Dressel's Open Terrain

Dresden grunted a vague approximation of thanks and dug into the aid bag.

"Size 16 if you can find them, but 14 will do in a pinch."

First priority were the feet. The metal in his gut wasn't going anywhere, and it didn't impede his mobility much, so the priority was getting them back into working order. Getting the gravel and dirt and gunk out of the wounds was tricky, but once that was out of the way, bacta could be applied, and they could be wrapped.

That process didn't stop him from paying attention to his surroundings, and it wasn't long before the distant whine of a repulsor craft approaching at high speed began to filter through the sounds of burning things and Major stomping around through the clearing.

"You hear that?"

Dresden grimaced, considered whether to try to squeeze into the boots or go barefoot. After a few moments, he split the difference by lopping off the plastics and leather toe, leaving the sole intact underneath. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would hamper his mobility less in the long run. The act of putting the too-small boots on was much more difficult than modifying them had been. The cold kept the swelling in his lacerated feet from getting out of hand, and the pressure from the bandages helped, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch, and the metal in his gut wasn't doing him any favors. After much gnashing and grinding of teeth, the torture was over, the boots safely installed.

"Better than nothing, I guess."

Meanwhile, the sounds of repulsors were getting closer. The former Shard considered seeking cover, but as he got closer, he noticed something unusual, something that made the corners of his mouth twitch upwards a bit. It wasn't a smile, but it was in the same ballpark.

"I...I think these are friends."

It was frightening how weak his voice sounded. He tried to move, but it felt as though he was moving through water.

"Wuh?"

There shouldn't be that much blood coming from a stomach wound. Must have nicked an artery in the abdomen or something. Not enough to cause full on arterial bleedout, but enough to speed up the job considerably.

"Uh, Major? We have a pro..."

And with that, he slumped over, unconscious, just as the LAC (Light Attack Craft) set down in the clearing. It was a distinctly Dresselian design, but at the moment, that wasn't the important thing. The important thing, or in this case, woman, was limping down the ramp, and was possibly in worse shape than Dresden and Major.

Koko's face was a mass of bruises, and the hair on the right side of her head was almost completely burned away. There was a large bandage over her right eye, or where her eye should have been. It was hard to tell, what with the bulky dressing, but it looked like a portion of her face, eye included, was just gone. Whatever had taken it away had also gone to work on the fingers of her left hand, the very tip of her nose, and her right breast. Her normally smart business suit was tattered and torn, and where it was torn away, the skin underneath was burned, bruised, or covered with bandages. The female Shard's right knee clearly wasn't supporting weight, even with the rigid brace, requiring her to hobble over to the cabin with the help of a cane. Medical personnel swarmed down the ramp, rushing towards Dresden and the Major, but Koko somehow managed to beat them there.

"Thank God," she said, her voice barely louder than a hoarse whisper. "You're, you're alive."

Koko stared for a minute, her mouth working, trying to form words, but clearly failing. And then, something most curious happened. A shiver ran through her body, causing it to contort in ways that no human frame was ever meant to bend. Somehow, she remained on her feet, and when the spasm passed, any signs of emotion, pain, or indeed life appeared to be gone.

"Apologies," the Shard woman said, her tone completely flat. "This body is dying. The internal damage is quite severe, stemming from a technique commonly used by pimps to make an example of runaways. A box cutter can be most unpleasant in the wrong hands. Emotion and pain processing are now offline. As for your troops, they will not be necessary. Danger close."

Four brilliant bolts of coherent energy stabbed down from the sky, followed by four equally impressive explosions, the closest not more than four hundred meters away. The thermal bloom alone from the bolts and the blasts was enough to raise the air temperature by seven or eight degrees, and the shockwave that blew through the forest was strong enough to knock several of the medics off their feet. Koko didn't seem to even notice.

"Secondary and tertiary attack forces have been eliminated, as well as the command element. Stand by for collar removal."

Both collars beeped ominously for a moment, as then fell apart into three distinct segments.

"Stabilize Eralam. He'll heal on his own once he awakens."

If the medics were put off by their boss's robotic monotone, they didn't show it.
Instead, they picked themselves up and went back to work, frantically trying to save the former Shard's life.

"Is there anything of import you wish to discuss?"

Koko produced a datapad from a pocket.

"Everything you need to begin is on this datapad. There are three cells in Breehara that I know of. This attack was a collaboration between the cells. Originally, they were going to hit you two in the Market, but I convinced them that the collateral damage would be too high, and that, although you might be caught unprepared, you would be much more dangerous. If you were brought somewhere isolated, they could bring a heavier concentration of troops to the engagement, and by hobbling your Force powers and requiring you to remain close, your ability to function as a team would be greatly reduced. However, they discovered that I had smuggled in weapons, as well as tampered with your collars. As originally designed, the power cell that produced the electric shocks also powered an electromagnet. If the power were to be depleted, the electromagnet would disengage, allowing a striker to hit the primer on the explosive charge in your collar. The original cells were replaced by much more potent versions that can last indefinitely. That was how I was discovered, and I paid dearly for it."

While the Major might be able to reach out and grab the datapad, she would find it quite impossible to remove from Koko's grip without breaking it.

"This datapad contains everything you need to hunt down the cells, and between the three of them, they should allow you to root out the rest of the organization. There is, however, a price. This body is dying, and it cannot be replaced. You are one of the premier biologists, geneticists, and, excuse the term, 'mad scientists' in the galaxy. While I would ordinarily die rather than become one of your 'subjects', that is not an option, which leads to the second part of my price: Eralam cannot know what happened. If he found out what they did to me, he would not stop until he had eradicated every trace of the organization from the galaxy. There is not time for such antics. The mission must come first, whatever the cost. If there is one thing I've learned from my adoptive father, it is that."

Throughout it all, her tone remained just as dead and lifeless as before. It's possible to imagine that, had her emotional filters not been disabled, Koko's delivery might have been different, more full of fire or rage or even fear and despair. But it wasn't. Everything she said came from a place of logic and fact, and she meant every word.

Koko nodded.

"I will accept the brevet rank of Captain/O-3 or equivalent in your organization. The rank will be relinquished upon completion of the mission. You may use me for propaganda purposes if you must, though I would prefer to avoid any humanocentric nonsense. If you have no objections, please summon a shuttle and we shall begin. The medics have been instructed to keep Eralam sedated until my return, unless his life is in eminent danger. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to pass out now."

And with that, Koko collapsed. The lead medic looked over nervously, but he had been given his instructions. He knew the damage the Shard woman's body had suffered, but her instructions had been clear: the human he knew as Dresden took priority. They loaded his body onto a stretcher and hauled it aboard the LAC. He paused before boarding to hand another datapad to the Major.

"A complete outline of her injuries, ma'am, as well as any peculiarities you'll encounter with her physiology. Please take care of her. She and her father mean a lot to Dressel, and with him gone, well, please take care of her. We don't want to lose her as well."

The Dresselian snapped to attention, fired off a precise salute, and then turned and boarded the odd little warship. It rose into the air smoothly, and then darted off towards Breehara at speeds that few craft could hope to match.

!ZZZZZZZZRRRRRROOOOOOOOOM!

Bloody loud -those troop transports were- once they were close. Engineers had tried to make the platform as stealth oriented as possible, but this was eventually a discarded concept amongst the commanders in favor of more powerful engines in order to facilitate speed and further take advantage of the blitz focused warfare this outfit tended to favor. Usually, by the time you heard the roar, it was too late to----

That distinctive shadow of the heavily upgraded troop bucket modeled after the LAAT paints the landing zone as one transport prepares to hover and expel its platoon while the over makes a gently circle about the area, covering it with its rather expensive air to surface turrets. It would have been stupid to wait there with arms wide open, regardless if the Major's glasses confirmed that they were friendlies. Electronic detection and monitoring systems, however robust, were susceptible to malfunction and even manipulation. A modicum of caution in all things was a boon for thriving in all pursuits -especially if you were not a demigod. Making ready, the Major deactivates the safety on her warhammer and brings it to rest upon her right shoulder. This was not exactly leveling for a instant shot on the approaching craft, but she could squeeze off an exceptionally accurate shot quickly, and the accuracy only increased the closer one got; actually, it was also pretty good from far away, and in between. The Fallanassi did not like to bring up her acumen of single shot effectiveness. Though she may be egotistical, this was one aspect where the finished product more than spoke for itself. Words just sullied the effect.


"Oh, Sturmbannführer! Diese Leichen ihre Arbeit?" Speaks the shortest man of the bunch, who apparently was the leader of this particular platoon.

". . .Meist."

Good lad, that medic. Lad here is used loosely -the man was a year and a few months older than she was. Doesn't mean he is absolved from his superior officers and their Force-given right to give their subordinates a tough time whenever the occasion called for it. Unbeknown to any of rank of file, the Major could see something worthy building up in their combined might. And there was the point: separating humans based geographical divisions or even race or class was a folly -a folly of the old Reich, and not one that would be repeated again. True, there was measure of cutting away of the self to mold and further meld into this unit and its doings -but there was far more of merit in the subtle nuances of difference. Naturally, applying these learned -or rather in context to those who have dabbled in the thought cancer called Fascism, unlearned- concepts to aliens was still a pipe dream. The last two years may have seen the acceptance and enlistment of several hundred Chiss, but there was type of disconnect between reality and romanticism, of accepting other species based on how compatible or "humanlike" they were. Even in regards to the recent developments with a certain pair of Shards, nothing had truly changed. Perhaps it was a mental block ingrained from years of propaganda, but the Fallanassi could not stop herself from viewing them as humans. This was not something active or even a conscious choice; she simply had failed to connect the dots and realize that these beings were, in fact, not human. Both Koko and Eralam have even bluntly stated that they were not human right to her face, yet the grasping of this had not placed a dent in that ironclad and overly defended psyche.

It wouldn't be the healthiest of prospects to get the Major to admit her closest friends, the people who could be offered even a slight measure of candor, were at best robotic constructs. What would that say about her own measure of humanity?

The second platoon had landed in all this commotion in another clearing not very far from here, and even now one could hear their hooting and cheers spiking throughout the gaps of the forest. Soon enough, they enter in the ruins of the cabin, sneering and grinning widely, for they have a prize within their ranks: a survivor.

"Major, Major: ein Feig wir haben!" Said one with a gleam in his eye to match the gleam of the eagle pinned to the peak of his cap.

Did they want directions on how to handle the frightened, little mercenary woman?

The Fallanassi draws close to the struggling capture, smiling widely while viewing the frantically cursing sweat ball from numerous angles. Even a white gloved hand was placed upon her squirming face while the Major apparently conducted this inspection with the thoroughness of person shopping for a cut of steak at a market. Naturally, the woman put up a genuine resistance, but her efforts only earned her a rib cracking punch from one soldier, while the other holder decided to go a fist full of hair before yanking it backwards.

Wonderful, from this startling pose, the Fallanassi could peer into the woman's mouth and take a good look at her teeth.

The prisoner then breathlessly jabbered some sentences about how the lot of the slate gray uniformed freaks would be sentenced to eternal torments in Hell, and how the tallest one with the big spiral was a sexless hag who could happily go love herself in her numerous orifices with that oversized musket. As lest, that's what the Major thought she heard her say. Nobody was really listening. Who pays attention to a loser?

"vWot failure: I can't even use zyou as ein skin graft fuer Koko. zYou're are too dark in pigment."

The trooper grabbing unto her hair pulls on it a little tighter, then asks in a voice thick in both apprehension and... what was that... desire? "Bestellungen?"

"Das ist mir egal." And then, to the mercenary herself, while smacking her twice softly upon the cheek with the back of her white gloved hand. "War nett. Sie kennenzulernen!"

Being as polite as possible, or at least feigning it, most of the people on the first departing shuttle waved goodbyes and flourished kisses, as if leaving behind a loved one. Once the shuttle is clear and gone, the remaining troopers discuss and settle a debate in their own language, before they release the prisoner and throw her in the center of the clearing. The remaining platoon commander speaks up, while those listening on fill the air with smirk and even a girlish giggle here and there.

"We've decided to give you a chance while we get to play manhunt. You get a five minute head-start, and if you escape you can trudge through the forest to the nearest settlement. If we catch you, then we are all in agreement about this. . ."
He thoughtfully gazes at his compatriots, watching the smirks of those men and women grow into full blown grins.
". . .ja. We cut off your arms with fixed bayonets, cauterize the wounds, place you in a tire, douse you in gas, light you on fire, and roll you down a hillside -just like in the song. Okay? Good. Timer starts. . . . NOW!"

A lone figure emerges from admist the clearing amused by the jeering and hollering of the men and women in their "game." From where she was perched moments before, she heard and saw all, reveling in the sheer inhumane violence. "This is going to be fun," she thought to herself. Clad in the same uniform as the rest, but noticeably different, the stranger wastes no time striding to the one clearly in power here. The grin on her face widens as she boldly steps up to Major
"Greetings, Major," the stranger began, noticing the woman's grip on her weapon tighten. "I am Tez. Tez Bola. I have heard of your infamy and desire to make myself usefull to your operation."
The spiral haired woman laughed openly and loud enough for her cohorts to hear. Unfazed, Tez continued.
"I like your style. I think I can be a a valuable asset to you and your conspirators. I also know how intelligent you are- you noticed my uniform, haven't you? It obviously isn't mine because the tailoring is incorrect. Give me an opportunity to prove myself."
Tez's mouth curled up into a demonic smile. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a freshly rolled cigarette and lit it with a silver lighter. "By the way, I like what you all are doing with my sister." As she exhaled a plume of smoke, she nodded in the direction of their injured pet.