Heliolatry; Sun Worship

Poor, poor Damarus. He’d get to play the hero for a few seconds, breathe a little relief in Janet’s body for a few seconds, and lose it all a few seconds later. Sird would get to taste those tears a second time, watch this boy who dared to defy her turn into nothing but a crying, shaking, sniveling mess. She wouldn’t console him, either. Instead, she’d step closer, touch his shoulders, and whisper into his ear that it was only a matter of time. No one could ever escape her.

Janet didn’t see any way out. Her face crumpled up, turning hot and wet as she cried. “I-it’s okay,” she told Damarus. “I don’t want them to get mad with you, too. I’ve done it before. I-I’d rather it be me than you.” But she didn’t want it to happen to either one of them! What choice did she have?

That sentimental selflessness wiped the smile off Sird’s face. “And you aren’t going to say anything about the fact your Commander isn’t stepping forward to help you?” she whispered to Janet, giving Leslie the proper space to restrain the girl. Once Janet was held back, unable to move away, Sird rolled down her left sleeve. There, from her wrist to her ankle, was a strange armband of some sort.

What was there to say? All Sird was going to do was laugh, if that. Cyrus and Mars had okayed it. Charon gave up. The only person who still showed any signs of fighting back was Damarus, but she didn’t want him to get hurt. He would if he interfered.

Nothing, hm? Nothing at all? That would make it easier. Sird extracted a chip from her armband, and pulled a small device out as well. With that thing placed on Janet’s neck, the subcutaneous chip could take root and, within ten minutes, the re-plugging would be complete. “I’m sorry, little one,” she apologized icily. “Since I last did this, I wasn’t able to cut down any of the wait time. It’s still going to hurt, but don’t worry. I think it’s going to hurt your accomplices far more than it’s hurting—”

Oh, screams.

What lovely music.

And spill over him they did; for every one grunt Charon toppled, more replaced him in a desperate attempt to keep the old man back just long enough. And even if he did manage to make it through them all, Cyrus's Weavile stood by, waiting attentively to serve its master.

Janet's screams pierced the air in the assembly room, and Cyrus turned unflinchingly to glance at the operation he had seen, and personally performed, numerous times before.

"I think Commander Charon is upset," he drawled after the brief smile erased itself. "He makes the mistake of letting his emotions rule him. This is a problem that needs addressing, but for the moment, our dear M-31 is the star of the show. For security purposes, however, I'm afraid we must take precaution." As he spoke, the grunts nearest Charon moved to form a blockade of sorts, preventing him from nearing the stage but not so much that he wouldn't be able to see.

"I have been generous, and I will continue to be so. Commander Charon has the honor of the best seat in the house for our display, and we must make sure he stays there."

All else fell on deaf ears; Janet's pleading, Sird calling for the Lab Manager, none of it ultimately mattered. What mattered was watching that elderly face among a sea of silver and teal, gauging Charon's reactions and deciding what strings to pull.

A few years ago, this very podium was where Cyrus gave his speech for the Red Chain before all of Team Galactic. The Grunts saluted in unison, the Commanders applauded his brilliance, and the first stage for the brave new world was set. Those lights hadn’t operated in such a way before and even the droned out Grunts reacted to it, blinking profusely, trying to adjust their eyes to the dimly lit front.

And then, something worse than the static voice echoed through that silent auditorium. Two sounds merged together: a girl’s bewildered whimpering and that nauseating, high-pitched screech of metal scratching metal. A tall female figure in a white Galactic Commander uniform came front and center, dragging the back of a metal chair behind her.

Tied up in the aforementioned chair was what, by all but behavior, appeared to be a female Galactic Grunt. Every time she tried to beg and plead for some other fate than what was about to befall her, all that came out was a hoarse noise. Poor dear; she’d screamed herself mute.

That uniform was familiar, as well as the neon-bright hairstyle. All dressed up, one would really have to squint to realize that, beneath that weird getup, the girl was none other than Janet Halley.

"But fear not, Team Galactic. We are still what we are, what we have been; some of us only need a small reminder of where we belong." He strode past grunts, scientists, commanders alike, ascending to join Sird and the terrified Janet Halley.

"And luckily for us," he paused to motion at Janet, "we have a volunteer! This loyal grunt will prove her continued loyalty to our cause, and act as a reminder to the rest of you. With her, and all of you, we will restore this organization to its intended glory."

“Prep?” That was the only word that registered in Janet’s mind. Her entire head went hot, particularly behind her ears. That poor heart of hers wanted to beat so fast it threatened to explode between her rips into a hot acidic goo. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she thought, shaking all over as Sird’s eyes were on her. ‘You really don’t have to do this! I DON’T WANT YOU TO DO THIS!’

She could feel those hands on her and she shook her head. If her legs weren’t bound, she’d have kicked Sird with as much force as her tiny limbs could muster. “But I’m not a grunt anymore!” she argued. “Charon promoted me. I’m a lab manager! I’m on the books as a scientist, and you can check my I.D.! You wouldn’t punish me for his—”

Janet's panicked outburst brought those black eyes to her, staring for a moment--did she really think Sird cared? That he cared? Cyrus had nearly as much personal investment in his underlings as he did in the dirt beneath his feet, which is to say none; her pleading was useless here. Perhaps even enjoyable, for Sird's part.

“Please tell me you two aren’t together. Please?” Her eyes were on Cyrus, mostly because the pint-sized scientist wasn’t brave enough to look at Sird. Sird was at the root of all her nightmares, why Janet sometimes woke herself up at night from her own screams, and why she always felt like someone somewhere was watching over her shoulder, waiting for the perfect opportunity to take her.

He stood directly in the doorway, expression never wavering while watching the fear and upset cross over the face of his would-be subordinate. It was clear from his momentary silence, and the sharp gaze he kept trained on her, that Cyrus was going to disappoint.

"Sird is a Team Galactic Commander, just the same as Mars and Charon." He said it almost idly, as if it were the most simple thing in the world, as though he held no distrust for the woman standing a few paces ahead of him in that storage room. And with Janet's question answered, he looked to her next.

It was a shame the peace would be relatively short-lived.

“I think I heard footsteps. The grunts don’t walk like that. It’s, uh…I don’t know who it is but maybe they’ll help if we shout loud enough. Do you want to give it a try?”

Damarus perked up at that, straining his ears to listen.  “I hear it too.  Yes!  We have to!” He took in a deep breath and started shouting.

He cast her a sidelong glance, expression still largely maintaining its typical disinterest, and said nothing--what was he supposed to say in response? Reconnecting Janet had been part of the plan from the very beginning; to have hesitations now would be stupidly fickle, not to mention cowardly. And as far as the young man waiting for them behind the door... Sird could do what she pleased with him, within reason. Damarus Kotori was no concern of his.

As if on cue, an outbreak of shouting began, emanating from the relevant storage room. A brow rose just slightly, and he wondered idly just how dim-witted this duo could be to be screaming for help within the confines of the Team Galactic base.

Instead, she pulled a tiny device out, strapped it to her arm, and covered her arm back up with the black fabric of her uniform’s sleeves. If any of the Grunts were still plugged in, Sird could override their orders with something only she and Cyrus knew how to operate 100%: something she’d dubbed the Vespiquen Code.

Combees were completely dependent of their hive’s Vespiquen. The same was true for the hive mind. A main operative had to take charge with the code, otherwise any Commander could step forward as “leader” in Cyrus’s absence. Still, the true mechanics behind the code was an old invention, predating almost everyone’s careers.