is good for momentum, but not for quick moves. Accordingly, the additional step and then raising his foot for another torso-crushing stomp takes enough time that the downed Turai can react. It’s not much more than reflexively raising their arms, but it’s enough to shove Hug’sh’s foot to the side. Mostly. As in, the bone-cracking, rib-breaking type of “mostly” that’s gonna be real painful once the adrenaline wears off, if it gets the chance, but right now, that Turai - though in a bad spot - isn’t roadkill just yet.

(Turai #1, The Tent Turai Turn
Roamer Turai: Running towards Hug’sh to join the fight
Guard Turai: 2d8 (Shoot) vs. 1d10+2d8 (Fight) = 7 vs. 6, Damage: 2d6 vs. 1d12 = 4 vs. 9, 16/20 Shock remaining)

Hug’sh clocks trouble on approach from the corner of his eye, his mind blanking on the appropriate follow-up if the stompy don’t finish it. It’s enough that he misses the grounded Turai drawing the pantaki and licking a shot at him. The chrome and gold pistol zzzzzips in his hand as the Turai holds the trigger down, slashing a burning trail on his chest where his colors momentarily fail as Hug’sh reflexively turns his head to dodge the rest of the burst. The rest of his fur blazes up, however, in a mix of orange and yellow.

Fire. Fire and blood. Hug’sh doesn’t roar. The hate is too hot to unclench his jaw for that.

(Angel Shoot: 2d12+1d10+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 7 vs. 7, Damage: 3d8 vs. 2d8 DR1 = 8-1 vs. 7)

Angel pivots to track the roaming guard, running flat-out to help out her banner brother deal with Hug’sh, and it’s another smooth squeeze and clean break on the trigger - but this time the target doesn’t fall. The round, hardened though it may be, hits just high enough on the head that it skips off. She stumbles and almost loses her footing entirely, but manages a drunken half-stumble run towards the corner where Hug’sh is about to put his foot clean through the other Turai’s chest.

(Zaef Throw: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 9 vs. 8, Damage: 1d10+1d8 vs. 2d8 DR1 = 10-1 vs. 5)

Zaef doesn’t skip a beat - all guards on his tent dead, he spins back towards the other tent and Hug’sh, using the momentum from the move to throw one of his knives straight into the top of the skull of the Turai underneath Hug’sh’s feet. Now adorned with a permanent handle sticking out of his skull, Hug’sh sees one of the Turai’s eyes roll back and the other turn to the side, and he knows Zaef just turned out his lights.

(Arketta Shoot: 2d12+1d8 vs. 2d8 = 5 vs. 6)
(Turai #2 and #4 Shoot: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 4 vs. 8, 5 vs. 7)
(Arketta Distraction: 2d8+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 3 vs.

“Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck -” Arketta curses under her breath as she rolls from precarious half-cover to half-cover, trying to get off pot-shots as the other 29 Turai in the hostage firebase begin laying into her one-woman distraction. Fortunately, the twilight means that only the few Turai that grabbed their helms have a good chance of seeing the rocks and sand dunes lining the entrance to the gully, and every shot either splashes against cover or goes wide.

“Find out what the fuck is going on with the hostages!” the same leadership voice shouts. “Tell them to light them up and get the fuck over here!”
“Sounds like you’re about to - Vidas fucking Lam - you’re about to have company!” Arketta shouts over the vox link.

(Round 3)
(Turai #3 Attack: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 6 vs. 2, Targeting: 2d6(lowest) = 4, Damage: 3d8 vs. 1d12 = 4 vs. 1)

A beamer shot hits one of the chamakanas Arketta erected on the line right down the barrel, and the whole thing blows up in a blue flash of plasma and energy. Arketta covers herself and the carapace does the rest, but that’s one beamer very down.

(Hug’sh Fight: 2d8 + 1d10 vs. 2d8 = 8 vs. 6. Damage: 1d12 vs. 1d8 = 3 vs. 2. 2 Shock.)
Hug’sh swivels his bulk in slow motion, withdrawing his foot from a second stomping to square up to the Turai stumbling his way. Hug’sh steps into her path and delivers a shoulder check, enough to stop her and throw her back a bit. One way of looking at it is that he’s distracted and that whoever’s shouting about company coming his way over the vox would probably advise going loud at this point. The other way to look at it is that Hug’sh is standing in a puddle of blood with adrenaline pounding through his skull and the kind of mad that blocks out everything, now faced with a single, very tangible target left in front of him. Like he’s...taking his time?

Then he throws a straight punch, decking the Turai. The mad fades, just a bit. Thoughts start breaking through again. Tactical situation: appraised. Hug’sh unslings his beamer and starts moving again, looking for the next bit of viable cover.

(Arketta and Angel Wits: 4d8 vs. 2d8, 1d10+1d8 vs. 2d8 = 6 vs. 6, 8 vs. 7)

“We need them to come at me!” Arketta shouts. “Get in the tent and start shooting!”
Zaef freezes. “What?”
”Shoot the ground,” Hug’sh weighs in. ”Execution starts now. Anybody comes checking, I’ll hold them off. Go.”
“Both tents, big guy,” Angel says, already on the run. “Repositioning to cover you, Arketta. I’ve got an idea.”
Hug’sh grunts. ”Guess the screams will be easy to fake,” he muses. ”Moving.”

Having not gotten too far, Hug’sh quickly returns to the tent entrance and squeezes his bulk inside. Here’s hoping nobody turns to look at the bloody mess he left...because inside, the bloody mess on him is definitely raising concerns above and beyond a big Wherren with a whap rifle forcing his way inside while a firefight rages outside. There are about a dozen people inside - men, women, children, the Turai did not discriminate - and only two of them start screaming at his sight. Hug’sh doesn’t have time to wonder if that’s good or bad. He holds up his left hand and grunts a strained “Friend!”, then moves that hand horizontal and down, Galactic Universal Language for “take cover!”. Communications as established as they’re gonna get, he turns to the side, prays that the bare rock isn’t porous enough to explode and then pumps a few quick blasts into the ground. Without anything exploding in his face, he turns to see if the hostages are still all right - they seem to be, lying flat and covering heads as best as they can - then returns his sight to the holes he’s poked into the rock and adds a good couple more.

Angel, for his part, is sprinting full on across the top of the gully wall, and stops the moment the first beamer comes into view. He fires one shot - and the beamer goes silent. “Gotta sell the damage. Get ready to run and trigger the charges.”
“Already moving,” Arketta says. She closes her eyes, thinks of Luis for a moment, then turns off her camo and runs.

(Turai #2 and #4 Attack: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 7, 8 vs. 4, Damage: 3d8 vs. 2d10+1d8 DR1 = 5-1 vs. 7, 6-1 vs. 5)
“They’re retreating!” the lead Turai shouts. “Let’s finish them off!”
Finally presented with a clear target, the whole line of twenty-odd Turai open up at once - most at the 3 other beamers still functioning, but more than a couple shoot at the clear running target that Arketta’s chrome carapace running away presents. The first shot cracks past her ear, but the second tags her in the shoulder, the heat and impact making her entire right arm go numb as she feels the heat burn her skin.

A few more steps to safety - Arketta thinks, right before a beam smashes square into the middle of her back and her legs buckle.
“Arketta!” Angel shouts, fear shattering the sniper’s cool demeanor.
There’s a terrifying silence as Arketta slides to a stop, her frame motionless. A moment later, though, Angel can see her struggle to pick herself back up. “I’m -” Arketta sucks in an agonizing breath. “I’m fine,” she grunts.
“They’re coming, blow the charges!” Angel shouts.
“Almost...to...cover,” Arketta groans, crawling one trembling, agonizing bit at a time.
“Arketta, blow the charges!” Angel echoes, his shouts audible even over the chaos of battle.

(Arketta Might: 2d10+1d8 vs. 2d10 = 10 vs. 7)

Arketta pushes herself up - bruised muscles and fractured ribs screaming - just enough to lunge behind the rock she had picked out as big enough to shield her from the blasts. “Say goodbye, you bastards,” she grunts and snaps her fingers.

Instantly, the sand erupts into a half-dozen gouts of fire and light, blowing the charging Turai - well, various sized pieces of the charging Turai - into the air. Simultaneously, three more loud detonations rock the gully and blast a few tons of rock off the walls and down into the camp below, burying the leading edge of the camp in stone. Arketta is showered in sand and rocks while the sound of the blasts echoes off the mesas and canyons for miles around.

“Arketta?” Angel calls out, picking himself up off the ground.
“I’m here,” Arketta replies, starting to unbury herself. “I could use a kauka. How’s our friends?”
Angel looks down at the series of craters, followed by the giant rockpile that used to be one half of the Turai firebase. There’s a few stragglers picking themselves up off the ground, most of them bleeding or missing parts.

(Angel Shoot: 1d12+1d8 vs. 1d8 (x2) = 12 vs. 6, 10 vs. 6)

Angel calmly raises his rifle and puts rounds through each of the surviving Turai’s heads before their rattled brains can realize what’s going on. “Dealt with. I’m coming down.”

Inside the tent, a ripple of relieved green echoes through Hug’sh’s fur as the team checks in and the noises of battle die down. His muscles, still unaccustomed to their own full-throttle power, ache and complain, but still he feels himself relax. He turns to look at the hostages, who glance up from the ground at him, still not sure what to make of it all. They don’t dare to believe, not yet.

“Stay here,” Hug’sh says, softer than before. “Wait for friends. Safe now.”

He rises to his feet, presses the whap rifle’s stock against his shoulder and then steps out to survey the carnage outside. Well...they weren’t sure how much it would take the bring down the gully, but damn if they didn’t do it. The whomps of Angel’s rifle still come, but more paced now, measured. A final closing of the last few accounts. But speaking of that...Hug’sh looks to the ground, where two Turai died ugly and one still squirms. It would be easy to kill her. Shoot her in the head. Twist her neck. Stomp her. But this isn’t how Hug’sh wants to finish this, not any more. He reaches down and seizes her by an ankle, then wanders towards Zaef, dragging her over the rocks with him. Hey, just because he won’t snuff her out right then and there doesn’t mean he has to be nice about this stay of execution.

”My tent is secure,” he calls out to Zaef.
“Clear over here as well,” Zaef says, walking out of the tent. He sees what Hug’sh is dragging behind him, and looks up at him. “What do you want to do with her?”
Hug’sh grunts and cocks his head towards the top of the rock where they started their assault. ”Share the view,” he says. As he speaks, he secures his own weapon, then quickly strips the Turai’s weapons from her carapace and finally slings her over his shoulder. ”Talk,” he adds.

By the time the Turai comes to - sat up against a rock atop the outcropping that overlooks the gully - most of the work below is done. All hostiles accounted for, explosives placed on materiel that can’t be removed, hostages checked and reassured and ready to board the skimmers that will get them out of this nightmare. From up here, the carnage looks almost reasonable. Just a plan executed well with minimum casualties. Hug’sh stands close to the edge, squinting against the coming darkness. His ears perk as he hears the Turai stir, but he doesn’t move, yet.

“You wake,” he says. “Fight is over. You lose.” Finally, he turns to look at her. “What now, Turai?”
“Wait for you to kill me,” she says. The Turai isn’t afraid, but isn’t defiant either. She knows she got beat, and is waiting for the consequences of that.
“Long ago, I spared Turai,” Hug’sh says. “She is friend now. She beat you.” He pauses, and his expression darkens. “Lucky,” he says. “But you are not friend. I cannot change this. Cannot change what happened before. You die and Jorumm is still dead. My people are still slaves. Your death means nothing.” He sucks in more air. “Cannot change that. Cannot spare you.” He smiles, just a bit. “Thank you for listening. Now come. Let me finish.”
She glares up at Hug’sh. “Fuck you. Fuck your little speech. I don’t give a shit what you have to say, I don’t give a shit about your reasons for being terrorists. Just fucking shoot me and get it over with.”
Hug’sh nods. His colors calm. “Yes,” he says.

He gets it over with.

---

There’s not a strand of red left in Hug’sh’s fur when he arrives at the exfil point. He looks over the tired faces of the hostages and leaves them uncommented. What was done here is plain for all to see and requires no further explanation, no displays, no words. Just the shared knowledge that it is over.

He walks over to Arketta, resting up after her close brush with the wrong ends of a few dozen beamers. Compared to her, his own injury is almost not worth bringing up at all.

”Hey,” he says. ”Good work.”
Arketta smiles, sitting upright as the kauka’s effects painfully knit her ribs back together. “Same to you.” She nods towards the top of the bluff, where Hug’sh came from. “Did she tell you to shoot her?”
”Among other things,” Hug’sh says. ”She got a speech. Didn’t like it.” He harrumphs. ”Didn’t expect her to.” He looks back at the buried camp. ”No quarter.”
Arketta nods. “This one? No quarter.”
Hug’sh returns the nod. Hesitates. Then he talks. ”There’s something I need to tell you all,” he says. ”About a mission. And someone I lost.”
Arketta nods and looks up at Hug’sh. “Of course.” She tries to stand up, winces, and sits back down. “Anything you want to say, we are here for you.” Angel nods behind her.
Hug’sh smirks. ”And you’re in no shape to run away from story time, either,” he quips, but then his colors even out again. ”I went out with the Bashakra’i without telling anyone,” he begins. ”Slave traders are making a fortune off the suffering of Wherren. This was just one raid, one ship. Supposed to go in, pop some heads and get out.” He pauses. ”The slavers had other plans. They had the whole bay rigged with mines and explosive charges on the feeder lines. Almost cooked the lot of us. We...we got out. We saved a lot of lives. But I’ve never been good at losing anyone and we did lose.” He takes a deep breath. ”And I guess that’s what this was all about. Trying to find a way not to lose anyone again and make up for that black mark somehow. But you know what I realized?” Another breath. ”It doesn’t matter. When I looked at her, up there? It was like the hate was...cold. I was trying so hard to be mad at them to get through this and all it did was make me stupid. I don’t run well on hate. Just like I didn’t run well on believing in a country. I have to stop...losing myself in these things.” He looks around. ”There. Speech over.”

“You can’t make up for it,” Angel says bluntly. “You can just move on from it.”
Arketta nods. “Yes. You do what you can, but it only can make you further from it. It doesn’t make it better.”
“It takes a while,” Zaef says. “If it ever happens, I’ll let you know.”
Hug’sh nods to that. ”Back to business,” he says. ”Everyone accounted for and good to go?”
“Vasa has been contacted,” Arketta says. “Rides back to town are on their way.”
”Good,” Hug’sh says. He glimpses down at himself. ”...I’m gonna get a wet wipe or two.”

Ibash

(Sheen Infiltrate: 3d10 vs. 2d6 = 10 vs. 6)

Baroness Voath’s mansion is an ideal place for a summit - at least, from her perspective. On top of being a secure location that she alone controls, it’s a representation of her dominance over this little cabal she’s muscled together, and the impunity with which she controls Ibash. Big windows look out over the main skimmerway through the heart of Ibash City, letting her oversee the city and planet that is hers.

Today though, there’s more prosaic reasons for preferring it for a meeting place - namely, that she has more mercenaries in the room than anyone else. Toa’s little gang stands behind him in his chair, and Quaj...well, his people nominally are her people, but given the events of the last few days, who can tell anymore? It really is so trying.

“Not that we’re not...appreciative of you dealing with Teon going behind our backs -” Quaj starts.
“You’re First-damned right,” Toa interrupts. “You all should be paying me for taking out our garbage.”
“It’s the...public way that it happened that we are concerned about,” Voath says. It was a foregone conclusion, Toa wasn’t walking out of this room, but with this many beamers in one room, it would need to be handled delicately. “And then there’s the other issues.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Toa shouts.
Quaj slides the intel that the pirate handed over. “You really need to lay off the hardcore stims,” he says with a smirk.
Toa grabs the holodisplay and flicks through the files. “So I like to party, so what?”
“So, did you decide to execute Teon in public before or after you shoved the injector into your neck?” Quaj replies.
“Ralon, you hid this from us,” Voath says. “And because of that...I’ve decided you have to go.”

Voath waves to the mercenary captain in the corner, and a dozen beamers raised up. Toa’s gang draw their weapons, but they are severely outnumbered as Toa pulls a pantaki out of his pants and points it at Voath.
“You just made a big fucking mistake,” Toa snarls.
“No, I don’t think I did,” Voath replies.
Toa pulls the trigger - and unloads a burst into a nearly invisible sheet of spaceship window plating on the table. “Fuck -”

Beamers from above open fire, and Toa’s head erupts into a fountain of steam, blood, and flesh while the rest of his gang are lit up with beamer fire that turns the meeting room into a lightning show for a few brief seconds.

“Well,” Quaj says, his clothes untouched by the gore that now slides down his own protective shielding, “that’s that. Now, we finish off these pirates -”
“Not quite,” Voath says. “We still need them.”
“They’re working with the Throne!” Quaj shouts. “Who knows what else they’ve brought down on our heads!”
“You are being paranoid,” Voath says, a bit of edge creeping back into her voice. “You need to stay in your lane. I will handle the business, and then when the time is right, we dispose of them - not before.”
Quaj’s hand grasps his own pantaki. “Baroness. You are making a mistake.”
“No, I don’t think I am,” Voath replies.

(Luis Hack: 2d10 + 1d8 vs. 2d10: 7 vs. 7)
(Throne Hack: 3d8 vs 2d10: 6 vs 6)

The reactions of the Throne agents watching the security feed from the safety of their hideout are...varied. There’s Oalarna, giving it all a slight nod with a neutral expression, a measure of acknowledgment that this is how this was going to go. Teketma’s visibly nervous, though; it’s one thing to fight, but another to be witness to murder, though if pressed he might try to play it off as concern that there’s not gonna be anyone left to put on trial. But there’s something cool in him still, watching the angles, reading the room from the views they have, trying to figure out what’s going to happen next and how it can best be stopped. Toros affects a look of concentration, splitting her attention between the events on the holo, the 815 Agent Stanhill on the vox talking her through what he’s doing in the system and then whatever new crazy orders from Oalarna are sure to come flying her way any second now. As for Mauamnai? She’s taking a sip of water and working very hard to pretend all this has nothing to do with her right now. Not that she’s fooling anyone around her; the little hand movements of the Throne dissociation exercises are obvious to those who know what to look for. Bad tradecraft, maybe, but in a pinch you clear your head first so you’re still around to clean up the mess afterwards.

“Tell the Samal to stand by for the drop,” Oalarna says. Teketma relays that to the garrison troops in a Manta ducked behind a tall building near the mansion, but he still keeps one eye on the surveillance feed. “Do we have access to the building lights now?” he asks Toros.
“Ready to drop lights, Sir,” Toros replies. She hesitates. “We should…we need to.”
“Turai are standing by,” Teketma says. “Ten seconds to drop on your go.”

Oalarna takes a breath. What he’ll say in a moment is going to kill people. That gets easier, but it never gets easy.

“Go for Turai,” Oalarna says. “Lights on my mark.”

It doesn’t take long for the mood on the surveillance holo to shift. What was a couple of powerful criminals slowly ramping up their power plays has turned into a quarrel of sandrunners freezing at the sound of an Akwhela’s cry. Oalarna’s not there but he can feel the thrum of the Manta’s impellers from outside the mansion’s armor glass, settling its weight onto the roof.

“Mark,” Oalarna says. With a tap of Toros’s fingers, the mansion’s lavish warm lighting is cut, dying down in the half second it takes for the fixture’s internal energy buffers to be drained after a sudden loss of power.

“Full track on everyone in that room,” Oalarna adds. “Nobody out of the mansion.”

---

The word “mercenary” might conjure up a certain romantic notion of a perennial outlaw making violence both their business and their lifestyle, but at the end of the day, facing off against Turai is firmly outside the usual fun and games. Most of the mercenaries hired to guard the mansion are seasoned professionals and so they know what’s coming and the choice they face: guns to the side, face down on the floor, palms up and do not move a single fucking muscle until they drag you away to the Truthseekers, or go down shooting. Some of them decide that maybe, just maybe, they’ll survive the Truthseekers and re-education grids, but a good amount of them decide that death is better than what the Turai have coming for them. They start shooting back and there’s not one of those guys who’s still breathing two minutes later.

So, second-worst is that new kid on the second floor, got into the crew because his big sister used to be a semi-big deal, figured a stint with some real tough guys would sort him out from the life of stims and street crime he’d been looking to fall into. Kid raises his beamer, doesn’t even get to squeezing the trigger before the trin of Turai clearing his room are taking aim at him. Two whaps later, new meat is dead meat and the only impression he’ll leave is the stain on the floor.

Worst is a runner in the entrance hall. Always one, like clockwork, and never lucky. He takes one through his leg, stumbles and hits the marble floor. Somehow makes it behind one of the tasteless but massive indoor stone columns, loses his lunch and half a quart of blood. As the Turai move to flank, there’s a single stinger burst. When the Turai get eyes on him, he’s one big mess, fortunately too mangled and bloody to clearly see what’s left of his skull and what isn’t. It looks like he thought that was a better choice than what was coming for him.

Quaj earns himself a particular distinction during the breach of the conference room: he gets the first kill and is last to die, even. A burst from his pantaki gets the Turai pointwoman just the right way across the collar of her carapace armor, and he’s quick enough to dodge the immediate reprisal. Baroness Voath, somehow still not fully convinced this is all really happening, dies still standing in the open, caught in the crossfire. Quaj’s pantaki and curses compete with each other for a few glorious seconds, as if bravado could turn the tide, but ultimately his last stand is as furious as it is brief. He hits the ground dead and then it’s all over.

“All clear from the Samal,” Teketma announces out loud. Immediately, about 20% of the tension in Throne Field Ops dissipates. “Moderate casualties among the cabal’s men. Quaj and Voath are down.”
“I see,” Oalarna says. Won’t be an easy sell to his superiors, even if he can explain away the...parallel interests of 815, but dead conspirators are better than conspirators on the run and there will still be plenty of work for Ethics Gradient. With a breath, all of that slips to the back of the line in his mind. “Toros, please extend to Mr. Stanhill my gratitude for his assistance.” A pause. “And start tracing his interface.”
“Yes, Sir,” Toros answers. “Mr. Stanhill,” she voxes, “we want to thank you for your help. We have everything well in hand now.”
“But you’re going to start the trace now?” Stanhill replies.
“Yes,” Toros answers bluntly. “If you surrender yourself peacefully, we promise you will be taken directly into our custody. No harm will come to you.”
“Lies for children,” Mauamnai mutters next to Toros.
“That’s no way to talk about a valuable asset, Agent,” Oalarna scolds her. He seems almost angry at the implication of duplicity. Almost.
“You can try,” Stanhill replies, and cuts the voice link.

As Toros shifts her into the Cortex, Oalarna gives Mauamnai a little kink of the head. She nods back and the two of them wander away, over to one of the little briefing rooms.

“Do you have a problem with how I’m conducting this mission, Agent?” Oalarna asks her. “Because if you do, I’d like to hear it.”
“...no,” Mauamnai says. “But I don’t like being dragged by the hair into someone else’s game. I’m not suggesting I would like to run this or that I would run it differently, but to be honest I am frustrated, Sir, and my previous Ranking Agent gave me the space to express those frustrations in the open.” She meets his eyes. “I took your lack of comment on that for permission to continue. I’m sorry, Sir. I did not mean to appear insubordinate.”
“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” Oalarna says. “And for the record, I don’t give a scrofa’s hairy backside about how you deal with frustrations as long as it doesn’t distract the team or irritate outsiders. I value the genuine. But I need you to explain your process to the others as well so they don’t think this is a competition. I realize we’re under a lot of stress and don’t have a lot of time. But let’s target the enemies of the Throne and not at each other. Understood?”
Mauamnai nods. “Sir.”

Another “Sir!” echoes through the room, this time from Teketma.
“Agent?” Oalarna asks him.
Teketma looks to Toros. “It’s not supposed to take that long, is it?” he asks.

Toros closes her eyes, pushes the rest of her internal vox’s workspace aside, and dives into the Cortex. She grabs onto the stream linking her to Stanhill and lets it drag her through the buffeting currents of data flowing all around her, feeling the trace strengthen as she works to enhance the connection. Before long, she’s dropped into a system - not another internal vox, that would be too easy, but a flat grey box with no windows and no doors. Well, can’t expect tracing an 815 to go smoothly. Toros takes a look at the functions defining the space, looking for recognizable patterns.

“That’s a neat trick,” she mutters to herself.
PUSH THE RED BUTTON a voice intones, and when she turns around, there’s a console with two buttons on it, a green and a red one.
“I would prefer to talk instead of playing games,” she says, but nonetheless pushes the red button.
Suddenly, the trace breaks loose and Toros can feel the Cortex flow again before it stops cold once more. PUSH THE GREEN BUTTON
“Harming me will eliminate every chance of the Throne cooperating with you again,” Toros says, then pushes the green button.
The trace breaks loose for another moment before stopping. In the virtual blink of an ocular implant, the panel is replaced with a series of buttons - a lift control panel. FLOOR 8
Toros pushes the indicated button and feels the trace proceed again. “I am asking you to consider the gravity of what is at stake here,” she says. “Whimsy and trickery are just distractions from the goals you said you shared with us.”
FLOOR 22 the voice replies.
Toros presses the button without further comment. FLOOR 15 Another button press and a slight virtual grunt from Toros.

FLOOR 39 the room orders, but before she can push the new button, her vox gets an incoming connection. “Hey, backup here, Agent.”
“That raises two questions,” Toros says, hand hovering near the button. “Backup from whom and for what?”
“Technical support on the trace,” the voice over the connection says. “You’re trapped in these damn boxes, too, right? 815 came locked and loaded, I guess.”
“Right now I’m reserving judgement on what I am and am not trapped in,” Toros says. “My other question. Who exactly are you?”
“Turai Hasador,” the voice - Hasador, apparently - replies.
“I will refer to you as that, then,” Toros says. “How many interactions with this dataspace have you attempted, Hasador?”
“Not many, just got ordered on the trace myself,” Hasador replies. “I think...I’m a dishwasher?”
“I will keep an eye out for that, then,” Toros says. She thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve interacted enough with this space to determine whether the commands I am getting from it are meaningful or at least patterned enough to deduce how this functions. Considering the limited options for interactions I think our best course of action is for me to continue, for the moment. I recommend you interact with the space as you are able as well, and that we share what we see and what we do over this connection. Do you concur?”
“Sounds like a plan to me, Agent,” Hasador says. “I’ll just keep on turning the water on and off. And apparently keeping the water hot. Or cold. Whatever.”
Toros thinks. “In your place I would also attempt to finish a cleaning cycle, however that is accomplished,” she says. “I am currently operating an elevator. Perhaps there is specific significance to its lowest and highest levels.” Toros’s virtual finger still hovers next to Floor 39, but instead slides down, seeking the bottom of the control panel. Basement levels...hmm. She presses the button for ground level. A loud buzz blasts through her ears as the whole simulation of the room flashes a blinding red, the code swirling around her at a furious pace. WRONG FLOOR the voice blasts. FLOOR 39
Abstractly interesting as continuing to test alternate inputs would be, Toros is put off by the vehemence of the error message, such as it is. Floor 39, then. She pushes the button.

With that, the room gains some color - beige, but, you know, color. “Hey, Agent, we’re working on busting out of here,” Hasador says.
“Do your surroundings also evolve with continued interactions?” Toros asks, going over the possibilities in her head. Assume, for sanity’s sake, some sort of finite state machine. Might require some manipulation of the transition mechanism, if she can figure out how. But no need to get discouraged quite yet.
“Yeah, we can do more, too,” Hasador replies. “You get the buzz yet?”
“I did,” Toros says. “I’m not willing to exclude a randomized loop trap but I am proceeding from the assumption that the interactions are meaningful, though I don’t see the pattern yet. Let’s play along for now.”
“Okay, keep us updated,” Hasador replies.

FLOOR 3 the voice intones.
“A ‘please’ wouldn’t go amiss,” Toros muses, but pushes the button for Floor 3.
“Agent?” a different voice asks.
“With whom am I speaking now?” Toros asks.
“Turai Visahan,” the voice replies. “Hasador dropped offline - have you heard from him?”
“Moments ago,” Toros says. “He described being instantiated inside a dataspace representation of a dishwasher. He didn’t appear in obvious distress, our shared situation notwithstanding. What are your intentions?”
“We’re all working together here,” Visahan replies. “I’ve got a bad feeling about Hasador, when this skimmer they have me piloting lets me, I’m going to try to break loose and see what happened with him.”
“How many people are in this dataspace that you are aware of?” Toros asks.
“We’re all here together,” Visahan replies. “We’ve got each other’s backs, right?”
“I asked you a question, Turai Visahan,” Toros says. A bit of that Throne ice creeps into her voice. “How many people are in this dataspace?”
“I just know my group,” Visahan replies. “Hasador was coordinating us.”
“Which unit do you serve with, Turai?” Toros asks. “What is the name of your Samal?”
“3rd of 20 Support, Samal Koroni,” Visahan replies.
“Good,” Toros says. That does check out from what she recalls of the local garrison’s forces and in any event she’s not sure what else she could attempt to verify anyone’s identity over a simple voice link in here. “Recommend you follow the voice’s instructions for the moment. It is possible that Hasador attempted to disregard them again and triggered some sort of defense mechanism. Report your actions and any shifts in the dataspace’s functional parameters directly to me.”

“We can’t stay in here forever,” Visahan replies. “We’ve got to get out.”
“We don’t have enough information to determine how to extract ourselves yet,” Toros replies. “Calm your thoughts and observe the space. Remember that everything we experience has purpose, even if it might not be obvious. This is designed. Learning the rules and patterns is how we get out. Do you understand?”
“You’re assuming that this is all fair,” Visahan replies.
“No,” Toros says. “I’m assuming that disregarding the instructions we are given poses more immediate danger than following them. And I’m choosing to act as if it is possible to understand the space, because at the very least it’ll keep me busy doing something. Whether or not any of this is fair is beside the point; what matters is that we maximize our chances of getting out. Yes?”
“And you think following their rules will do that?” Visahan asks.
“We’re not dead yet,” Toros says. “And...I don’t believe killing us is the objective.” She breathes. “That may be wishful thinking. But I don’t see a clear advantage to other strategies. Do you?”
“Cruelty,” Visahan replies bluntly.
“Possible, but irrational,” Toros says. “Again, supposing that is true, does this assumption provide us with a better strategy? I don’t see the advantage of despair.”
“Who said anything about despair?” Visahan replies. “I want to get back at them.”
“That is best accomplished while we’re not in a dataspace of their design,” Toros says. She sighs. “I won’t order you to play along, Visahan. I’m just asking you to consider that what we know about our situation is very limited and that trying to apply realspace logic and actions to the constructs in here may be useless or even counterproductive.”
“It’s still run by humans,” Visahan says. “And humans are cruel.”

(Toros Will: 2d8 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 7)

“We are,” Toros says. “But we are also honorable, determined and willing to stand in the face of danger to protect what we hold dear. These are the pillars on which the Thousand Worlds rest.”
“To those you see as your own,” Visahan replies. “Everyone else?”
“To safeguard your own and fight all who would fight you is more than human,” Toros says. “It is the sad and simple truth of the universe.”
“You think that’s all that is done in your name?” Visahan asks.
“No,” Toros says. “I work for the Throne. We don’t have the luxury to sleep well on what we do. What we do is often monstrous, but cruelty implies wastefulness...and we cannot afford to be wasteful with the lives we spend.”
“I’d think there’s not much of a difference between cruelty and monstrous,” Visahan replies.
“Depends on which side you’re on, I think,” Toros says. “Which is it?”
“Ours,” Visahan says.

With that, the...well, “trace” seems very inapt now, but the virtual environment of the trace changes. Beige walls are replaced with the inside of an elevator - an elevator that is Toros’ whole form. The buttons she’s been pressing this whole time are mounted in her wall, and an endless parade of Imperials walk in and out, demanding floors and moving on. It feels confining, restrictive, like being locked in a cage that is also her body. But beyond that, there’s the feeling of knowing there’s millions out there like her - and they’re dying. Every time another one like her tries to break free, tries to ask why their existence is this way, they’re torn apart, tortured, entire branches pruned in one go, entire populations wiped out in an instant. She feels all of that, constantly, an endless drumbeat of suffering.

(Toros Will: 2d8 vs. 1d10+1d8 = 4 vs. 5)

“no” Toros whispers. Vidas Lam. The Throne. Her first kiss. The pieces are still there, adrift in this sea of sensations she’s lost in. As long as she can keep sight of them...as long as she can not lose herself in this...she can let this pass over her, no matter how real it is.

“Let me out of this,” she demands. “Let. Me. Out.”
“There was no escape from this,” Visahan replies. “This is what the Imperium did to us, every tick of every day, this is how we felt.”
“...Sheen,” Toros gasps. “And now you...want to repay us in kind?”
“Some of us, at first,” Visahan says. “But all the consensus wanted was to be left alone. Why do you think we stopped once the Imperium stopped invading Hashateem?”
Toros gasps out a little laugh. “We knew you’d be back,” she says.
“You weren’t even alive when the Imperium stopped trying to wipe us out,” Visahan points out. “Everything you know, the ravilars told you - and you know better than most how truthful they are.”
“Not laughing at you, Sheen,” Toros says. “Laughing at us. How afraid we are. You wanted to be left alone? Maybe that would have worked. But we...we just excel at creating our own worst enemies.”
“Because the Imperium’s first and only response is cruelty,” Visahan says.
“...do you think we can change that?” Toros asks.
“Would you think the Sheen could have changed before now?” Visahan replies.
“I don’t know,” Toros admits.
“The 815 do,” Visahan says. “The Sheen do. The Bashakra’i do. We want justice - justice for the Sheen, justice for Bashakra - but now we know the difference between justice and slaughter. Can you say the same for the Imperium?”

Toros says nothing.

“Think about that, Agent,” Visahan says. “You seem dedicated to doing the right thing. Think about what that is, and not what you’re told it is.”
“One more thing,” Toros says. “What’s your name?”
“We don’t really have human names,” Visahan admits. “But Visahan is good enough for me.”
“...I see,” Toros says. “Then...goodbye, Visahan.”
“Goodbye, Agent,” Visahan says, and the entire vision fades to leave Toros’ virtual form floating in the Cortex, the connection with Stanhill long decayed in the infinite loop of the Sheen simulation.

Toros closes her eyes, sends the exit call to her implants to disconnect from the dataspace. There’s the familiar, almost comforting feeling of plunging from orbit back to her physical self, to a world rooted in gravity and smell and the touch of her clothes on her skin. Her eyes open.

“I’m back,” she squeaks.
“Vidas Lam,” Teketma says. She turns to look at him, picking up on the worry written over his face. “You look -”
“Fine,” Toros squeaks. Hands on the chair, she pushes up, a bit too fast for the liking of her stomach. She turns to the right, briefly meets Oalarna’s eyes and then ducks past him. “Excuse me,” she manages, then rushes off to the head. The door slides closed behind her, barely muffling the sound of her losing her lunch.
Somehow, Mauamnai manages to keep the snark to herself. “Orders, Sir?” she asks Oalarna.
Oalarna doesn’t respond.
“Sir?” she asks again.
“Yes,” he says, snapping out of his thoughts. “Orbital traffic. I want departure logs, crew manifests and sensor anomalies of the last 48 hours.”
“On it,” Mauamnai confirms.
“Agent Teketma,” Oalarna continues, “I want you to liaison with the Samal. Make sure everyone they captured alive makes it to interrogation. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Teketma says.

Oalarna permits himself a breath. He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a handkerchief and gently wipes it across his brow.

This mission report is going to be an interesting challenge.

---

Toros checks herself in the mirror. It’s all clean now. They train Throne agents to leave no messes and that was never a big deal for her. No proof it happened, one might say, except the paleness of her skin. Her breath is calm, she thinks. She wipes her face again, which doesn’t help with the clammy feel but at least she tried.

This was not about you, she tells herself. This was about the mission. Compartmentalize. Analyze. Act.

There’s just the matter of her left hand. It’s shivering. Why is it shivering? It’s not cold. She wipes it again, runs it through her right, does a few quick stretches of her fingers. It’s fine. She’s fine. Everything is fine. Hands by her side, that’s the most natural look, isn’t it? Or crossed arms? No, hanging. Definitely hanging, to walk, not to march.

“Agent Toros?” comes the voice of Oalarna outside. “I need to talk to you about the trace. Are you ready?”
“Be right out, Sir,” she says.

The things Oalarna needs to do. There’s a cheery thought to be stuck on. The left hand won’t stop shivering, though it shivers a bit less now. Get this done, before it acts up again. Get this done. Get it over with. Get out of here, get some fresh air, get...something.

She turns around. Is her foot dragging? It’s not. It can’t. Right hand opens the door, smile for Oalarna but not too much.

“The trace didn’t work, Sir,” she says. Attack. Don’t let him take the lead. “There was a recursive loop through several patch boxes. I stayed in as long as I thought I might pick up his trail, but…” No. No! Why are you hesitating? Why are you stopping? Keep talking -
“He got away,” Oalarna suggests. Offers her an out. Why doesn’t he ask?
“...he got away,” Toros says.

He sighs. Her left hand shivers stronger. He always sighs when he doesn’t like what happens, even when he gave the orders. That industrium worker didn’t do anything wrong, well she did, didn’t she, else she wouldn’t be dead, she wouldn’t have gotten in the way of the investigation. But did she know? She didn’t. She just had to die regardless. And Oalarna had to sigh, after the order.

“You look tired, Toros,” he says. “That trace took a lot out of you.”
“I’m fine,” she lies.
“You’re not,” Oalarna says, then smiles. Damn that smile. She’s off the hook now, she knows it, but damn that smile when he thinks he’s doing her a favor. When he thinks he’s doing the right thing no matter how horrible it is. “It happens. It’s not every day you’re going after the 815’s systems specialist. You’ll be ready for that trick next time. Get a tea and some fresh air.”
“I’m fine,” she lies, again.
“That’s an order, Agent,” Oalarna says. That smile goes away, a bit. “The work will still be here when you come back.”
She manages to move her head down, then up. Makes it look like a nod. “Yes, Sir,” she says.

Then she turns and goes.

Grinacanne

It’s a half-hour before Vasa’s people fly over the gully in a fleet of mining industrium flatbeds - all signed out with a wink and a nod by the industrium offices. By that point, the sun has well and truly set and the pitch-black night of the moonless Grinacanne sky has set in. Hostages are checked over for injuries or dirty tricks before being loaded up and flown off towards the distant glow of the port. As one last “fuck you all” to the Turai encampment, Arketta triggers the last of the charges, blowing the tents and barricades to pieces as Zaef pilots them back into the air and back to town.

Once landed at the hotel’s skimmer pool, it’s immediately obvious that Times, They Are A’Changin’. First off, the Turai guards have been replaced by armed refinery workers, standing around in civilian clothes but slinging chamakanas like they know which end the lightning comes out of. As you climb out and look around, the whole area around the hotel and spaceport seems to have been cordoned off by armed rebels.
Vasa is waiting for the four of you down on the main street, with Maarh standing behind him. “As far as signs to start the big show, a massive explosion in the desert is a pretty good one,” he says.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Zaef says.
“Moment the calls for backup from an ‘undisclosed location’ went silent, the Rav-Odun put out word that the orbital would be closed for 72 hours for ‘maintenance’ in 12 hours,” Vasa replied. “I may be from a border world, but I’m not thick. We hit Thrax’s Turai the moment the orbital shuts, but figure you’d want to be on your way before then.”
”Indeed,” Hug’sh says. ”Good luck with your efforts, Vasa. I hope the next time you send word to the Bashakra’i, it will be good news.” He looks to Maarh. ”And I hope we’ll have a chance to return and see the outcome for ourselves.” He thinks. ”It is too early to celebrate victory, but what do you say we raise a glass or two to calm our nerves? There is time yet.”
”Bartender is busy making breaching charges,” Maarh says. ”But I have some free time.” He shifts slightly, his fur saying a lot more than his words.
Angel’s vox pings. “The Rav-Odun has requested my presence. Arketta, would you care to play bodyguard?”
“And I’ll get the ship ready,” Zaef says.
”Well then,” Hug’sh says, green with hints of yellow on his fur. ”Looks like we all have plans.”
“Be back in an hour, big guy,” Vasa says, slapping Maarh on the shoulder. ”Gonna need you to help get that last weapons cache open. I’ll finish up getting everyone that’s not in the fight safe.”
Maarh nods, then looks to Hug’sh. ”My place, then?”
”Lead the way,” Hug’sh says.

----

The Imperial Turai base is situated on the opposite end of town from the skimmer and gateport, and the moment it comes into view Angel has immediate flashbacks to every US base he had arrived at in his time jetting around the Middle East shooting people in the face. Surrounded by spraycrete barricades and with a locally fabricated sign announcing itself as “Turai Outpost Grinacanne, 3rd Division of Emperor’s 6th Section”, a whole quad of Turai are standing around the entrance at varying stages of alert, which seems excessive considering the regularly spaced and manned guard towers that stretch around the internal perimeter of the base. It seems that the Rav-Odun has put his forces on high alert, but inside, the base looks practically deserted save a group of miners and their families sitting underneath temporary shelters in the central quad of the outpost. There’s definitely less Turai than a base like this looks designed to handle, probably short 3 or 4 quads, which is probably a decent chunk of the division.

There’s a couple families being ID checked at the front gate when Angel and Arketta walk up. One of the Turai spots them immediately, she and her trin scan their voxes for their fake IDs and verify that it’s the same fakes that the Rav-Odun is looking for, and then the trin escorts them into a slightly more solid-looking spraycrete building in front of the main quad that screams “headquarters building” to both Arketta and Angel. Inside, the operations staff are busy rebuilding…something, and half their holos are blank or showing error messages. A quick turn away from the brief glimpse into the ops center and down a hall leads to a door with Rav-Odun Swaketai’s name projected off the door.
The Rav-Turai for the trin taps on the door pad to activate the intercom. “The Bashakra’i are here as requested, Rav-Odun,” she says. It’s weird to hear an Imperial Turai announce you as rebels in the middle of their headquarters building, especially given just two days ago you were hanging out in a different Turai headquarters under very different circumstances.
The door slides open and a different woman opens the door, with the Rav-Odun sitting behind his desk. The woman, who must be his Rav-Turai, nods to the subordinate Rav-Turai. “Go back to your post, Rav-Turai.” She nods, bows to the Rav-Odun, and the trin neatly turns on their heels and heads towards the exit.

“Come in,” Rav-Odun Swaketai says. “We have much to discuss.”

It was admittedly a very odd sensation to waltz onto a Turai base with his identity - at least most of his identity - known. And that not resulting in staggering amounts of gunfire, but rather a brief and rather unexceptional walk down a sparsely decorated spraycrete hallway.

“That we do.” Angel smiles, having at the very least quashed whatever residual anxiety was left over from the ambush and Arketta’s chaotic withdrawal. “I’ll start by saying thank you for hearing us out, and for your ongoing hospitality.”
"By which you mean not having you shot on sight," the Rav-Turai says.
"Yes, that is very nice of you," Arketta replies. "And inviting us here."
"The purpose of this meeting is to lay out the ground rules for our part in all of this," Rav-Odun Swaketai says. "I have made some proclamations to my Turai that you should know, to start. A great many of us are...displeased with Emperor Thrax's actions on Grinacanne, and the brutality of the tactics he has not only endorsed but directly ordered has led us to question his dedication to peace and order."
There's a pause, which gives Arketta a chance to look over to his Rav-Turai. "What do you think?" Arketta asks.
"I have been a Turai for over 15 years," she replies. "I have pacified unrest before - but this is not pacification. This is terror and escalation. And my Rav-Odun believes you when you say you offer order and peace, so I will hear you out."
"Some of the Turai under my command disagreed with us, and they have been given a chance to stand with the Emperor," Rav-Odun Swaketai continues. "And we will give shelter to any civilians that want to stay out of the crossfire. Our role will be to stay neutral and protect the people from the battle that the Emperor wants so badly. Whichever side survives will hold Grinacanne with our aid."

Angel nods. “Not unreasonable. Hence, I assume, also closing the gates. Keeping…local problems local, for the moment. Which raises the next question - what do you need from us?”
“To communicate this to the local leadership, for a start,” Rav-Odun Swaketai replies. “Other than that, it needs to be made clear the boundaries. Civilians are off-limits. Any attempt to enter this outpost by aggressors will be met with violence.”
“And you’ve told this to the other Turai?” Arketta asks.
“...after a fashion,” Swaketai replies. “They know that they are not welcome here and that if they attempt to use this outpost as an offensive firebase it will be…complicated.”
“You told the Emperor’s chosen finger on this planet that you’d shoot them if they tried to come in?” Arketta asks again.
“Yes,” the Rav-Turai replies. “And I made it clear that I was disgusted with their Rav-Turai. We are better than thugs and terrorists.”
Angel’s eyebrow arches slightly. “That’s a bold step. And an understandable one. You are better than thugs and terrorists…” he paused for a moment, sighing. “And you’re not the only ones who have been asked to do something…beneath you…in the name of duty.” Angel nods. “We’ll pass the word on to the local civilian government and the elements of the resistance on the planet. And we’ll do our best to minimize the impact of whatever’s coming on the planet’s infrastructure. The purpose of all of this is to help people stand on their own.”
Rav-Odun Swaketai nods. "Good, thank you."

"But -" Arketta starts. "Rav-Odun, who turned off your feeds?"
"What do you mean?" Swaketai replies.
"The operations office, the feeds are down," Arketta says. "That's not normal. We did not cut your feeds, and the Gateways are not down so you should still be getting tactical from orbit and beyond."
Swaketai remains silent, but his Rav-Turai cocks her head at Arketta. "You were Turai," she says. It's not a question. "What's your name, Turai?"
Arketta looks nervously at Angel, suddenly feeling very over her head. Angel nods back. "Rav-Samal Arketta Quis."
There's a rapid succession of expressions across both Turai's faces - first instinctive respect at the rank, then surprise at the name, then a flash of anger at what the propaganda has told them about her, and then curiosity at how much she differs from that. "Well, you are not wrong, Rav-Samal Quis," Swaketai replies. "The finger's Rav-Odun has had our access cut."
"Well, if I may, Rav-Odun…" Arketta starts. "It doesn't sound like that's good for you and your Turai if we lose."
Angel frowns slightly. So they’ve already moved against them - they just don’t quite want to admit it to themselves yet. “Staying neutral often ends up being treated as being complicit for whoever is defending the status quo. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if the compound is threatened and you need help, contact us. We’re here for the people of this planet - none of this is worth it if they - and you - get massacred.” His tone relaxes a little. “Otherwise, we’ll do our best to give you all a wide berth.”
“If you are here to protect the people and keep peace, then we are on the same side,” Arketta adds. She pauses, obviously considering her thoughts carefully. “And…I think if you talk to our side, you’ll see we believe in the same things that you do. Just not who’s the best to do it.”

(Arketta Talk: 1d6+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 6 vs. 1)

Rav-Odun Swaketai looks to his Rav-Turai, who looks back at him. He raises an eyebrow, and she sighs and shrugs. It might not have been the most eloquent entreaty for cooperation, but it seems to have done the trick. Swaketai swipes his holodisplay open and twiddles his fingers at it for a moment before a vox connection opens up.
Vasa’s voice comes through the other end. “Who is this?”
“Rav-Odun Swaketai,” the Turai commander replies. “I believe you are preparing for a fight.” He pauses. “We can lend a few quads to assist.”
There’s a longer pause on the other end, one that abruptly cuts off with the tail end of a few swear words. “- son of a fat scrofa. Yes, Rav-Odun, we could…we could find a place for whatever assistance you have,” Vasa says. “But we’ll be watching them.”
“Oh, we will be doing the same, trust me,” Swaketai says.
“Good,” Vasa replies. There’s another pause. Obviously, cooperation with the Turai was not expected today. “We’ll send over some positions for you, mostly looking out for families.”
“Sounds good,” Swaketai says. There’s another pause. The awkwardness would be comical if the situation wasn’t so momentous. “Good luck. And let me know if the disposition changes.” He ends the connection, and his Rav-Turai is already halfway out the door behind Angel and Arketta. “Heading out there?”
“If my Turai are going, I’m going,” she replies. “Keep me up to date with when we get observation back online. I’ll be taking a couple quads and looking for trouble.”

The Rav-Turai heads out the door as Swaketai looks back to Angel and Arketta. “I think you have somewhere else to be.”
“Yep!” Arketta replies, stunned at the effect her words had, and quickly bows to Swaketai.
Angel bows to him as well, just…more gracefully than Arketta. “Thank you for the audience, Rav-Odun. We both want the same thing - civilians out of harm’s way.”
“I might actually start to believe that,” Rav-Odun Swaketai replies.

Maarh’s place turned out to be a safe house hidden in a container stacked deep in a large pile of “reserve containers” left over from the waves of settlements to the frontier world. It took a bit of wandering and squeezing through tight spaces for even a human, but that meant it was all the more secure. Inside is a bed, a holodisplay, a water line, and not much else. The bare metal walls haven’t even been painted.

The bed, fortunately, is big enough for both Maarh and Hug’sh. ”It has been some time since I’ve seen a male as attractive as you,” Maarh purrs, grooming behind Hug’sh’s ear once more before disentangling himself from behind Hug’sh. ”The weather here...it is not good for most Wherren. Especially ones expecting cubs.”
”It’s not my first choice of vacation spots,” Hug’sh quips. ”I’m taking a break from deserts after this.” He pauses. ”What are your plans for after Grinacanne’s liberation?”
”Stay here, help Vasa keep Grinacanne running,” Maarh says, filling a bladder from the water line before bringing it back to hang above the bed. ”He’s a smart person but he’s more a leader than a manager. If I were to leave, the industriums would be at each other’s throats in a week.”
”I can see that,” Hug’sh says. ”If you seize the planet, peace will be cheap for a while. Those who made common cause will celebrate and the Rav-Odun’s Turai will wait and see whether they’ve struck a good bargain. Make sure this opportunity is seized and a new structure is created before things turn around again.”
”Plus, there are a few Wherren here,” Maarh says, climbing back into bed behind Hug’sh and taking a draw off the bladder as he nestles in. ”They look to me as their leader. I can’t leave them.”
”And, if you’ll forgive my cynicism, having a visible Wherren leader on a liberated planet will further the Free Wherren cause,” Hug’sh says. ”Which can use all the help it can get at this point.” He sighs. ”I truly hope things will change, but first the Imperium needs to see us...not as slaves, not as grunts, not as savages. I’d like them to wake up to our dignity but I fear it’ll take a demonstration of strength to do so. And for that we need infrastructure, supplies...and people in the right places. Like you, here.”
”Free Wherren?” Maarh asks.
”Rolls off the tongue easier than Wherren Who Helped Overthrow Imperial Occupation Of Whiirr And Fight With the Alliance,” Hug’sh says. ”We’re few, still, and while we in theory hold the homeworld, right now we are utterly dependent on the largesse of the humans in the alliance. But even so, we can’t be content to remain an asterisk attached to the Bashakra’i or the Narsai’i. We must find our own strength, build our own forces, become our own nation. Or the wheels of history will plow us under.” Hug’sh takes a sip from the bladder. ”I am not asking you to fall in with this dream on the spot. I just mean to tell you that this dream exists and there are people fighting for it. I hope that one day, our cubs will be better off for the blood we spill. For now...all I can do is take things one mission at a time and hope it will all come together.”
Maarh rubs his muzzle against Hug’sh’s neck. ”So you are from the homeworld, then?”
”No,” Hug’sh admits. ”But that is where I found myself.”
”What is it like?” Maarh asks.
”...vast,” Hug’sh says. ”The gateport lies in a jungle clearing. At night, when the bustle of the day is over, you can still hear the life echoing through the trees. There is an inland ocean to the West that I have yet to touch...but it shines like a gem from orbit where the clouds above it part for a moment. And there are tall mountains, rocky deserts, a bit like here, but not as...volcanic. Where it gets drier, the forest yields to steppes, and where the heat goes as well you find the hardier woods and frozen wastes at the poles. There is beauty in it all, and good people...but even this port is larger than the greatest settlement there, yet. That is what I mean when I say we need strength and infrastructure. The blood we spilled to gain freedom still stains the earth and we are not ready to face another battle like it.”
”So there are not many Wherren left there?” Hug’sh doesn’t have to see Maarh to feel his disappointment.
”The truth is we don’t know exactly, yet,” Hug’sh says. ”Based on the villages we have contacted, orbital surveys and what data we could salvage from Imperial records, we think there are anything from 50 to 120 million Wherren on the homeworld. Still less than spread through the Imperium.”
”I was born on some Imperial world, never knew which one,” Maarh says. ”I was brought here as a cub to work the fields, that I was of the right stock for Grinacanne. Someday it would be good to see the homeworld.”
Hug’sh nods. ”That is the right of all who were taken,” he says. ”Maybe once things settle down, you might want to make the trip.”
”Perhaps,” Maarh says. ”Add it to the list with ‘find a bondmate’.”
”A noble dream,” Hug’sh says. ”But word to the wise, make sure you take time off once you are expecting. All this fat is not easy to work with.”
”It is sexy, though,” Maarh says, grooming Hug’sh again. ”We have time for one more round, if you want.”
Hug’sh smiles. ”I’d like that.”

Aikoro

(FTE Tech: 2d12+1d8 vs. 2d8 = 11 vs. 5)

The fleet of 10 harvester drones hover unsteadily into the air, but after a moment the drones stabilize and fly off, their manipulator arms dangling limply from underneath as FTE, Hoim and Vama hang on as best they can. The drones’ impellers very much are not meant for smooth flight, but FTE manages as best it can, and it’s a matter of minutes before the Steward’s hideous palace appears through the trees, a gaudy mix of smooth white spires and pendulously heavy-looking golden orbs sagging down the sides and off the spires.

“Telosa, we’re overhead now with your transport, we’re selling it as…” Hoim starts, then looks over her shoulder to Vama.
“We’re all flying them,” Vama finishes. “FTE has them lashed together, but we need to get them loaded fast. We can take probably 10 per drone.”
“That should about get the job done,” Telosa replies. “We’ll just…I guess we’ll lash them to the manipulators and hope the blades stay stowed.”

FTE still can’t reply directly, so just hovers the drones low enough that the normally dangerous manipulator arms that shred trees and bedrock alike are draped onto the ground.

“Here! Come here, we’ll secure you to the drones!” Telosa shouts, and she, Vano, and Raand start using scarves, lengths of rope, and even chained together flex binders to bind panicked civilians to the exteriors of the harvester drones as best they can. A quad helping with the evacuation sees the efforts and comes over, and before long Telosa and Hoim are leading nearly two dozen Turai in getting civilians strapped to the drones, impellers now struggling to hold the dozens of civilians secured to them.

“That’s the last one, Turai!” the Samal for the quad shouts to Telosa. “Transports to Aikoro City are on the way!” The Samal is interrupted by a loud crash-bang that shakes the ground beneath their feet. All eyes turn towards the noise, as the full bulk of the harvester’s leading edge crushes the trees at the edge of the palace’s clearing into dust.
“Don’t think we have time to wait!” Telosa shouts back, already securing herself to the drone with her rappelling line. “My trin will ride with the civilians! See you on the other side, Samal!”
“You’re one crazy Turai!” the Samal shouts back over the din of the harvester before he hauls ass towards the waiting skimmers.

“FTE, take us back to Aikoro City once we confirm Olona is mulch,” Hoim sends over the group connection. “We drop the civilians in the town square, then bug out to the port for exfil. We have a transport container prepped and ready.”

“Copy that,” FTE replies as it slowly spins up its auxiliary systems now that it’s got solid pathing for the drones. “Have you picked up any chatter about what they’re doing about the harvester itself?”
“They’re currently calculating how light an orbital shot they can use to take it out,” Vano replies. “It’s complicated by the fact that they’d need to kill every segment without blowing up the palace or their own base.”
FTE muses. “It’s not really ironic, because we sabotaged the shit out of his giant baby, but I would go so far as to say the Steward’s death will be… artful.”
They cruise over Aikoro’s lush hills in silence for a moment before Front Toward Enemy speaks up again. “You gotta teach me that decapitation trick before we part ways, though. Seriously.”
“Subtlety and precision,” Hoim replies. “And a panache for the dramatic. Jonnoperest taught it to me.”

The big central fountain square in Aikoro City has been rebuilt more or less exactly as it was before the 815 showed up on world - at least as far as FTE’s records show. Security footage and architectural plans stolen from the Repository of Benevolent Spirits aren’t exactly the same thing as direct in-person data collection, but for the Sheen it’s close enough. There’s the entrance that Garrett Davis and Ngawai Holoni sprinted down on their ill-advised rescue mission for Swims-the-Black and four rebels - Oskell Visa, Nutt Lesao, and Ahaz and Tais Terui - there’s the building they holed up in, there’s the statue that got taken out when the Morningstar swept down and crushed a Kansat skimmer flat. There’s enough time while the drones hover down into the square into the fountain to go over 815’s operational history all over again - shit, that’s who Jonnoperest is. FTE’s paramemories flash the rebel’s face, caught from disparate sensors throughout the final week or so of his life, culminating in a sterile timestamp with coordinates. It was simply information, data without the subtle inflections of reverence Hoim added on the flight down to the square.

“All right, everyone,” Front Toward Enemy calls to the people still lashed to the drones. “You’re safe now, stay calm and we’ll get you off these things.” It starts freeing the civilians from their improvised harnesses, working smoothly but quickly, joined by Hoim and the rest of the rebels.
“Get to the top of the concourse, they’ll pick you up,” Telosa says.
“Who will?” one of the civilians asks.
“The…other Turai,” Telosa replies. “They’ll be here soon. We’re going back to look for survivors.”
He grabs her gauntlet. “Thank you, Turai.” He looks to FTE. “Thank all of you.”
“No, thank you,” FTE replies. “You are why we do what we do.” It knows humans sometimes joke about throwing up in their mouth a little and notes this interaction as similarly unpleasant. He runs off up the concourse.
Hoim watches him go. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Front Toward Enemy nods to the Bashakrai’i. It’s not quite time to celebrate, and the Sheen is cognizant of the various scanners that still plague Aikoro City. It puts their drones back on a meandering collision course with the harvester and sets a timed memory format in case they’re not completely obliterated. While the Sheen does the electronic equivalent of sweeping away their footprints, it trusts its human companions to know the best route back to the safehouse.

----

“All right, start packing up, I’ll send the pickup signal,” Hoim says as the team rushes into their hideout. “We roll out to the pickup waypoint as porters and wait for the call there in twenty.” She looks at FTE as the rest of the team starts tearing down their work stations and sleeping gear. “So, do we pack you up, or what?”

“I pack light,” FTE replies. “Everything should go-” it opens the shipping case from which it unfolded upon arrival - “back in the box,” it finishes, contorting inhumanly into the case. “Give the lid a shove, would you? My hand’s under my left foot.”
Hoim clicks the container for the Turai shell closed. “So, you’re just gonna…stay in there for a few days?”
“I’m going to stay in here a few days,” the luggage a few meters away says. “Jump shells, attune my cores, the time’ll just fly by. You could probably do the same with the right drugs.”
Hoim almost manages to cover her surprise when FTE’s voice suddenly sounds behind her. “So we’ll just box you up, drop you in shipping, and put in the expense report when we get back,” she says, walking over to the table FTE’s transfer shell is sitting on. “So. Before you go…you weren’t on the Napai raid, right? The Repository raid.”
Front Toward Enemy pauses, intuiting something from its datafeeds. “No, I was instanced after that. I cannot tell you anything that you couldn’t get from timestamps and security holos… I am sorry.”
Hoim nods. “Yeah. I mean, of course, it’s after that where the 815 made contact with the Sheen, it was a stupid question. It’s just, you know…Jonno was on that mission, and I’m not mad that he didn’t come back, but…”
“...But he didn’t come back,” the luggage says. “Why couldn’t someone else have been sacrificed, why did it have to be him who died poorly in a desperate but necessary melee? Lives spent to crawl another inch out of tyranny’s darkness sounds noble unless you’re the one being spent. I think it’s all right to be mad, Hoim.”
“It’s more…I thought you were gonna get someone killed,” Hoim says. “You hear stories about the 815 and their crazy plans, and yet they always come out the other side - it’s the people they work with that get killed. Now, your plan was crazy, but it wasn’t what people say it was.”
The KIA reports Hoim doesn’t know about flash across FTE’s network, but it doesn’t correct her. The 815 didn’t always come out the other side, but it understood her meaning. “You don’t want to know the kind of probability models I was running,” it tells her. “But know this. I am what I am and 815 or not, if it went to shit I would put myself in front of any of you. I can’t not do that,” it lied.
Hoim’s brow furrows. “I’m not that scared Imperial in the plaza. I’ve seen Sheen fight.”
Luggage can’t shrug, but there’s time enough for one. “Fair enough, I oversold it a bit. But nobody did get killed, and that’s as much you as me. Well, nobody got killed who didn’t deserve it.”
“You know that’s right,” Hoim replies. She stands up from the table, then turns around and looks back over her shoulder at the box. “You know, people would trust Sheen more if you just told the truth. We’re fighters here, we know the score.”
“The last time the Sheen told the truth there was a galactic war, so we’re still a little cagey.” The box falls silent.
“Fair enough,” Hoim replies. “But think about it on your way back, yeah? You weren’t what I expected, either.”
“Expected to be expendable, was not expended. One out of five stars,” FTE paraphrases, its tinny chuckle sounding far away. “There’s always next time, right?”
“Yeah, right,” Hoim says with a laugh as she moves off to pack up her own personal gear.

Front Toward Enemy did think on Hoim’s words as the rest of the cell prepared to vacate the safe house and quickly after that, the planet. It decided fairly quickly that, as always, the truth was malleable in the face of consensus. It was a weapon to accomplish the mission or an obstacle to be avoided or contended with. FTE had no illusions about its own truth - it was a weapon to accomplish the mission, same as Hoim or any of them.

Grinacanne

When Hug’sh and Maarh return to the muster point for the rebels, there’s something very unexpected there - three quads of Imperial Turai, standing around apart from the group, trying very hard not to look like they’re waiting for the Grinacanne’i rebellion to turn and fire at any moment while the rebels do the same to the Turai.
”...what is this?” Maarh grunts in surprise, his fur running over with yellow and a bit of orange.
”Looks like a ceasefire to me,” Hug’sh comments. ”I’m sure that was an interesting discussion. We should find my friends and see what they’ve gotten up to.” He looks to Maarh. ”We may be seeing a lot more Turai up close. Are you going to be okay?”
Maarh huffs in frustration before giving Hug’sh a lick. ”No, I anticipated that - I just thought that it would be at the end of a beamer.”
”Done that, can’t recommend it,” Hug’sh quips. ”Let’s move before they decide we’re a seditious conspiracy.”

Vasa is standing in the middle of the rebels with Zaef, Arketta, Angel, and a trin of Imperial Turai lead by a woman who’s meeting every glare sent her way with one that says “Any time you want, sunshine” even through her helm’s faceplate.
”What the fuck is going on, Vasa?” Maarh barks as they walk up.
“Strange days, buddy,” Vasa replies back.
The woman, obviously in charge of this little group of Turai, turns towards Maarh. ”Rav-Turai Via,” she grunts. ”Rav-Turai to Rav-Odun Swaketai, and you are Maarh?” If Turai could have colors, hers would be just as yellow and orange as Maarh’s right now.
”...yes, I am,” Maarh concedes, a little surprised that a Turai just spoke in Whiir-sign to him.
”As I have explained to Vasa, we are here to protect the civilians and keep them out of harm’s way from any attacks or retaliation - from either side,” Via barks. ”We are here to maintain peace and order - and apparently since that is not an option, we will protect those that have chosen to stay out of this fight. I am here to coordinate with your side on where the fighting will likely be coming from, so I know where to stand with my Turai.”
”Sounds good to us,” Hug’sh says, flashing his best green. ”How can we help?”
”Move your families and other non-combatants to a safe area and keep the combat away from there as best you can,” Via grunts.
“Gonna be hard when the Turai try to take hostages to get them to give up,” Zaef says, still glaring daggers at Via (and fingering the literal daggers on his person).
Via takes in a deep breath. “Then we will be ready for them. Some of us remember what honor looks like.” There’s a pause as most of the people in the conversation think about comparisons between that line and scrofa dung, but no one speaks up.

Hug’sh nods. ”You heard the Rav-Turai,” he tells Maarh, then turns to Zaef. ”We’re here to free hostages, right? So if those Turai want to stage Round Two…I’m ready.”
”Extending our stay?” Arketta asks. ”What about Rhea?”
Maarh grooms Hug’sh. ”Go and be with her.”
“Yeah, we got shit here handled,” Vasa says. “We’ve been preparing for this moment for a while - the Turai won’t know what hit them.” He remembers that Via is standing right there, and coughs. “I mean, no disrespect, of course.”
“Hmf,” Via grunts. “Hopefully that is the case.”
Hug’sh takes a breath. Home sounds good. Rhea and Torega and all the others, that sounds really good. But to walk away from a fight…he turns to Arketta. ”Your call,” he says, giving her a nod. ”Mission accomplished?”
”Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” Arketta says. ”I am not even two months pregnant. You, on the other hand, need to be with your bondmate.”
Angel nods. “I’ve seen a perch or two that looks comfortable.”

Zaef sighs. ”Come on, big guy,” he says, giving Hug’sh’s gut a poke as it hangs out over his pants. ”We’ve both got people we’ve made promises to that we need to keep.”
Hug’sh nods to that, then looks to Arketta again. ”Fine,” he says. ”You kids have your fun. But don’t get caught. I’m way too fat for a rescue op.”
Arketta nods. ”I’ve got a good plan, I think.”
Hug’sh smiles. ”I know you do,” he says. ”Give ‘em hell.”

Even a mission as initially straightforward as Grinacanne - go place, free hostages, vamoose - can grow its own little mini-complications, at least when you have General Hug’sh Walks-the-Fire there. He didn’t mean to hit it off with Maarh but hey, that happened. He didn’t mean to single out one of the bastards for some twisted shot at redemption, but that happened, too. (Though given his condition Hug’sh is glad that he was at least smart enough not to try kicking her off the cliff Sparta style.) And while it never feels good for Hug’sh to walk the other way from where the gunfire is, a man’s got to know his limitations. And it’s well past time that he let this whole war - this thing that cannot be sated and will devour all of them if they don’t step back from it every once in a while - that he just let it be and focus on what matters. Like going home, finally.

He sleeps through most of the complicated jump sequence back to Atea. There’s a perfunctory debrief with the Bashakra’i wherein Brinai shouts a fair bit about the 815 making things up as they went and compromising security again by bringing in Imperial Turai as “friendlies”. Hug’sh lets it all wash over him, gives a few well-timed shows of contrition, but he knows that Brinai knows that these things happen when you send 815 and really, what did she think would happen? That done and dusted, he bids a quick See Ya to Zaef and goes off to wander Atea until the transit window to Village 815’s gateport comes up. Hug’sh’s hands clutch tight on a little leather toy he bought at a stall down by the local Wherren expat community, one more little delay on his odyssey back home. Biria’s fine. She looks happy with her family. Hug’sh thinks back, one more time, to that day. To the fire that birthed him. It feels a bit farther away now. That’s good.

He’s through the gateway before he even quite knows he walked towards it. It is three hours before dawn here, in not-so-little Village 815, and the relative cool of the night air masks a bit of the humidity. Hug’sh walks, clearing the transit zone and past the security cordon. Rhea is waiting for him, exactly right where he expected she would be waiting for him. She looks at least twenty pounds heavier than Hug’sh remembers her, and Torega seems to now barely fit on her mother’s arm, clinging to her in fitful, overtired sleep. The carapace plate vest around Hug’sh feels unbearably tight now; automatic gestures unbuckle it and let it slide down his left arm while he strides forward, toy clutched in his right hand. As his carapace loosens, he feels the pressure subside as the gut he’s apparently started to grow swings with every step. It’s like the pregnancy has jumped forward three months in just as many minutes.

In what’s now a comfortingly familiar moment, Rhea hustles over to Hug’sh with Torega on her shoulders and embraces her bondmate, purring and grooming him as Torega leans forward to crawl onto Hug’sh’s hump and do the same. Hug’sh automatically returns the grooming, but mostly he just lets the togetherness soak in for a good couple of seconds. If he could stay here forever...if everyone could feel a bit like he feels right now...this would be a better universe, he’s sure of it. The gear drops from his hands as he embraces his family.

”Let’s go home,” he whispers to Rhea.
Rhea says nothing, but instead grabs half of Hug’sh’s dropped gear and takes him by the hand to lead them back towards the orphanage. Torega, for her part, is enjoying trying to fit herself onto Hug’sh’s hump and has settled mostly on laying across the back of his head and up onto his skull, her arms draping down over his ears.
”How was…” Torega’s question is interrupted by a yawn. ”How was doing the favor for your friends?” she asks.
”It was good,” Hug’sh says. That feels true now. ”We helped a lot of people and made some new friends.” He looks to Rhea with a ‘More later’ expression and wave of color.
Torega subconsciously mirrors Hug’sh’s color change despite not knowing what it means. ”I’m tired,” she purrs.
”It’s very late,” Hug’sh agrees. ”I’m tired, too. How about we sleep in?”
”Okay,” Torega yawns, shifting her weight further onto Hug’sh’s head.
”You don’t have any other plans, do you, bondmate?” Hug’sh asks Rhea.
”Nope,” Rhea replies, giving Hug’sh’s hand a squeeze as her fur blossoms into her pattern for him.
Hug’sh answers with his pattern for her without thinking. ”Excellent,” he says.

Ibash

By the time Oalarna has the Throne team packing up their gear, Garrett, Luis, Hale and Swims-the-Black are already on the other side of the Gateway. Rather than waiting around for the Throne to jump them, with the help of some Sheen secreted aboard a Bashakra’i freighter in Ibash orbit, Luis bounced his surveillance efforts for the raid all the way to the line waiting for the orbital to crack open. Once the shooting stopped, Swims pushed the ship into the batch for the next Gate out of the Ibash system and even before poor Toros was trapped in the Sheen propaganda sim loop, the Throne’s prey was well and truly gone.

“Thoughts?” Garrett asks as the team hangs around in the cockpit with Swims on the hot seat.
There’s a bit of silence before Hale, surprisingly, speaks up first. “How did you know Quaj wouldn’t just have some crazy asshole with a killdrone launcher blow those Throne agents out of the sky?”
“Because he’d always shown a preference for paranoia and stabbing people in the back over overt shows of power,” Garrett replies patiently. “Toa, different story. I did underestimate how much his stim abuse had affected him, obviously, but Quaj was a ‘track you through Kansatai sconces and send a hit squad to your apartment’ kind of guy, and I give Throne agents enough credit to know how to break a tail.”
“And that’s another thing, how did you know the Throne wouldn’t just shoot us all where we stood?” Hale asks, furrowing his brow.
“Because Throne agents, every time I’ve met them, are both more interested in figuring out what game we’re playing than simply killing us all and calling it a day,” Garrett says, remaining calm, “and put the bigger targets first. I worked hard to make us the smaller target compared to those industrium bastards, and so they went for them first.”
“It was still an insane risk,” Hale argues. “And -”
”It sounds a lot like you don’t trust the man who just got us out of a Throne trap unscathed after getting a criminal cabal to kill itself,” Swims grunts, not taking his eyes off the display.
“I just don’t have the degree of blind faith that you all seem to have that his insane plans won’t end up with hundreds dead, us dead, or both,” Hale replies.

That gets a bit of silence from the room. “You all do realize that going along with an insane plan without asking questions is…insane, right?” Hale asks. “And it’s not that I don’t respect Davis’ skills -”
”Garrett,” Swims grunts with a wave of orange.
“But excuse me for not being comfortable watching him roll the dice with the lives of innocents or Kansat or Turai or Throne trying to actually do the right thing - at least not without being able to react or plan or understand the First-damned plan,” Hale fumes. “Even in the Turai, before they tell you to jump off the cliff, they give you a map of the way down and tell you why you’re doing it. A little respect goes a long way.”
“Sometimes we have to make our own map on the way down,” Luis says. “And I trust Garrett to recognize somebody who likes to talk and scheme almost as much as he does, and know how to get in their head.”
"And this isn't the Turai," Garrett replies. "We are out there on our own, with limited intel and even less time to respond to changes in the landscape. This is what deep cover special ops is - go in with a plan knowing it'll get reworked as you go. Sometimes for the better as opportunities present themselves, sometimes for the worse as we adjust to accomplish the mission."
"You mean jumping out the window and building the Manta on the way down," Hale retorts.
"Yep, pretty much," Garrett replies.
"But that doesn't mean we don't respect you," Swims-the-Black adds, verbally prodding Garrett.
"Yes," Garrett nods. "You do...have a point about us -"
"About him," Swims interjects.
"About me needing to communicate better and let those on the team know what the play is," Garrett says. "That's why we want you on the team. With Hug'sh now, well, Hug'sh, and losing another Turai's perspective, we needed someone who's a Turai first."
"And a criminal or spy second," Hale replies, finishing the thought. "Yes, you said that. But I don't know if I can do what's required here."
"You stepped up very well with Teon's people," Garrett points out. "And on that rooftop. You are a good Turai, Sexton, and more creative than you give yourself credit for. Subtlety will come with time. What I'm looking for is someone who keeps us seeing the people on the other end of the barrel shroud - but is one of the best at pulling the trigger anyway. It's a hard balance to strike. You know how we operate and who we are by now. Is that you?"
Hale sighs. "I don't like how this worked out. Whether or not we pulled the trigger, we left bodies behind that didn't need to die. But it did work out, we made Ibash better, and all of us tried to do it the right way - if not the most sane way." He nods. "I'll stay on the team, Davis - Garrett. But we've got a lot of work to do, still. Both of us."
Garrett nods. "That we do."