Here There Be Robots

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Freshly-wiped metallic surfaces gleamed dimly beneath the red glow of the diagnostic screens, tools neatly organised in immaculate rows on their allocated benches. The room was dark, lights lowered now they weren't in active use, and, despite the subtle noises of monitoring equipment on standby, the space was practically peaceful. Dim, mostly quiet and nearly clean; everything a medical bay should be… once unorthodox interrogations were over at least.

The change of pace had been fairly enjoyable while it lasted, and the results spoke for themselves. There was something to be said for a doctor's intimate understanding of anatomy and its thresholds when it came to extracting information from the more resilient types. Honestly, in his humble opinion, it should be considered an art form in its own right, up there alongside the ‘greats’ humans loved to bang on about so much. It would certainly make for a fascinating study at the scientific level, for those capable of appreciating the intricacies of how pain receptors and anticipation could be used to tug and warp the mind, until even the strongest of fortitudes melted away in his skilled hands.

Knockout straightened with a dramatic groan, tapping the tip of his pede lazily against the drawer panel interface. It gave an obedient little beep and Sideswipe’s salvageable bio-parts disappeared into the wall, the delicate click of perfectly aligned machinery sending a satisfied shiver down his backstrut. Now to jettison what remained.

A box of barely recognisable objects — seven misshapen fingers, a mangled optic, one completely mutilated cadulen and the shattered bottom half of the subject’s denta plates — sat ready on a berth to be disposed of, and he gave it a long, hard stare, as though it would get up and show itself out if he intimidated it enough. He'd been on his pedes all vorn and his berth called to him, reasoning he could always finish later and simply not make the journey halfway across the ship to drop them off in the designated scrap repository.

The hydraulic hiss from the door behind him announced a new arrival, sparking an idea in his mind which danced with unbridled glee at such a golden opportunity. His head whipped around, intake forming the words to pass this nuisance off on someone else.

They caught in his vocaliser, stuttering into startled static when he suddenly found himself face to face with Sideswipe. An inexplicably intact pair of sky blue optics were a mere handsbreadth from his own, glowering accusingly at him, while the solid fingers clenched into fists, whole denta plates bared in a vengeful snarl.

Knockout baulked backwards, but his short flight was arrested by the medical berth, and he gripped onto it for dear life to avoid falling completely. He couldn’t move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even online a weapon in the face of a… what would the humans call it? Ghoul? Ghast? Ghost? Grudge? Was this his guilty conscience summoning a spectre to haunt his waking moments? Had Sideswipe’s restless spirit returned to take its due? Would he be hunted down and torn to pieces for-

Wait a nanoklik! Guilty conscience? Ghosts? What am I thinking?

Maybe humans worked that way, but cybertronians demonstrably did not. Besides, he hadn't felt a single shred of guilt his entire life. And come to think of it, why wasn't it attacking?

The snarl wavered, glare losing its intensity as a flicker of ill-contained mirth began to destabilise the frightening visage. A snort broke their tableau entirely, and the sleek, red, dead Autobot descended into a bout of helpless cackling, clutching his torso as his other hand alternated between slapping his tibulen and pointing at Knockout mockingly, trying and failing several times to speak through the laughter.

“BAHAHAHAHA! You- HAHAHAHA! You should ha- hahahaHAHAHAhave seen your-HAHAHAHOHOHOHhhhhoooohoooohooooooooooo Solus… that was fragging pri- hehehehe- Priceless! HAHAHAHAAAAHAAAAHAAAAHAAAAAAAAAAA-”

Knockout clenched his mandible, seizing what was left of the real Sideswipe’s cadulen from the box and hurling it at his visitor with no small amount of force. It bounced off the ludicrous flared helm and clattered to the floor, its target staggering at the unexpected retaliation.

“Makeshift, I swear to Primus, I will scrap your worthless husk and scatter the pieces across the solar system! You'd better have a damn good reason to be bothering me now, especially after this ridiculous little stunt.”

The ‘Autobot’ gave him a withering look, running a hand over his finial and pulling it back to examine it for paint flecks. Then, as though Knockout had imbibed a little too much medical grade energon, the image began to twist and warp before him: rounded red plating melted into purple-grey angles and spikes, distinct blue optics lost their detail and lengthened to narrow white teardrops, while blunt fingertips sharpened into the hands of a mech used to killing with anything available to him at a moment’s notice. Lastly, the sigil on his chestplate underwent its own changes, morphing to something which would have been comforting, had he been the type anyone felt remotely comfortable around.

“That Windblade ‘Bot got me good. She was faster than she looked,” Makeshift said, turning to show off an impressively deep gouge tracing the length of the chink between scapulplate and pauldron. “Got her back of course, but still. I've been out of the arena too long. Getting a little rusty.” He chuckled dryly, his harsh, true vocaliser sounding more than a little rusty itself as it scraped out the words.

Knockout had never quite grown used to these seemingly abrupt personality swings, yet he did his best to keep his pedes. He'd assessed the wound on sight and was already waving his patient toward the berth as Makeshift spoke and the medic retrieved what he needed to address the damage.

“You're telling me you waited an entire vorn to seek medical assistance for this?” he scolded, preparing to inject plateparter fluid into a fuel-line and finding he had to hunt for its location under the tightly overlapping armour. Windblade must have been a remarkably good combatant to land such a precise strike on this mech at speed. “What in Primus’ name were you thinking?”

“I've lived with worse. But since our erstwhile commander wants me back in the field today…” he trailed off with a shrug and Knockout pulled his hands away just in time to avoid nicking a partially shredded wire. He let out a soft curse, but resumed his work, watching closely for any further movements as he reattempted the injection and managed it, emptying the vial’s contents into the line without fuss.

“Trying the same thing twice so soon? Even I know that's a risky play. This is Optimus Prime's core team we're talking about.”

“We have to find them before we can take them out. Besides…” he paused for a klik, dipping his head and suppressing a noise as the plateparter kicked in rapidly, raising his internal temperature to activate his cooling system. A set of fans whirred quietly, and the near impenetrable fortress of his plating yielded, giving Knockout the space to begin his operation. “...my-” Makeshift reset his vocaliser and tried again, “My last expedition ended as nothing short of a masterpiece. Bunch of slabs were barely using a fraction of whatever security Prime's base has. I had their location within the joor, and the strike team did the rest. Best job I've ever pulled. Six confirmed.” He rasped out another laugh. “You should have seen Sunstreaker’s face when his own twin turned on him. He almost figured me out a few times, but like everyone else in that group of glitches, he was just too fragging slow. Not to mention stupid enough to talk to me alone. What a half-clock.”

Knockout hummed an acknowledgement, preoccupied homing in on a blade fragment he'd found lodged somewhere it very much didn't belong. To his credit, Makeshift sat still as he extracted it carefully, hissing at its removal, but otherwise making no other indication of it paining him. Surely it had caused some level of discomfort transforming, let alone shifting root modes for a disguise, yet he'd seemed unbothered over its presence and indifferent to its absence. Kaon gladiators were something else, even ‘rusty,’ apparently.

The shapeshifter had fallen into one of his sudden long silences, so Knockout took the opportunity to finish what repairs he could and close the gaping hole, cyberfoam shooting through the bottle’s nozzle breaking up the atmosphere as he lined the crevasse caused by Windblade’s sword. Makeshift's nanites would handle the rest, while the foam provided temporary protection and cushioning for the exposed internal components, until the nanites had a chance to consume and redistribute it into more natural healing protocols.

“Soundwave's sorting the particulars now. I’ll be heading out again once I'm debriefed,” his patient said abruptly in the middle of the sanding process, rising from the berth and doing a few experimental stretches.

“I'd warn you not to strain yourself, and to stay out of any direct altercation, but…” Knockout flicked a hand in the spy's direction exasperatedly. Makeshift tilted his helm, derma set in a musing line.

“Hmm. You're probably right. Prime’s group must be more cautious as a rule, given how difficult they are to even pinpoint.” He raised a hand and placed the other over his spark with a crooked smile. “I promise I'll wait for the strike team on this one. Less fun for me, but if I do it right, maybe we'll both get a nice big reward for the parts we played.”

“I could go for a few grand gestures of appreciation once in a while,” Knockout commented, packing the sander and other supplies in their own drawer.

“Want me to bring you back a souvenir?”

The medic paused, contemplating.

“Come to think of it, there is one thing…”

-----------------------------------------

“‘Up toward storage, turn right at intersection, on your left,’” Tucker repeated quietly to himself, scanning the blank wall on that side for any sign of an entrance. The scrap metal flooring vibrated with each step, echoing down every corridor he passed through. He preferred the natural stone, dicey as it was to navigate with all the pits and cracks and slippery slopes into radioactive springs. It would be quieter at least.

At last, he spotted the door, the control pad next to it blinking welcomingly at him as he stepped up to punch in his number. It opened with a loud hiss, admitting him into a large room complete with mats, punching bags, exercise equipment and a firing range all the way at the back. 

Muffled thuds met his ears as the sound of the door died away, drawing his attention to an area in the corner. A physical target had been set up and was already bristling with small knives, each somewhere within one of the several vital point rings drawn in concentric circles over a rough, humanoid diagram. As he watched, another whipped through the air, sticking point-first in the narrowest lower torso ring. 

Tucker traced its trajectory back to the painted line and table, where an assortment of short bladed weapons were neatly laid out in rows. A familiar, orange-striped figure was reaching for the remaining collection of throwing knives, flicking them lazily at the diagram. His helmet had been removed again and what Tucker could see of his expression was almost jaded, looking but seemingly not all that bothered to take any time properly checking the line-up to his target between each throw. His next struck near the middle of a ring anyway, quivering in the ‘throat.’ Tucker swallowed, watching the rest land easily and with equally frightening accuracy in quick succession.

“Keep watching if you like, but I start charging after a minute. You want a circus performance, you can pay for it like everyone else.”

Tucker winced guiltily. 

“...sorry, man. I just got here. Waiting on my team so we can do… stuff.”

“Oh it's you. Hey.” Felix turned, face more open than expected based on his tone a second ago, words light and teasing now. “Sounds exciting. Mind if I join?”

“Only if you promise to help me hide Paolomo's body after,” Tucker shot back before he registered he was even thinking it. Shit. Was it ok to make those kinds of jokes about people this guy probably knew?

Felix actually cracked a smile, head tipping downward for a moment as a soft laugh expelled itself through his teeth.

“That bad, huh?”

Never mind. Good icebreaker, Tucker. Keep it up.

He unclipped his helmet and lifted it off as he approached, some section of his social brain reminding him it was kind of rude to be chatting with a visor between them, especially if he wanted to make a better impression.

“Let's just say I thought we were the biggest dumbfucks in existence, then he took it as a challenge.”

“Ah, don't be too hard on yourself. You had to have done something right to manage all the crazy shit you guys pulled off, I mean, come on! The Meta? How'd you manage that?”

Felix leaned on the table, half-turned toward Tucker and head inclined curiously like he was waiting for some big secret reveal. His hands toyed with the vicious combat knife he carried everywhere, its well-maintained edge flashing occasionally under the ceiling lights. Its design hinted at a more up close and personal function, backwards-facing sawteeth stretching from the hilt to a third of the way along the blade bringing to mind how easily it would rip through arteries and organs alike on its way out. The thought made him queasy and he shrugged, hoping it would help him look nonchalant.

“Luck mostly. And a convenient sheer drop into the ocean right next to us. Though I guess that kind of counts as luck too.”

“You have to tell me the full story of that someday. I want details, dammit.” 

“Let's swap sometime then.”

The pleasant listening expression grew fixed and Felix sheathed the savage weapon, pushing away from his perch to head toward the target.

“Shit was pretty fucked where we were deployed. Wouldn't want to ruin your beauty sleep with nightmares.”

Tucker trailed behind him, his own interest rising. 

“I'm no pussy. I can handle it.”

“Sure you can, buddy.”

Aggravation flared at the unexpected dismissal, a snippy reply escaping him before he could stop it.

“Fuck you.” 

“Later. This space is for training.” 

That sent Tucker’s brain scrambling for a recovery again, though thankfully Felix didn't seem interested in making him suffer today, tugging the throwing knives free of the wood and changing the subject. 

“Speaking of, do you really have enough solo training planned for like…” His eyes darted toward the ceiling “Five hours?” followed by an amused look as he yanked the final few blades out, slipping them all into near-invisible slots in his armour. ”You’re kind of taking the whole ‘early-is-on-time’ thing to an extreme here, don't you think?” 

Tucker frowned and glanced at his holo-calendar. Then again, a little more carefully.

What?

“I… I swear this said fourteen hundred.”

Felix pulled up his own schedule on his way back to the table, swiping through a staggering number of pages and notifications to reach the training centre roster.

“Nope. Eighteen thirty. I've got the same thing.”

Tucker dumbly flipped back and forth, refreshing it a few times, only for it to stay stubbornly four and a half hours ahead of him. 

“Don't sweat it. Twenty-four hour time can be a bitch to get right,” Felix reassured him, closing his holo-calendar with a careless flick, “Everyone messes it up at some point, even in the army. At least you weren’t late, huh?” 

Twenty-four hour clock had always been one of the few things he could do well. Caboose and even some of the people here asked him for help with it on a pretty regular basis. And it wasn't like fourteen and eighteen thirty were that similar either. How could he have screwed up so badly?

“...I guess…”

“Hey,” Felix called firmly, jarring him into making eye contact, “Shit happens. You're here now and I finally got a bit of down time between jobs. Why not do some one-on-one while we have the chance? I can probably show you a thing or two. If you want,” he added, folding his arms as he returned to his earlier relaxed position.

“Uh… sure. Ok. Thanks.”

His acceptance was almost automatic, a sudden apprehension tightening his gut for no immediately obvious reason.

“Come here then.”

Lavernius Tucker was not a short man, the couple of inches he had on Wash a constant source of entertainment for him whenever he felt like teasing the Freelancer for it. But the closer he got to Felix — also granted a significant bulking effect by the various armour pieces glowing and thrumming quietly over his frame — the clearer it became just how much more his new sparring partner had to work with. He'd rarely stood this close, never in the current context anyway, and having to look up to make eye contact was a daunting experience.

Felix smiled down at him, the easy warmth in it instantly lifting some of the tension building in Tucker's stomach. A rubber training knife appeared on the bottom edge of his vision, politely extended hilt first.

“After you.”

A moment's hesitation, then he took it, reminding himself firmly that this was practice and Felix wouldn't hurt him.

They spent the best part of an hour running defensive drills, his teacher patiently showing him the basics before taking the knife from him and attacking at a nice, slow pace, allowing him to get used to the techniques for a bit. After a while, he noticed he was actually having fun, laughing along with Felix whenever Tucker tangled them both up trying to take control of the fake weapon and manoeuvre it into his own grasp. That brilliant smile was captivating, the easy-going manner remarkably relaxing, and by the end of it he'd caught himself several times lingering far closer than would ever be considered normal for two guys just training.

Not the fucking time, Lavernius! Hell, with your luck he's probably straight anyway. I don’t care what Kimball says, he’s totally got something going on with her. First name basis and everything… 

“Great job. You're really starting to get this.”

And he’s got jobs coming out his ears! Too busy, definitely not available. Cool your jets. We gotta save the others, remember? 

“Tucker? I said ‘well done.’”

“Oh, right. Thanks!”

Tucker flashed him a forced grin. 

Felix blinked, an analytical twist to his mouth. Then the practice weapon disappeared behind his back along with his hands, head performing that inquisitive tilt again. Another thing Tucker had begun to notice about him lately; he was scarily good at picking up on every single odd behaviour or change of mood in other people. 

“Something on your mind?”

He’s right here and open. Now’s my chance. If he can talk to Kimball…

“I'm worried about the others. The longer we leave them there-”

“We’re going to find them, Tucker. I promised and I meant it. We’re just short on options right now.”

Felix turned as he spoke, arms spreading slightly in the universal gesture of inevitability. Of someone who considered the conversation ended. Tucker's muscles tensed as the feeling of being treated like a demanding child stoked the frustration burning inside him to a roaring flame.

“Then let me do it! That's what the smaller teams are for, right? So we don't have to handle a large group or waste resources. Small-scale operation. Communicate fast. Get in, get out. Minimal casualties. Just-”

An abrupt laugh interrupted his rant, the sound coarse and humourless.

“You're throwing a lot of words around there and I'm not sure you actually know what they mean.” Felix faced him, a sharp look in his eyes not remotely softened by the crooked grin at his lips. “Which is a teeny bit concerning when you start expecting us to add real weapons, vehicles, equipment and people to the mix in the hopes you'll… what?” He was walking toward Tucker now, and something about his movement had the shorter man taking a step backward for every other step Felix took forward, mind whispering ‘run’ as the former relaxing vibe completely faded like it had never been there at all. “Infiltrate a highly organised, experienced, fully trained military organisation,” Felix marked things off on his fingers, the rubber knife hanging loosely from his pointing hand, “gather heavily guarded intelligence in the slightest hope the location of their extremely valuable prisoners will be included in there, break out, formulate a plan to break into an even more dangerous compound capable of holding said prisoners — one of whom is a notorious ex-Freelancer — successfully break them out and bring them back here, all without killing anyone stupid enough to go with you? And hope Locus isn't in the vicinity at any point to use you or your men for a light spot of target practice after lunch?” 

“I figured if you helped us you could-”

“Play decoy? Live bait? Ooh, I know!” Felix halted, one finger raised as his expression lit up in sarcastic epiphany, “Dramatically tackle him off a cliff and be the tragic hero who sacrificed himself so you could escape with your friends and save the day! Do you have a nice speech planned to read at my memorial? Better make it good. If Vanessa doesn't weep like a fucking baby by the end I'm gonna be so pissed at you.”

“Weren't you dead in this scenario? How would you be feeling anything?” Tucker joked, desperate to lighten the mood. 

Unsurprisingly, this was met with an impressive deadpan expression, which somehow also managed to contain the most withering stare he'd seen anyone pull off since Church’s nutcase killer girlfriend.

“Funny. You know, with how seriously you're taking everything, I'm really convinced you're ready to be trusted with that kind of incredible responsibility. I'll go tell our commander she can sign off on this and send you straight into the belly of the beast tomorrow. I'm sure you'll be fine.” He waved a hand dismissively and headed back toward his collection, tossing the rubber knife onto the pile with enough force to bump a few of the real ones and make Tucker flinch.

“I'm trying my best here, I'm just sick of sitting on my hands,” he said quietly, watching Felix roll out a leather carrying case and begin sliding the weaponry into each of their slots. This man was skilled. Experienced. An actual soldier who clearly knew all the ins and outs for the kind of thing needed to save Wash. Maybe taking that angle would work better. “Why not teach us how to run an operation like that then? Take some stuff off your plate and get us to improve enough so we can bring the people back who do know how to handle all this real war shit? Wash can train the troops, you kill Locus in the least heroically dangerous way possible, we all beat the Feds, and go home? Big payout for you at the end and Chorus gets peace and prosperity. Everyone's happy and I don't have to write you a eulogy. I suck at those anyway, you’d definitely hate it.”

That earned him a flicker of a smile.

“I can't teach you all of that properly in a year, let alone whatever ridiculous time period you're expecting.”

“I'm a pretty fast learner. Look at how much more I know about not getting stabbed now.”

“It's a good start. But if someone comes at you with intent to kill, they're not gonna fuck around letting you grab them, especially if you don't stop them first try.” Felix shot him a thoughtful look and retrieved the rubber knife, flipping it a few times as his next words took on a challenging tone. “Up for something a little more nervewracking?”

Tucker had never been one to retreat from a challenge, and he also sensed a prime opportunity to scrub this recent blunder from his record. So he made sure to put a swagger in his step to show the confidence he absolutely did not feel, expectantly returning to the spot where they'd been practicing in answer. 

Felix moved as he had earlier, putting Tucker on edge again as he shifted smoothly into the genuinely competent posture of a seasoned and deadly fighter, far more capable than someone like him could ever possibly match. The sim trooper’s self-preservation instincts poked and tugged and whispered insistantly that this was one of the stupidest things he could be doing, right up there with bum-rushing a crazed Freelancer Agent who'd had every advantage imaginable at the time, while wearing outdated knock-off armour himself and wielding short range alien weaponry he had no real clue how to use. Where his brain was getting that level of threat from in regards to Felix of all people was anyone’s guess though, and with his ‘attacker’ now coming toward him, he didn't have the time to figure out what the fuck he was freaking about when he really needed his eyes on the pretend knife and the distracting man holding it.

Felix leapt forward, stabbing at Tucker with the speed of a striking cobra. He couldn’t perform anything he'd learned at this pace, barely deflecting two of the opening hits before the flexible knife-tip began buckling as it collided over and over with the less protected parts of his body. His arms flailed, trying to catch it, but only managed to watch himself fail repeatedly, his brain kindly supplying him with the mental image of him bleeding out on the floor from the insane number of stab wounds he would be receiving had this been an actual attack. His instructor relented after a minute to allow him a breather, which he gratefully accepted.

“How do I stop you when you're doing…” Tucker mimed the vicious method he'd ‘died’ to. 

“Simple. Disarm me first try. You didn't, so I became a much bigger problem, ‘cause you showed me you can put up a fight without taking me down. And in this scenario I wanted to kill you, so the easiest way from there was to just… sewingmachineyoutodeath!” he grinned while demonstrating said action without warning, causing Tucker to bring his hands up and flinch backward in a useless attempt to protect his torso a second after every strike had already connected. That boisterous, playful energy in both body language and tone was weirdly off-putting, especially given the context. Felix smirked and granted him some room, though the way he seemed to prowl around Tucker as he continued speaking did nothing to ease the threatening atmosphere. “There's not really anything you can do against that, unless you've got something to make it difficult for a shorter weapon to even reach you.”

“Like what?”

“Longer weapon, duh. Or do the smart thing and go grab a rifle,” he suggested, nodding at the range behind them, still in that disjointedly excited manner which made Tucker worry he might be serious.

“I'm not gonna shoot you.”

“Your mistake.” 

The knife was coming toward him again and he reacted without thinking, initially not even registering it flying from Felix’s hand and landing with a soft thud on the foam surface at their feet. When it clicked, he turned to stare at it in surprise.

“I did it… Felix, look! I d-”

It was his turn to fall, legs swept from under him by an unseen force, back meeting the padded ground with a much louder thump and half of the air in his lungs leaving him in a whoosh. A heavy weight followed him down, alongside the unmistakable sound of steel ringing free of its sheath.

Tucker froze, awareness narrowing rapidly to a single point: the line of bare neck where the business side of a cold, sharp, and very real blade now rested snugly against his throat in a reverse grip, armoured knuckles brushing his jaw. The serration was right above his jugular, head forced into the floor while his chin craned upward in a futile attempt to create space. His breaths came light and quick, heart hammering as his situation fully dawned on him. Felix straddled his hips, the wrist he'd caught held tightly in the other hand with enough force to leave an impression in the mats, and despite the relatively light authority placed behind the weapon, anything nearing much motion at all risked slicing Tucker wide open.

“I'm going to let you figure out what you did wrong there,” Felix said, matter-of-factly, like he hadn’t just put them both in the most dangerous — not to mention compromising — position possible.

He couldn't think. Couldn't remember what had happened moments before this. His current problem filled every thought, every scrap of awareness, his whole body buzzing from adrenaline without an outlet, completely and utterly trapped with no escape in sight.

“Tucker? What did we learn?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Any fragments of intelligence he possessed had fled, the usual clever wisecracks gone a.w.o.l, brain a field of static like it had been replaced by an ancient television and Felix had slapped those stupid wavy antennae clear out the window. Heat pooled in his groin, and with a wave of horror, he realised he was growing hard.

Their armoured codpieces only covered so much, the designers having reasonably expected everything would be staying put. His opponent's asscheeks were pressing heavily enough into the area directly above it that there was no way he couldn't feel Tucker’s unintended arousal straining to escape its confines, even through the undersuit. He fervently wished he was wearing his helmet, so he could at least have hidden the shame spreading over his face. 

Felix paused, merely giving him a contemplative look and inexplicably choosing to roll his hips backward, watching intently for the reaction. Unable to put up any significant level of resistance with his life literally balanced on a knife's edge, Tucker squirmed, cheeks burning as a tiny, pathetic noise broke through his nose.

“I'd ask if that's a gun in your pocket or whatever, but I'm pretty sure you're just really happy to see me,” Felix commented airily. 

Then, probably because he could, the prick actually settled down, stretching his length across the prone form and crushing him further into the floor. Tucker groaned under the added weight, cursing both Felix and himself as it solidified his predicament and increased the flow of blood to his lower region. The mercenary's head dipped to bathe Tucker's ear in warm breath, the words murmured into it sending a shiver up his spine and raising the hair on his nape. 

“Is this what's doing it for you? Pinned to the ground, your life in my hands? I could kill you easy as breathing right now, and no one could stop me. One little flick. That's all it'd take.” 

Tucker flinched when Felix's muscles tensed on ‘flick,’ exhaling once he registered it had been intended solely to scare him. To his dismay, he only twitched harder, pelvis rising and falling uselessly beneath his captor’s mass as it attempted to gain what it wanted without his permission. He felt Felix smirk against his skin, menacing tone rippling into a silky purr. 

“Oh… you do like that, don't you? Does anyone else know what a freaky little degenerate you are, Captain Tucker?”

“Shut up and get- o-off me…”

Affronted, he had temporarily found his voice, pawing at the knife arm until it flexed in warning and he subsided, trailing to a quiet whine. Even to his ears it sounded weak, carrying such a complete lack of conviction Felix ignored it entirely. Instead, he pulled back so his mouth hovered over Tucker’s, simultaneously teasing relief with every infrequent, tantalising thrust of his own hips. 

Ok. Definitely not straight then. Cool. Should he count his lucky stars, or his embarrassing, awful, impeccable timing ones? Tucker's lips parted, half his higher functions already lost to all the mounting stimuli blurring together, the rest fighting valiantly to maintain his composure and rapidly failing. Cold grey eyes examined his expression, that curious glint appearing in them again. 

A second later, Felix closed the distance.

Tucker let out a smothered ‘hmph!’, a spark of electricity jolting through him at the feeling of the other man's lips meeting his. He hadn’t kissed anyone since Grif’s sister. Wash and Simmons were too preoccupied with each other in the canyon and-

Wait. Since when have I wanted to kiss Wash?

A nip startled him, the brief swipe of Felix’s tongue soothing his bottom lip and catching his attention, especially when it probed gently, seeking entrance. He stiffened, instinct tugging at the corners of his consciousness and pleading for him to reconsider; that Felix was literally holding a fucking combat knife one wrong move away from ending him in an instant, and there was something extremely off about this whole situation. But his thoroughly addled brain couldn't quite place the issue. Then Felix casually leaned forward, putting just enough pressure on the blade for its serrated edge to dig wicked tips into the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath. The spike of pain and answering rush of fear made up Tucker’s mind for him. He yielded with a gasp, opening his mouth.

The questing tongue slipped eagerly inside, methodically exploring anything within reach, its tiny ball piercing leaving a faint taste of metal behind wherever it went. He couldn't decide if he liked that or not, though he quickly melted into the sensations themselves, vaguely noticing he had at some point begun kissing back in earnest, hips arching for every bit of friction he could get. His compliance was rewarded with the threat easing, alongside an extra firm thrust, then another, Felix grinding repeatedly against his straining erection exactly where he needed it. A series of desperate little moans reached his ears; utterly mortifying the moment he realised they were coming from him, yet all the while his hips bucked feverishly and his tongue danced to the rhythm its new partner set. The mercenary laughed — the amusement vibrating his chest muffled, but no less distinct — and Tucker silently begged the floor to claim his miserable existence.

When Felix broke the kiss and sat up, Tucker automatically chased him, collapsing onto the mats again as the bite of the knife halted him in his tracks, panting and lightheaded. The grinding stopped as well and he throbbed in painful disappointment.

“Fuck, you're easy,” Felix said in a breathy chuckle, “Ever consider making yourself an actual challenge, or are you seriously so pathetic you'll crumble under any kind of attention?”

“Hey, I didn't ask you to fucking molest me during tr- training, asshole!” he snapped, cheeks on fire and breathing erratic no matter how hard he tried to control it.

“Such enthusiastic responses to being ‘molested’, Captain. And here I thought you were loving every minute of it. You sure fooled me.”

Tucker wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face, but he was still held prisoner by the inescapable lock his opponent kept him in. Besides, a noise outside had alerted him to the fact they weren't doing this in a private area. The telltale sound of people echoed in the hall, feminine voices chatting and giggling reminding Tucker it had been Simmons’ group next on the training centre's schedule.

“Let me up!” 

“Aw, what? You don't want to add voyeurism to your new list of weird kinks? Lame.”

“It takes- two to tango, Felix,” he retorted, fighting his lungs to complete his counterstrike, “You decided to take things this f- far, so apparently it was all already on- your list. Ever think about that?”

“Oh no. You wound me. However will I recover?” He rolled his eyes, then sneered down at Tucker, “I don't care. I've done shit to get off in situations that’d shrivel your adorable sensibilities like a flower in the desert. There's nothing you could throw at me I can't either tune out or incorporate if I have to, no regrets. Can you say the same?”

The voices were nearly at the door.

“Ok, ok! I'm sorry. Please…” 

He pushed uselessly at the unmoving body above him, his efforts feeling as though they were instantly shattering against the limehardened surface of a cave wall. Damn, this guy was strong; significantly stronger than him, anyway, wrist unable to shift even an inch within the unrelenting iron grip holding it captive. He couldn't let them see him like this, but unless Felix showed mercy…

“Begging now, Tucker? See? Too easy.”

“Fine, yes! I'm easy! I'm fucking pathetic! Just let me up, dude, come on!”

Felix grinned triumphantly, sheathed the knife and rose, finally allowing Tucker to scramble to his feet and put some space between them right as a hydraulic hiss at the entrance announced their new arrivals. The New Republic women were too busy with each other and a very awkward-looking Simmons to notice them and Tucker took advantage of that to grab his helmet, slamming it on to hide his burning face. Felix had no such qualms, sidling up to the group with his usual charming air, whatever he said blending into the background as his humiliated student made a bee-line for the exit.

Simmons called out to him, but he ignored it, escape flashing at the top of his priority list in big bold letters. He’d talk to him later. Right then, he just wanted to get far away from the scene and the one who’d instigated it. 

He hadn’t been walking long when a low, attention-seeking whistle travelled the short length of hall he’d managed to achieve and had him instinctively pausing to check its source, before he continued on with a roll of his eyes.

“Tucker.”

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!

“Wait. Are you actually pissed? I was messing with you, man. Laugh it off and move on.”

“Hahaha. You're a real comedian.”

“That's the spirit.”

Tucker refrained from cussing him out this time, considering how often that had been turned against him lately.

“Eyes on your opponent.”

“What?”

Felix was wearing his helmet now too, but the disbelieving expression he levelled at him was somehow still clear as day.

“The lesson? I know you got a little… distracted… but I hope the actual point sank in at least. We need you alive and not every enemy's gonna be as accommodating as me. You can’t always use being pretty to get out of dangerous situations.”

Tucker faltered for a second, then ground his teeth together and sped up a bit to gain some distance as anger churned in his stomach.

Fuck you, dude, I'm getting whiplash here! Who cares about your stupid ‘lesson’?

“Hey. I mean it.” A hand latched onto his and dragged him to a halt, startling him into facing the other man, who continued in a graver tone. “Pay attention in future. We can't save your friends with just your corpse.” Tucker was barely listening, focus locked on the place they touched while his mind struggled to figure out what exactly this dickhead was playing at. Felix followed the direction of his gaze, quickly letting go with a cough and a step backward. “Well, I can think of about six different ways we could do that, but I don't think most people here could stomach it.”

And up went the walls again. 

Asshole.

“Nice.”

Tucker scowled, moving at a power walk while hoping it didn’t make him look as irrationally pissed as he felt. He shouldn’t care and he didn’t. Not really. It was a stupid, meaningless kiss in a spur of the moment decision Felix was obviously regretting now.

So much for all that bragging. If you’re not interested you can just tell me. You don’t have to be a fucking weirdo jerk about it. 

“I'm creative like that. You eaten yet?” 

Felix wasn't matching his strides anymore, pulling ahead and half-talking over his shoulder as he turned into the hallway toward the Mess. Tucker paused, shooting him a long glance through his visor before replying.

“...I lost my appetite.”

“That's too bad. I'll let Griff know he can have your share. Just remember: never take your attention off the enemy. See you around, Captain.”

Tucker stared after him, the mercenary whistling a jaunty tune as he sauntered away down the corridor.

What. The actual. Fuck.

-----------------------------------------

I hope you enjoyed. If you did, please do let me know in the comments, and help it reach a wider audience by reblogging if that works with your blog theme. Feed me so I can finish the whole thing. :D This is the biggest thing I've ever written. I need to finish it so my brain will let me work on something else. XD

For those wondering about Tucker tasting Felix's piercing when many people say you can't, I did in fact look this up and some people talked about tasting their own piercings which you're not supposed to be able to do either. Combine that with people frequently telling neurodivergent people we can't do things like hear the electrical surge of an older TV turning on for example when we definitely can, and this author decided 'fuck it. There probably is someone out there who can because sometimes humans like to collectively think if they don't experience it then it's not something anything feels and this probably falls into this category as well.' Also it's fanfiction about two sci fi men in a fake war on another planet 300+ years into the future in an alternative universe where ultra hot therapod-like aliens with space laser guns exist so Imma do what I want in some areas.

Varvatos Vex stared dully at the laser grid. 

Akiridion tech provided it with a far more dangerous edge than those used in the holding cells on Earth's moon. The burns left from his foolish attempts to break free back then were just beginning to heal and even he knew better than to try the same thing here. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was still entirely too soon when a familiar set of footsteps vibrated the floor beneath him, halting in front of his silently hunched form. He refused to look up, feeling his dental plates grind together in response to the loathsome presence.

"So the traitor has returned." Val Morando's tone was light and carefully measured, contrasting sharply with his choice of words. "I must commend you. It's no easy feat crossing two sides within a single horvath."

"You would know," he replied after a long pause, struggling to keep a similar level of control over his own voice, though the rage building within his gut was swiftly making that impossible.

"I beg your pardon?" 

Morando actually had the gall to sound offended and the storm inside Vex burst into a maelstrom, propelling him onto his feet and nearly sending him headlong through the deadly barrier between them as he roared. His fist collided with the safer wall beside him, and he wished fervently it was Morando's face instead.

"You gave the order for Varvatos' family to be slaughtered! You were behind it all along!"

"Where is this nonsense coming from?"

Vex ignored him, pounding the wall twice more and feeling it begin to dent slightly. 

"How could he be so blind? His partner… his children… all helpless pawns in your game for power," he choked. His knuckles were burning but he barely noticed, the old crushing sensation in his chest returning full force to drown out everything else. The recent revelation of Val's involvement had introduced shards of Kaygon-crafted sheet glass to his agony, slicing him to ribbons and embedding themselves deeper in his core than his false lover had ever been. "You never cared about Varvatos! You used him! You only wanted to seize the throne for yours-"

"Who fed you these lies?" his ex-general barked over him and his conditioning to yield in the face of that tone had him instinctively withdrawing before he could stop himself. Morando lowered his volume again, satisfied he now had Varvatos’ attention. "Alpha? Use your head, Vex. He despised you for killing his Brothers. Of course he'd say anything he could think of to make you suffer before you die." 

His anger wavered, sewn through with confusion as doubt crept into the cracks formed by Morando chiselling away at the reality Varvatos was so sure had made an awful, yet perfect sense just a mekron ago. He had a point though. Why should Vex believe the deceitful tongue of a Zeron, who bombed an entire city without remorse for a single… 

That had never made sense at all. Why would such experienced bounty hunters be compelled to inflict that level of destruction? It was far more prudent to walk quietly into a place like Satellite-9, do your dirty business and get out. The taylon occupants would only have presented a threat if the Brotherhood caused unnecessary trouble in the process. Yet Alpha had gone straight for the riskiest, most overt and chaotic route available, without once attempting an alternative; insanity for a normal bounty hunt, but the perfect cover for a political assassination. The possibility the Brotherhood were hired to kill utilising methods which avoided identification of their intended victims placed their actions in a new light. Any one of the colony's casualties - dead and dying in the hundreds after the dust cleared - could have been their true mark. No specific target meant any trail leading to the employer had gone cold. Convenient.

"I doubt you'll show any appreciation, but if it eases your mind…" 

Morando interrupted his whirling thoughts, holding something out to him. It buzzed as it came in contact with the grid, but didn't burn. He patiently let it hover there while waiting for a response, seemingly unconcerned over how close his fingers were to the rays.

Varvatos hesitated, then gingerly took it, turning the mask in his hands as he examined its structure. The material was both dense and incredibly light, consistent with the types of volcanic alloy used in the creation of armour pieces on Tiberia. The surface appeared naturally worn through centons of use and there were marks inside, left behind by dark scales pressed perfectly into the custom made fit. It was authentic.

"How did you-?" 

"I did keep my promise, Varvatos. I swore vengeance on every last one of your family's killers. Here is all that remains of the last." 

Masks were prized cultural artefacts no Zeron would ever part with willingly. In this, at least, there was truth to Morando's words.

Vex was unsure how to feel about Alpha's death. He had dreamed of tearing the canitillian to pieces with his bare hands, of lowering him slowly into the acid pits of Derwinio, and numerous increasingly barbaric alternatives which never seemed remotely enough to pay for the horrific slaughter of his children and mate, or the hundreds of other civillians caught in the crossfire. 

He felt grateful. He felt robbed. He felt relieved. No one else would go through what the surviving families had.

Except the Tarrons. Those children lost their parents and were very nearly destroyed themselves. All because he made the astronomically stupid choice of trusting an equally ruthless, power-hungry general banished from the planet for making decisions a Zeron would be proud of. And for challenging the Queen's universally denounced history of constantly apathetic attitudes toward others vainly begging for her support. 

Varvatos had been blinded by rage and grief, failed in his time of need by leaders he had served faithfully his entire life, and drawn so easily by promises of justice softly whispered against his skin. In those moments, he’d needed Val like he had never needed anything or anyone before. It felt so good to be seen and heard after too long of nothing but empty mollifications and side-stepping his pleas. To be valued and maybe even loved again.

Yet when the day arrived, Vex's only condition was quickly swept aside in favour of Morando's bloodlust. Even the innocent young heirs weren't safe from his ire, solemnly sworn vows of mercy dissipating in the breeze along with Fialkov and Coranda's disintegrating forms, leaving their children unprotected against his march for power. He wanted them gone. He always had. The building resistance was testament to a fact he would have realised all too well: While a single Tarron Royal lived, all would be divided in their loyalties, and many openly defiant of his rule. He needed to bring every planet properly to heel if he wished to take control of the entire Akiridion System.

Val Morando had never meant to honour his word. The most powerful Royal Houses were always marked for complete and utter annihilation. No exceptions. Varvatos Vex was nothing more than a useful piece on the board. A player did not negotiate with their pawns.

He tossed Alpha's mask back through the grid and it skittered over the floor, coming to a stop against the far wall with a clang. Morando didn't even glance at it, instead watching his captive with hardened eyes.

"Vex was a fool," Varvatos said quietly, meeting the other taylon's gaze in a cold glare, "to think you could care for anyone but yourself. Real or not, this is just another manipulation. A trick, to distract Varvatos while you enact your true strategy elsewhere. He will not fall for it again."

Of all the reactions he might have expected, Morando bursting into laughter was not among them.

"You think I need to trick you? Look where you stand. You've already lost. The Tarrons could barely defeat one of my Omens, and only after you risked your life grounding the Mothership. How do you think they'll fare against a squadron? All without you there to protect them?" 

Varvatos blinked at that, a grin spreading across his face.

"And yet they did defeat it? Varvatos is gladdened by this news! Aja and Krel have frequently proven themselves more capable and resourceful than he expected. And they have Zadra. They do not require Vex anymore."

It hurt him to speak those final words, their echo of Krel's rejection stabbing harshly at his core. He'd gotten what he deserved and it was good to know they would be safe, yet the pain of remembering the hatred in their eyes still cut deep.

"You never fought it hand to hand though, did you?" 

Val Morando was smiling and Varvatos felt a chill crawl down his back. He knew that look far too well. This was the first time he had ever been on the receiving end however, and for a moment, a rare spike of fear stabbed through him.

"Perhaps I'll arrange a personal demonstration," Morando continued, turning away, the finishing statement thrown casually over his shoulder as he left, "I'm sure it will be remarkably entertaining watching you try."

-------------------------

The roaring of the crowd reached Varvatos before anything else, raucous and raw, drowning out even the synchronised pounding of boots behind him as he was escorted into the ceremonial arena. His chest ached, squeezing unbearably tight when he passed the spot his Royals had occupied not so long ago, blissfully unaware of the suffering and loss about to be unleashed upon them by his hand.

There was little time to ruminate, the taylon guards forcing him to kneel at the base of a newly constructed dais. The Queen's throne had been relocated atop it, Val Morando now tainting his predecessor's memory with his treacherous backside. He leant forward on Vex's approach, giving his former second an appreciative once over. 

Varvatos had received the opportunity to bathe the night prior, not thinking much of it at the time outside the benefits of speeding healing and rejuvenating sore muscles, ready to face whatever Morando planned to throw at him today. His armor was also returned, cleaned and polished to a fine sheen. He looked every inch the same fearsome taylon commander who had stood so proudly by the true monarchs’ side, however much of a farce his role had become by the end. He fought the urge to shift awkwardly under Val's blatant staring, beginning to regret presenting himself in a manner that could be perceived as cleaning up for this viper. 

"I'd forgotten the way you look on your knees before me. The only thing missing now is to hear you beg for your release," Morando commented breezily, and Vex had to dispel the image that left with a rough shake of his head. Never again. Not while a single Tarron Royal still drew breath and he himself possessed the thinnest shred of self respect.

"Varvatos would rather be buried alive with ten thousand tilabian death slugs!" he spat, wishing he could do exactly that to the smirking slorvath in front of him.

"Oh but I have an even better end planned for you. And how could I possibly deprive these people of seeing their great commander in action one last time?"

On Morando's signal, the guards stepped forward to uncuff their prisoner and Varvatos heard the sound of several serrator guns humming to life as he got to his feet. There was nowhere to go even if he did decide to recklessly attack the full squadron surrounding him. The city wasn't safe and anyone choosing to harbour Vex would be severely punished if caught.

"Citizens of Akiridion-5!" Morando rose from the throne and turned, spreading his arms wide as he addressed his audience in the same manner he would a unit about to be led into battle, "Your Queen and King abandoned so many of their allies, even their own people, precisely when they were needed most! We are the strongest nation this side of the Onthrion Belt, yet we had nothing to offer them? To you?" 

The gathered Akiridions screamed their outrage, though it seemed a staggering majority did so in agreement. They effortlessly overpowered any Royal loyalists among them, if there were even any there to begin with. Morando's multi-targeted campaign against the Royal empire had done its job well. 

"I was banished for daring to speak truth! But there is only so long you can hide from the truth! When I-"

Taking the chance to gather his wits, Varvatos eyed the ominous collection of eight identical robots just beyond the throne. Easily matching him in height, they appeared to be constructed of a strange, glossy dark metal with sharp lines, glowing red behind their optics and between the seams. They were beautiful, though in a way which caused his fingers to twitch, reaching for a weapon he no longer possessed. 

"-across the galaxy, and smite those our cowardly leaders refused to bring to heel! We will have order in-"

During their flight together, Zeron Alpha had gleefully recounted his impression of the Omen deployed to Earth. According to him, nothing could penetrate it, not even point blank shots from a modded laser-blaster outlawed in several galaxies for its exceptionally lethal power. Yet the Royal children were capable of besting this supposedly indestructible being. Morando himself had admitted as much. Perhaps Vex weakened it in the crash landing. Could the right amount of forceful impact create an opening to destroy it for good? 

"-never kept a single promise to fix-"

No. It seemed far more likely Krel had simply outsmarted whoever originally designed it and ‘hacked’ the thing. Varvatos Vex would not be able to recreate such an approach if the King-in-waiting personally handed him a detailed instruction list on the matter complete with annotated diagrams. 

"-safety in their own homes? So many of you paid the price too many times over for that failure! Over half-"

The odds of him walking away from this alive were slim to none, though Morando had already made it clear that was the entire point. What a brutal method of execution. Just thinking about it excited him like nothing else had in parsons.

"-the opportunity to right these wrongs! Were it not for Commander Vex, I might never have breached the shields to liberate you! And yet," Morando raised his hand for silence and his cheering audience obliged, settling down long enough for him to continue in a grave tone, "when the time came to bring our plan to its necessary conclusion, he turned tail and fled. He stole the Mothership and took the Royals with him, all to ensure they would escape justice for their crimes against you and half of our neighbouring galaxies! I have never seen such callous betrayal of duty in all my keltons." 

The crowd had begun muttering at the mention of Varvatos' deeds. When Morando paused, they readily obliged his cue to begin roaring again, this time directed at Vex. Something came flying out of the stands at his face, though he batted it away before it could connect. The cup clattered to the ground, rolling toward one of the robots and bumping lightly against its pede. 

It didn't matter that Morando was grossly twisting true events completely out of shape. There was nothing to say in challenge of him anyone present would believe. He had them all eating straight from his hand, along with a disheartening percentage of the Phalanx. No one here would be fighting for Varvatos today. He was on his own. 

"Tomorrow, I will ensure the Royals meet the fate they deserve. Today, I give you the indomitable Varvatos Vex, battling my engineers' greatest innovation in protection and security… Omen!" 

The charismatic dictator swept his arm out in the direction of his new weapons. The cup crackled and snapped beneath uncaring pedes as the Omens activated, forming a ring around their creator and his intended sacrifice, while the audience rumbled in equal parts delight, intrigue and disquietude. Varvatos could hardly blame them, his own thoughts cycling constantly between morbid curiosity and rapid calculation of potential weaknesses and tactics, all in vain hope of levelling the impossible playing field he currently faced. 

"If he can last three mekrons against a pair, his serrator will be returned," Morando announced, pivoting smartly on his heel and striding back toward the dais. He grabbed Vex by the shoulder as he passed, dragging him down to growl a final command into his audial slit. "Do not disappoint me."

The larger taylon wanted nothing more than to seize and pummel him until he stopped moving. But his guards were still present and he now had two active threats to deal with.

Morando let go and stepped backward, giving Vex less than a secton to register the high buzz of a powerful laser readying to fire. He dove sideways in the nick of time, feeling the humming vibration behind him as the blast hit the phostat floor. Rolling smoothly, he sprang upright and went straight for the closest bot, dodging its built-in serrator blade and wrapping his hands around its head. It broke off with a surprisingly easy twist and he hurled it at his other opponent, striking it in the chest as it aimed again. The direct hit to its firing chamber delayed it for a moment and he took the opening to charge into melee range, grasping the Omen around the waist and tackling it. He allowed himself the tiny satisfaction of imagining Morando in its place as he tore it apart, flinging the pieces to either side and stomping on the torso for good measure. 

The crowd was silent, dumbfounded at  such lauded creations being so completely destroyed before Morando had even reached his seat, watching the combatants with a foot resting on the first stair. He didn't seem angry however, and Vex's defiant roar died in his throat as the tyrant merely observed his commander's handiwork with a smile. 

"It is reassuring to see you haven't lost your edge while babysitting. Did you enjoy the warm-up? I know I did." 

Varvatos' skin crawled at the suggestive tone and uncertainty squeezed his gut, but he did his best to ignore it. Morando had a history of being - as Aja's phone-obsessed human friend would put it - a 'drama queen'. If nothing else, he could be sure the big reveal would happen soon enough, once a sufficient amount of tension had built in the audience. He needed to stay as relaxed as possible; tension would get him killed. 

"Varvatos Vex is colder than Earth's southern pole!" he bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Morando, "You promised him a demise more painful and barbaric than slugs! Where is it? Hiding under your scrap heaps?" 

He kicked a severed arm lying nearby, then jolted backward as it rolled in the wrong direction, drawn by an unseen force toward its owner. 

"I've lost count how often I've tried to teach you this, Varvatos," Morando sighed, the same exasperation he had so frequently expressed during their training together colouring his voice. He sank gracefully onto the throne, spreading his hands over the armrests and crossing his legs as he spoke, "The greatest skill a warrior can hone is patience, and you are still sorely lacking." 

Vex barely heard him, staring in horror and fascination while robot parts clattered across the arena as though they possessed a mind of their own, the Omen reforming and rising slowly to its pedes. The decapitated bot's head flew onto its shoulders, and he was flanked once more. He hadn't even put a dent in them. A collective gasp followed by a sea of awed chatter flowed through the gathering.

"Your time will come. But if a challenge is what you truly desire…" Morando tilted his head. 

Two became four, the newcomers working with their companions to box Vex between them. There was no move to do much else, leaving half a mekron for everyone to process the danger of his position. He was beginning to suspect Omens were at least partially connected to thoughts in a similar way to serrators, and only struck when mentally commanded. Apparently, Morando wasn't ready to end the show just yet. That might work in Vex's favour, if his tormentor continued playing with him rather than going straight for the kill. True, Varvatos found diving headfirst into combat difficult to resist, but arrogance was something Val had never grown out of either.

That supreme confidence wasn't entirely overextended however, as Varvatos quickly realised when the fight finally began.

He had split his ocular pairs to look forward and to the sides, which eased the daunting task of monitoring multiple enemy positions somewhat. But unarmed and without the option of a wall or fellow soldier to protect the remaining blind spot at his rear, he was still vulnerable. The Omens within his frontal view attacked simultaneously, their serrator blades seeking the chinks in his protection, while the one behind him used his momentary distraction to make its move. Its arm actually detached and flew toward him, disappearing into the narrow strip he couldn't see. He was fending off the initial assault when an invisible force slammed between his shoulders, sending him stumbling directly into the path of the rest.

Making use of his momentum for another roll, Varvatos disregarded the strikes largely absorbed by his armour, grabbing an Omen and taking it down with him. He grunted as he felt its blade slip beneath his bicep, leaving a vicious burn mark where it had sliced clean through the Derwinion-mesh sleeve. Seklos' Cannon, that was a sobering bit of information. So far they hadn't pierced his actual plating, though it could very well be a matter of better aim, perseverance and resulting wear before that changed.

He had continued onto his feet while thinking, grappling with his Omen captive and retreating as its companions crowded him, closing the distance together to press their advantage. He was deflecting a number of attacks using their own fellow's body when they suddenly faltered, parting to reveal the fourth, and Vex saw the red beam hurtling toward him a split secton before he raised the robot he held to shield himself. It thrummed in his hands under the friendly fire, offlining and falling apart, leaving him with just its torso. Interesting. Gripping the remains in one hand, he continued allowing it to bear the full brunt of as many strikes as feasible, snatching up a deactivated leg in his other. Avoiding all damage from this many opponents at once was a hopeless task, but if he could just delay the worst of it long enough to be granted his serrator…

Everything dimmed around him, his focus on the constant barrage and doing whatever possible to counter with matching ferocity. The limb he held was a club, his shoulder a battering ram, his own legs a whirlwind of fury dealing devastating impact to anything his kicks made contact with. The Omens sent rattling over the arena floor rebuilt themselves at an alarming rate, never giving him room to breathe, yet he persisted. He had no choice.

"...Vex. Vex. Vex! VEX! VEX! VEX!"

Fighting for his life, Varvatos didn't recognise the building chant for what it was until a sizeable chunk of the spectators joined in. He didn't know how much time had passed, but lacking the option to permanently dispatch his assailants was beginning to take its toll. The unexpected encouragement from a once entirely hostile mob boosted his resolve and he threw himself into the fray with renewed determination.

It couldn't last, however. Any mortal foes would have been vanquished at his hands, but these machines never wavered, neither asking nor giving quarter. 

The dismembered Omen abruptly came back online, the parts he grasped straining to return home. He doggedly refused them; a robot which couldn't rebuild itself couldn't hurt him, though in his weakening state he found struggling with it caused too many openings in his defence, forcing him to let go. Disarmed again and desperately needing a reprieve, he chose a page from Aja's playbook. Switching to more evasive tactics, he dodged and wove among the Omens, resulting in them blocking and striking each other in their attempts to hit him. A few landed of course, but Vex didn't bother trying to counter anymore, focused on weathering the storm and reserving the remainder of his strength. Surely he was almost there?

One particularly persistent blade finally found its mark, invading his plating, parting mesh and sinking deep into his side. His breath left him in a silent scream, Varvatos Vex unwilling to show he had been injured, despite the fact a machine would hardly care. He trapped the robot's arm against him, tearing it off with a sharp twist of his body and flinging its owner in the opposite direction. All the while the rest took advantage of his interrupted flight to bear down on him ruthlessly, bringing him to his knees. 

Suddenly, a hard, circular object slid across the floor and bumped his foot. Varvatos seized it without a second thought, forming a shield and taking shelter for a blessed few moments. The Omens slowed in their attacks, then froze, and he could hear Morando's voice raised somewhere behind him.

"Who threw that? I didn't give the order!"

"With all due respect, your majesty, you said three mekrons. He's passed, he gets his weapon back. That was the deal. We honour our promises."

Varvatos knew that voice, he realised, craning his neck to see Morando approaching one of his guards. Captain Zioni Via, a colleague from his earlier days and someone he hadn't laid eyes on in almost ten keltons, stood stiffly at attention. She was wearing a fully enclosed helmet so he still couldn't see her face, though he could tell by the set of her shoulders she hadn't spoken lightly. Brave, standing up to her leader like that, but such insolence would certainly slate her for disciplinary action. Not knowing how long this unauthorised respite might last, Varvatos kept his position while checking himself over, noting the severity of damage to his armour and body. They had both taken a beating, but were holding out for now.

"Perhaps you would like to join him, since you're so concerned for his welfare?" 

Morando's words were silky smooth, belying his simmering rage at her open defiance. Via held fast, still not quite backing down, though her silence and the way her focus appeared to be on a point directly above Morando's head indicated she had no wish to push the matter much further.

Having ascertained nothing vital was at risk from his more serious injury, Vex dropped the Omen arm and tugged the blade-end free with a grunt, tossing it to the ground. His flesh had sustained hideous burns both external and internal, a horribly intense pain radiating throughout his torso. He breathed deep, allowing it to centre his thoughts. Pain meant he was still alive and he intended to stay that way, odds be damned.

“I didn't think so,” Morando concluded, ending the face-off with Zioni after his pointed pause had remained unchallenged long enough to reassert control. And, thankfully, long enough for Varvatos to begin re-strategizing. 

He had a weapon, but no real knowledge how or even if it would have any effect on the indestructible robots. Friendly fire could deactivate them longer than violent disassemblage and they could be delayed in rebuilding themselves if parts were spread far enough or captive. They acted upon the whims of a directing mind much like ionic weaponry, relying on their driver’s connection to function. And the more robots a person operated, he suspected, the more focus was required to control them effectively. If directly attacked, the wielder would have little choice but to split that focus. Of course, this last fact did him no good unless he could get close to his former general, who was a difficult enough opponent alone, and that was without the taylon and invincible robot retinue currently protecting him. With use of a proper shield to extend his endurance however, he might be able to take an approach from Val’s playbook and hit them with every angle combined. He just had to move quicker than both the guards and the backup bots behind the throne when they came online to defend Morando.

“A truly excellent performance, Commander. I'm impressed,” his target complimented him, having climbed the dais stairs and seated himself again while Vex’s mind raced. “It will be such a shame to see you finally brought low. The great Varvatos Vex, slain before all of Akiridion-5. I only regret your beloved Royals weren’t here to witness it.”

A hush had fallen over the waiting crowd. There was no cheering now. His blood apparently had much less appeal to them the closer to reality his inevitable demise actually came to be.

No. He refused to give in to those thoughts. His odds had improved exponentially. He was the best warrior in the galaxy! Four tin cans weren't enough to end him; they fragmented in sectons! If he could destroy the pieces this fight would have been over before it began. In any case, he only needed to separate them long enough to turn on Morando.

“Since you fought so gloriously well against these numbers, perhaps it's time for a challenge. Why not give your adoring fans a show of your true prowess.”

Varvatos’ core sank like lead in his chest as the final Omens on standby powered up, marching to join the growing ring of imminent death forming around him. They weren’t backups. They were the grand finale. Eight hightech weapons of mass destruction, primed to dissect him the secton he made a single mistake. 

Unfeeling. Unkillable. Undefeatable.

Val was right. No one could stand against a squadron of these tireless machines, not even him. He would just have to try to kill the tyrant before he himself perished. It was the Tarrons’ only chance now, and growing ever slimmer. Morando didn't even speak, simply staring coldly at Varvatos as his robots descended on the taylon he once called lover with no warning. What followed was utterly brutal, Vex’s battle strategy falling apart quicker than the Omens beneath his blows. 

There were simply too many. Four had been difficult enough. Double was nigh impossible even with a serrator. The moment he made a move to do anything besides cower under it like a snivelling slorvath, he was besieged on any side left open in his own attempts to go on the offensive. He would send three rattling across the floor in pieces, only to receive multiple shots and stabs to his exposed side at the servos of the five still standing. Now even his armour was beginning to yield beneath the onslaught, leaving him at the non-existent mercy of any stray attack managing to get through his unarmed defence, since he couldn't afford to sacrifice the shield for anything else. If he'd faced them all at the start, fresh and rested, he might have stood more of a chance, however small. But Varvatos was already severely wounded and rapidly declining. With such extreme fatigue weighing him down, he was too slow - too weak - for matching the early combat speed and power required to grant himself the thinnest sliver of breathing room. He stumbled on fallen bots, dropping to his knees and being driven further into the ground as they took the opportunity to inflict the most damage possible, before he flung them off again in a desperate bid for life. Vision blurring, strikes lagging, body screaming and barely functional due to the extent of his injuries, he fell, enduring their punishment while trying to kick and grab at the legs of any he could reach. It was a losing battle and he felt the last of his strength waning, sheer exhaustion replacing every intact muscle with lead. He was actually going to die. If there weren't so many relying on him to survive this, he could finally be at peace. 

But there were and he couldn't. Not yet. Being cut to shreds on the ground wasn't an option. The end stage of his old plan, on the other hand...

Risking everything for one last charge straight through his opponents, he launched himself off the floor and rammed the robot wall between him and Morando. Several blades pierced deep into his body but he ploughed on, hurtling almost mindlessly toward his goal. Breaking through just barely by matter of sheer mass and momentum, he staggered up the steps, an ionic spear ready to bring death upon his Royals’ worst enemy.

The Omens didn't pursue, their presence halting behind him as Morando rose to greet the weapon with his own serrator. A few bored flicks and Vex was disarmed, Val casually side-stepping to let him collapse before the empty throne. His breath came in ragged, agonised gasps, every part of him burning, limbs rapidly giving out under the enormous strain. He could see the blood pouring from many wounds, rivulets of bright blue dripping onto the phostat and meandering down the stairs. Zioni Via and her squadron were frozen in various positions of intervention, monitoring him silently, despite it being obvious to anyone watching that he was finished. 

“Tell me again how resourceful your Royal little yits are,” Val Morando taunted, kneeling to run his fingertips over a particularly horrific gash in Varvatos’ upper back. It couldn't really hurt him with the rest of the pain overpowering it, but he shuddered in revulsion at the touch nonetheless, flinging a hand up to slap it away. Morando caught his wrist and twisted sharply, forcing Vex to contort himself closer to ease the pressure as his captor leaned in, sneering, “Do you truly believe that half-breed you left them with would fare any better than you did? And once she’s dead, what then? No armour, no decent weaponry; not even a shred of your strength and resilience to hinder my Omens? How much will there be left of them, once it's all over?” 

Aja. Krel. Zadra. Stuart. Buster. Luug. All dead if the Omens reached Earth. He understood now. They couldn't face more than one. Eight would be a massacre.

“Varva… I… won't let…” Vex wheezed, making one last attempt to hit him with his free fist. It missed, glancing off Morando's lazily raised forearm and dropping to the floor.

“You'll ‘let’ me do all manner of things when my lesson finally sinks into that thick head of yours,” Val murmured, gripping Varvatos’ chin and lifting it to examine his battered face. “The Royals’ time is over. This is the end of House Tarron and every other akiron noble foolhardy enough to defy my rule. Fall in line or you will follow them.”

---------------------------

Varvatos Vex tried to speak, but his mouth refused to move, as did the rest of him. The leadened feeling spread to his eyes, dragging them closed and pulling him down into the sweet, dark embrace of nothing.

Rise and fall, spin and sway. The taylon's stunning form held Coranda in a trance as she watched her move gracefully to the rhythm pulsing through the room. Time had lost all meaning around the eighth glass and she was beginning to regret listening to her friends' encouragement. 

Where were they?

She had half a mind to peer around for them, but that would require tearing her eyes off the dancer, which most certainly wouldn't do. Not when it seemed she might be approaching, the space between them growing ever shorter as a mekron passed. Then another. And another. 

Coranda wished she would hurry up already, wondering if it would risk her own cover too much to ask for a name, once she came close enough. Did people even do that in places like this, or was everyone supposed to remain anonymous? Her hidden pair of arms twitched restlessly in their bindings, wishing to reach out and touch, though she knew that would instantly bring the whole night to a frustrating conclusion. 

The three akiron had snuck out on Vasilica's suggestion to take part in the nightlife on Akiridion-8's most far flung lunar settlements. The excitement and risk of being caught mingling with the common masses was giddying, and they weren't the only ones seeking such forbidden revelry. Nobles from all branches of major and minor houses alike ventured into these areas for a bit of merrymaking whenever it suited them. Any who recognised one usually knew better than to cause genuine trouble, though the danger of being noticed by the wrong people was never completely absent. Others were all too eager in handing them back over to their families, in exchange for a tidy sum of crestons to keep their mouths shut.

Back and forth the dancer went, as though intentionally taunting Coranda, ever so slowly creeping toward her.

Just a little more. Please. 

"Come on," she muttered before she could stop herself, then froze as four breathtaking eyes flickered down to meet hers. Oh no. 

"Eager are we?"

A broad face with glowing stripes filled her vision for several sectons and part of Coranda instinctively tried to flinch away. Another wondered how it would feel to- 

One massive hand encased her wrist - and half her forearm - halting the thought in its tracks. She hadn't meant to act on it. An apology bubbled up in her mind, but she was released before she could say it aloud. The taylon gave her a knowing smile, then called something to a server nearby. Coranda vaguely recognised the language, her tutor's lessons in other native Akridion tongues labouring through the mire of intoxication. 'No more' was in there somewhere, she was certain. The server's quick nod and aboutface practically confirmed it. Well that was rude. She was here to escape people making decisions on her behalf. How dare-

"So where are you coming from tonight?" 

The platform lifted a fraction beneath her hand as the dancer stepped off, landing much more lightly than Coranda had expected from a being so large, she still towered over the Royal even on equal ground. Coranda wasn't sure how to answer, thoroughly distracted by the way her new companion looked leaning casually against the stage. 

"What's your name?" she blurted, instantly hoping it had been drowned out by the environment. No such luck, of course; taylon audial slits could often pick up the smallest of things in the noisiest of soundscapes. 

"Veyla Varda," she said with a laugh, "You?"

Her strong voice carried easily to Coranda, who awkwardly tried to copy the relaxed pose and immediately missed the edge she'd aimed to put her weight on.  

"I'm Cor- ah!"

She was caught before she face-planted, though embarrassment warmed her cheeks all the same. Veyla's deceptively gentle grip made something equally warm creep through her lower region and she desperately prayed it wouldn't show.

"Cora, huh? You don't look like a Cora, though I suppose that's hardly my business. Are you here with company?" 

"Friends, somewhere," Coranda mumbled, most of her attention a little pre-occupied with how the light struck Veyla's muscular chest. She wanted to trace the creases in that flimsy shirt, perhaps even take a fistful and hope Varda let herself be drawn down for-

"Maybe buy me a drink first, eh?"

A playful chuckle accompanied Coranda's fingers being patiently extracted from the fabric and placed back at her own side. Seklos and Gaylen, she'd done it again! 

"Sorry," she managed this time, glaring at the offending appendage, "They keep doing that." 

"Tell you what: I promise I won't hold it against them, providing they do something for me." 

This was followed by an expectant tilt of her head and Coranda's knees almost buckled at the indescribably filthy implication, even as she mentally flopped in confusion. Veyla Varda had rejected her but was still flirting? Her mind tried and failed to decisively identify what it all meant together, giving up about three sectons in to simply nod instead. Things would be clarified soon enough and the longer she delayed, the more likely it was she'd be banished to the faceless crowd. 

Varda's fingers enveloped her arm and drew her along, patrons parting before the Queen-in-waiting's enormous chaperone as she navigated toward the bar. Coranda could see glimpses of it through the bodies still ahead, though not much else. Her arm felt secure in the taylon's grasp and she took comfort from its reassuring presence. Her mind had just visited her with a tantalising image of that hand going far less appropriate places when they finally reached their destination.

A grizzled old voltarian pottered around behind the bar, pouring drinks and wiping up a particularly broad spill while scowling at the patron whose careless gesturing had caused the mess. Veyla caught his attention and spoke to him in the same language again, accepting the small vial he passed to her with an appreciative smile. Gaylen's Blade, how far did her lips spread? Coranda stared for over a mekron, before she realised those lips were moving in speech patterns she recognised better. 

"Cora? You with me?" 

"Ah, yes! Sorry! What were you saying?" 

Two eyes rolled so quickly she almost missed it, while the other pair dropped to the bottle, Veyla popping the lid with a flick and holding it out to her charge. Coranda blinked stupidly, unsure what to make of the situation. Was it safe to accept drinks from random strangers if they were employees? She had been told not to accept from just anyone, but this seemed different somehow. 

"Come on. You'll feel better. Here."

Veyla pressed the bottle into her hand and Coranda decided she didn't care, the barely concealed strength in that touch teasing her imagination until she haphazardly threw the drink back and chugged. The taste was… definitely like nothing she had ever imbibed before, and she made a vow on the spot never to repeat this mistake. 

"I can see how you got lost so fast. Slow down there," Veyla laughed, raising a browridge when she noticed the bottle was nearly empty, "Alright then. Why don't you sit tight while we wait for it to kick in." 

"Wait for what?" Coranda asked, surprised by how much easier her words were forming now. 

"That. Heh, lightweight." 

"What is this?" she asked as the room around her came into better focus. 

"Rapid-Grade Detox Formula. Good to have in a pinch, in case someone has clearly overestimated their resilience. You probably should have gone slower with it though." 

Coranda bristled, her steadily clearing head now capable of retrieving prior grudges. 

"I'll thank you not to decide what I should or should not be doing," she thumped the decanter onto the bartop, not bothering to catch it as its sideways position lent it the ability to roll off the edge. Unfortunately, it didn't smash, though the konk as it hit the floor was satisfying enough. "I get plenty of that at-" 

Her abdomen tensing sharply cut her off mid-rant and she groaned, clutching her waist. 

"I think you'll want to be heading for the purge-room now. But far be it from me to tell you what to do." 

Her self-appointed guardian was smirking and Coranda wanted nothing more than to punch her square in her unfairly solid jawline.

"Where?" she forced through gritted teeth, sliding off the stool and staggering toward the door the moment it was pointed out to her. 

It opened automatically and she silently praised the foresight of whoever had taken pity on the desperate when choosing that function, allowing her to make a beeline straight for the nearest purging pool unhindered. The fourth wave of nausea relieved her of her stomach's contents, her sides beginning to ache from the involuntary contractions. A clear fluid flowed through the pool, washing it all away down a drain hole hidden beneath the edging. She dunked her two free hands into the stream, scooping up enough to splash her face before swishing a mouthful around and spitting it out. 

Coranda didn't even notice anyone had followed her in, until a heavy warm touch she was quickly growing familiar with settled on her head. It took everything she had not to lean into it like an overly enthusiastic fugu-dog, reminding herself she was very annoyed right now and not remotely in the mood for-

Those huge fingers shifted her dangling hair over her neck, trailing briefly across the skin there and causing a delightful shiver and a soft sigh she immediately regretted. There was no way anyone looking directly at her could miss her darkening cheeks now. She wanted Veyla to do so much more, to take every thought away and make her forget what awaited upon her return tomorrow. She had arched upward without realising and was met with a deep rumble of amusement. 

"Feeling better then? Good. Maybe next time you'll pace yourself and not wander off on your own." 

Coranda groaned, her miffed tone somewhat dulled by a sudden wave of drowsiness.

"I didn't wander. I'm not a child, Varda, and for your information, I stayed exactly where we were supposed to be. They left." 

"I see," Veyla's voice had grown colder and Coranda instinctively drew into herself. A moment later however, she relaxed again, soothed by the deliciously rhythmic movements of the hand on her neck and primary shoulder set as they were gently massaged. "Do these 'friends' have names? I could send someone to collect them." 

"Oh no no, I wouldn't want to be a bother." 

"To us or to them?" she thought she heard Varda mutter, but it was lost under the door sliding open and the muted sounds of the club suddenly increasing in volume.

"There you are! We could-oof!" 

Patrizia stopped dead in her tracks and stumbled forward as someone ran into her.

"What in Gaylen's name- Move!" She was shoved aside, leaving Vasilica standing in her place. The taller akiron righted her own clothing with an aggravated expression, until she also noticed Coranda's unexpected companion and paused. "Who is this? Should I be calling Security?" 

Coranda winced at the pompous tone, thanking her fortune she wasn't in any actual danger while simultaneously cursing her friend's idiocy. If the taylon were a real threat, she was well and truly close enough to snap Coranda's neck with a flick, and it would take even less effort to crush her core within the next secton. 

"And how would I be assisting you today?" Veyla stood slowly, reminding Coranda again just how much bigger she was than the three Royals in the room as she reached her full imposing height. Patrizia gulped and edged a little closer to the exit. Vasilica's face had turned a delightfully paler shade of blue, tilting upward to follow Varda's rising eyes with increasing dismay. "Have you lost someone, perhaps?"

"It's fine. They're here now. I'll be alright." Coranda tried getting to her own feet as she spoke, only to find her legs refused to work. Her fall was arrested once more as Varda's hand whipped out to catch her arm, then gently lowered her to the ground. Seklos, she had extremely good reflexes, even by normal taylon standards.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself."

"What did you do to her?" Patrizia asked, the concern in her words almost sounding genuine. She hid herself behind her sister when Veyla gave them both a withering look, stepping toward the two and driving them ahead of her as they backed away.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear. We all need a break sometimes. But there are responsibilities we do not shirk, at any point, under any circumstances. One of those is not leaving a first timer alone in a loud enclosed space, completely incapacitated and barely aware of what's happening. Considering you've clearly been to places like this before, I'd have thought you'd know that."

The door sensor activated, allowing them an escape into the crowd if they wished. Yet Vasilica stopped, likely regaining confidence with a room full of witnesses at her disposal. "How dare you?" she said angrily, her voice even more shrill and grating than usual. Patrizia was tugging her arm, but she shook her off. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

"I do not," the taylon replied, and while Coranda could no longer see her expression, something about her air seemed to shift. A jovially challenging tone accompanied her next words as her head performed that delightful little tilt again, though in a considerably less friendly manner than earlier, and Coranda felt a flash of excitement imagining what having that directed at her might be like. "Would you care to enlighten me?"

Vasilica's mouth hung open, staring helplessly. Coranda couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen the bossy noble actually struck speechless. There was nothing to be said, unless they were ready to meet with an unpleasant end to their fun little jaunt. 

She knows we're not supposed to be here. Don't take the bait, you fool. Walk away. Please. 

Loud screaming and the shatter of multiple glass objects breaking at once cut through the moment, Vasilica falling to the floor as Veyla immediately barged past her toward the source. The patrons near the bar were scrambling to vacate the area, leaving Coranda a clear view of what they were fleeing from. 

A large family of foo-foo, two voltarians, one kaygon and possibly a dozen or more gaalahni had stolen the attention of the entire club, poised in a threatening formation around the bar. On the other side, the old voltarion barkeep stood braced for further violence. Behind him, a particularly lanky akiron pushed himself away from the destruction his body had made, glass tinkling to the floor as he staggered upright, clothing drenched in a variety of imbibements. 

Veyla Varda halted, clearly noticing the numerous blasters now trained on her companion, who calmly raised his hands. The newcomers hadn't spotted her yet, too focused on the target of their ire, but she couldn't just attack outright without putting her friend at risk. To Coranda's surprise, the dancer suddenly pressed a finger to her temple, activating an ionic earpiece and speaking in a disapproving murmur. 

“Mernos. We talked about this.” 

“You disappeared. And Ceylen insulted my hredni mix. The young these days have no respect for their elders. He was practically begging for a toss,” the barkeep replied to the air, tail waving lazily at his dripping victim, who drew his own gun with a look of barely contained fury.

“You crazy- All you needed to do… the one thing he asked from you…” the akiron caught himself and inhaled slowly, releasing it on a mirthless chuckle, his blaster making an ominous whine as he clicked its settings to fatal, “‘Accept the payment and get out.’ That was it. One simple little task, and you could've been gone, free to roam and richer than some lower Houses! Everyone else knew what was good for them. But the soolian here? Noooo. He just had to be difficult.”

Coranda had been glancing at the dancing platform throughout the altercation, a glimmer of a definitely terrible, but potentially necessary idea forming in her mind. Veyla and Mernos were both unarmed, out-numbered and outgunned. The odds now were surely far worse than any half-baked plan to tip them could be. She made up her mind and began creeping toward her goal the moment she heard Ceylen’s blaster escalate its intent, screaming at herself the entire way, yet determined to see it through. They may be mere acquaintances, but they’d taken care of a complete stranger in her time of need. It was only right to return the favour.

“The Councillor has no say here and your behaviour is disrupting the peace. Do yourself a favour and lower those weapons. Now. I will not warn you again.”

Varda's carefully even tone and more than significant body mass stepping forward would have made a sharper group think twice about their next decision. Unfortunately, this did not appear to be an altogether bright collection of individuals. They turned to regard her, their initial fearful reaction quickly replaced by a ripple of laughter once they realised she was alone.

Meanwhile, Coranda had managed to use a nearby chair to reach the dance platform, hauling herself up and creeping to the end nearest the bar. The height was a little dizzying and she planted her feet to steady herself, shakily reaching around to begin unclipping the bindings hiding her true identity.

“And who might you be? The floor sweep?” Ceylen snorted, his blaster’s muzzle dropping as his focus switched from Mernos to Veyla.

“Something like that.” The joviality from earlier had entered her voice again, this time with a much deadlier edge, and Coranda couldn't help the thrill it sent through her upon hearing it. Varda took another slow step, then another, every eye riveted on her gradual approach, her stripes seeming to pulse brighter in the dim lighting. “Though it looks like you've done most of my work for me. All the space trash neatly gathered in one corner.”

Ceylen squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as though to clear it, natural akiron resistance breaking Veyla's hypnotic hold far more quickly than his less fortunate followers, his blaster raising to point at her head. 

Time for a new distraction. 

"By order of the Fifth Akiridion Throne," Coranda called as she wrenched the final clip away, tossing her bindings to the side and finally allowing her secondary arms to stretch happily into their newfound freedom, "Drop your weapons and kneel!"

It had the desired effect, every eye in the room turning to look straight at the Royal in full view on stage, Veyla’s exasperated mutter the only sound cutting through the stunned silence.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me." 

Laughter broke out among the gang and the kaygon started toward Coranda, the leer on his face as he spoke making her hand itch for a weapon of her own.

“Looks like our payment’s about to get a whole lot fatter. Why don't you come down here so we can get acquainted, princ-!”

Veyla moved, her form a blur as she launched the kaygon horizontally, kindly acquainting him with the solid base of the dance platform instead. The goon closest to him found himself locked to her front as a gaalahnian shield before anyone else could react, Varda sending another flying into a nearby table with a kick when he hesitated to shoot. The rest opened fire on her, forcing her to take cover behind the overturned table and the unfortunate gaalahni. Mernos took advantage of their surprise to repeat his earlier action, seizing Ceylen and hurling him back over the bartop. Then he bent to retrieve something from beneath the counter, throwing two objects to his ally.

"Zi- Veyla!"

She prioritised the catching of one, allowing the other to clatter to the ground beside her. The next secton, Coranda understood why, as Veyla Varda slapped the item in her hand to her chest and activated an armour module. Its articulated flexi-plate enveloped her massive form, swiftly rendering both the table and dead gaalahni unnecessary. She let him slip from her grasp, ignoring the petering blasts absorbed by her new plating as she picked up the serrator from the floor and faced her surprised opponents. 

Coranda couldn't believe her eyes. Apparently she wasn't the only one here under false pretences. 

A fully armoured officer of the Talyon Phalanx stood before them, rolling her powerful shoulders and neck in readiness to dish out their inevitable demise. There was no question now who possessed the upper hand as terrifying reality began to dawn on the gang members.

"Those of you who wish to leave in one piece, kindly exit in an orderly fashion. Anyone who craves death…" Veyla grinned and manifested a broad-sabre, its ionic edge humming a deadly drone beneath her words, "Feel free to linger. I've been suffering the lack of a good dance partner." 

The extra-curious patrons still observing regained their senses then, fleeing in a decidedly less than orderly fashion and stumbling over each other in their bid to escape. Coranda looked around for her companions, spotting them still huddled against the wall where she'd left them. She slipped down off the platform again, gesturing to them from the shadows to follow her. If they could move fast enough, they might be able to- 

Patrizia shook her head, face contorted with fear. She wasn't moving any time soon. Vasilica was in no better shape, clutching tight to her sister, wide eyes staring at the stand-off barely a stone's throw away.

Kleb!

She glanced back at the unfolding scene behind her. Would it escalate into a full on battle? One stray blaster beam could spell the end for any of them. Luckily, the group of extortionists didn't seem all that eager to take a trained soldier up on her challenge, self-preservation finally making an appearance.

Albeit far too late. 

“It's one guard and an ancient lizard! Just kill them!” Ceylen barked, firing on Mernos and forcing the voltarion to create a shield with his own serrator. 

Chaos descended quickly, Varda trusting her friend to take care of himself while she charged the thugs. They parted before her, some barely avoiding her swings, others who weren't so lucky shredded to flexel and staining the club grounds with a gory rainbow of diverse innards. Those who survived her opening attack spread out, desperately trying to stay clear of her range and develop a strategy against her on the fly. The voltarion pair ignored the panicked yells of their team, launching a series of ruthless electrical attacks, then phasing out and retreating into the energy grids before she could counter. Veyla stumbled and slowed, emboldening the rest to try a united assault, half-burying her under a writhing pile-on of foo-foo and the remaining few gaalahni. The voltarions reformed and raced to join in, but Mernos zapped himself between them and the struggling taylon, wrapping his tail around the neck of one and seizing the other in a headlock. All three vanished, leaving Veyla to finish the fight alone.

Without the damage the voltarions had provided, that proved a lot easier. Caught mid-reckless attack at close range and faltering, her assailants had even less leeway than before to elude her. Many more fell to her vicious blows as she bucked them off and struck, crushing and slicing her way to freedom and an ever nearing victory.

A handful of the wilier foo-foo had hung back, noticing Patrizia and Vasilica and breaking off from the main pack to bound toward them with desperation in their eyes. Coranda dove for the nearest corpse, snatching up a weapon. Unwilling to risk hitting her friends, she fired at the ground ahead of the threat to get their attention. It worked a little too well, reminding them of her higher hostage value the moment they saw her. She had just started for the door in the hope of drawing them away enough to aim properly, when an enormous mass of gleaming phalanx armour cut off her view of the oncoming foo-foo, scattering them as they abruptly changed direction. The one foolish enough to try again for their initial plan was swiftly decapitated, while the rest leapt for the stage to gain the high ground.

"Get down before you get hurt, your highness," Veyla snarled, snatching Coranda by the wrist to haul her swiftly across the space and smack into Patrizia, the taylon warrior using her body and serrator both to shield the three akiron nobles in the nick of time as the foo-foo turned their weapons on them. Her glowing face offset the blinding light of the beams pelting ionic barrier and exposed form alike, double sets of eyes glaring directly at Coranda while she steeled herself against the onslaught with a grimace. Armour or no, those blasters were nothing to scoff at and the Queen-In-Waiting felt a twinge of sympathy for each grunt punched from Veyla's throat.

It seemed like an eternity went by before the blasterfire abruptly ended, a powerful electric current frying the foo-foos where they stood as Mernos returned in a flash of crackling energy. Their blackened corpses slumped around him and he dropped gracefully to the floor without so much as another glance toward his handiwork. He seemed more concerned about Varda's, scowling at the gore coating nearly every surface of his club.

"What a mess."

“Apologies. In future I'll do my best to massacre your enemies with more focus on preserving the upholstery,” she retorted, though there was a distinct note of genuine humour underpinning her tone. Rising from her protective position, she deactivated her serrator, magnetising the circular hilt and releasing it to rest in its proper position on her hip.

Mernos let out a dry chuckle, stretching his neck and shaking off some extra sparks as he approached a long groaning lump sprawled in front of the bar. Ceylen struggled weakly, the sudden firm grip on his collar allowing him no room for escape. Mernos hauled him into a sitting position, examining the burns over the akiron's arms and chest with a cold expression.

“Someone really should teach these pests not to bring a blaster to a lightning-fight.” 

“You left him alive? Generous of you,” Veyla commented, detatching a set of cuffs from her other side and tossing them to the barkeep. "Watch him. I'll be back to clean things up. I have an unexpected wrinkle to deal with first."

Coranda did her best to glare at Veyla when she returned to them, having noticed her secondary shoulderblade was aching from how roughly the guard had manoeuvred her.

"I do not appreciate being dragged around."

"I don't appreciate Royals interfering with my job,” Varda snapped, the disdain and authority colouring her words surprising Coranda into subdued silence. There was no trace left of the exasperated but kind employee who’d been caring for her not fifteen mekrons earlier. “Who brought you here? Call them."

"He's already coming. I pinged him when that awful gang showed up." Patrizia sounded thoroughly rattled and Coranda could hardly blame her.

"Whatever for? It's fine now! I need a drink." Vasilica, on the other hand, seemed ready to pretend nothing had happened. She made toward an intact table, ignoring the morbid tableau surrounding them, but stopped as a huge armoured limb barred her way.

"With all due respect, my lady, you are fully aware it's illegal for this establishment to knowingly host people of your status." 

"Your families would have our heads, and I've had enough excitement for one night," Mernos chimed in, grabbing a surviving bottle of something bright purple and pouring himself a glass. 

"I strongly suggest you return to whichever palace you reside in. I will escort you to your vehicle," Veyla said firmly, and began herding them toward the door, giving them no room to argue or try to move past her. 

Vasilica put on her best outraged face but did as she was told, Patrizia following with her arms folded around her and shoulders hunched. Coranda silently walked ahead of them, scanning the docking bay for their driver. He was just pulling in when they arrived and looked highly concerned, rushing to open the doors and usher them inside. He bowed to the nobles, then dipped his head to their unsolicited protector. She gave a curt nod and turned, leaving without another word or a single glance back at them as they departed.

“I cannot believe the nerve of those waitstaff!” Vasilica started mere sectons after the door was closed on them, “First they try to cut us off, then that taylon dragged you into a purge room to do who knows what to you! We should report them. Have them shut down and exiled, servers decommissioned, the whole procedure! I'll need your statements of course and-” 

Patrizia just put her slitbuds in and curled up under her travel blanket, pulling the edge over her head. The glow of her sound-ball generated a soft light to banish a little of the darkness, though its reflection against Coranda’s window was too weak to challenge the star clusters outside their pod. She tuned out both the orb and the rest of Vasilica’s whining prattle, a single thought sticking in her mind. 

‘Who knew what’ indeed? What incredible delights might she have experienced, had they not been so rudely interrupted? Had she not been required to reveal the truth. Would Veyla have reacted the same way once the binding came off while undressing her, without the presence of danger? Perhaps those hands would have stroked further down her back, hopefully pausing only long enough to recognize she was touching royalty, before deciding to take her chances regardless and venture lower…

The lunar settlements of Akiridion-8 dropped quickly away in their wake, leaving only the vast reaches of space, and the yearning ache filled by her increasingly depraved fantasies.

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So I was writing a Vexando fic because my brain was going brrrrrrrr on them, and I wanted to flesh out and play around more with the Taylon and two-armed/four-armed Akiridions (which I gave the separate species name 'akiron' for) as two different but similar species, because why not? Which led to thinking about reproductive processes for them to understand smutt options better.

Then I remembered the Steve-preg situation in that awful Rise of the Titans movie hinted at Akiridions being like seahorses which, on its own has some cool potential, but I decided to do away with the kiss thing and human m-preg (human m-preg people are valid there are just perfectly good unexplored alien species right there in this universe and I'd rather do it with them) and play around with alien reproduction systems more.

And that also led to an interest in trying out writing a matriarchal society and how that might look and be experienced by and effect the interactions of the characters.

Which led to my best friends asking me "ok but how would two female akiridions do things together/how would you write that?" which of course required actual characters to pair together. So we had a light-hearted, mostly joking (at first) chat about Coranda in her stupid college-age-equivalent years sneaking out to a bar, getting drunk and hitting on a dancer there.

"Ok so who is the dancer?"

"Ooh you know what? Fuck it. Let's grab that random female taylon OC from my Vexando wip and make her also a dancer in a club."

"Ok, why is she there? Does she just enjoy dancing? Does she need it as a night job?"

"Ooh how about she's under cover doing a personal favour for the bar owner who has had a local gang harassing him for money" and then because I've watched a lot of shows with corporate bullshittery redevelopment projects as plot points on Netflix recently, that turned into "rich powerful bastard wants to own the moon these clubs are on/monopolize them himself so he's paying people off to get them to leave, but the OC's friend is an old stubborn voltarion who refuses to sell his club" etc etc and then my brain gave me words for an actual start to the opening scene and uh...

Now I'm writing a story about Queen Coranda and her bodyguard back in her earlier years when things were easy and she didn't have an entire planetry system under her leadership to fuck up. XD

I was also curious about how they had two houses of Akiridion warring and then coming together to form the Royals from the show. Also it's called Akiridion-5, hinting at other planets also part of a wider Akiridion empire type thing and the concept of four-armed Royal Akiridions seemed like something to be fleshed out more so I thought "ok why not have multiple major and minor Houses, not just Ventis and Akraohm" and "what if there were minor Houses marrying into major Houses and different families greasing up to more powerful ones seeking political marriages and deals etc etc."

You get the point. Basically it rabbit-holed really fast like all these things do when my brain latches onto them. XD