FIGHT LIKE THE DEVIL!!
FIGHT LIKE THE DEVIL!!
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My captain looked at me, both eyes unblinking in shock and awe. I am just a lowly ensign technical technician rummaging through a scrap of salvaged data and yet here is my superior, stunned into silence.
"Ensign Kru'sk, replay that last transmission."
With silent compliance and trembling paws, I pressed the replay button. We focused on the small screen at my bench replaying the potential horror that the crew of this wreck lived through
"...RED! CODE RED! FALSE INFORMATION PLANTED BY------NOT PRIATES------ARMADA------I REPEAT, NOT PIRATES! THEY'RE H-H-H-hhhu-u-u------" // Error: File deleted, no transmissions on record.
"Damn it, the data is so corrupted it's unable to maintain cohesion. Ensign?"
I looked over my right shoulder to my Captain and aligned my body to him. "Yes, sir?"
"You've been up all night sifting through the data and piecing things together. Get some sleep before your sheen is lost...and, good work."
"Thank you, sir. I will notify the commu-"
"No, Ensign Kru'sk. I will notifiy our communications team. I order you to bed."
I nod gratefully and salute. My Captain returns my salute and leaves my little workstation. I flip a few switches, pull a lever and my workstation enters sleep mode. I breathe deeply for a moment, try to flatten my wrinkled uniform in vain (I got some wrinkles, alright? I'm a professional!) and leave the room. A few minutes navigating the second deck and I'm finally in the elevator going up towards the crew deck, but the elevator stopped at deck four and in comes-
"Ulat, what did you find?" My friend steps in and looks me square in the eye.
"Cap'n is freaking out. What the fuck. Did. You. Find?" He trembles as well. I remind him that his bad feelings have been inaccurate thus far. I get a chuckle out of him...but then I continue.
"...I just hope your gut is still wrong this time."
A pregnant pause that feels forever fills this void of silence. C'mon, get to Crew Deck already! I hate these fucking slow elevators!
"I get that Cap'n may have ordered you to keep quite, but is there anything you could tell me?"
I hate this sick bile in my gut.
"It's not a pirate attack." He shuffles his foot. "It's the Terran Republic."
Now I wanna expell my stomach acid. Great, now I'm catching his bad feeling.
"Thein, I just want to get some sleep. I've been ordered to bed."
"If you're lucky, the Black Marines will just kill you in your sleep. And I'm not joking. You and I both thought the stories were just stories...until...you know."
"Yeah."
"I've heard rumors that the Black Marines aren't even black ops, but standard infantry."
"Considering what we've pieced together over the years, it's disturbing to think that tin-foil hood theory isn't even a tin-foil theory anymore."
"Plus, we're at the latest wreckage that's just a few days old. Granted we're only two jumps away from the core worlds and five jumps from the border."
"Not good enough."
Another pregnant pause. I hate this slow elevator with all my being-wait.
"The elevator stopped."
"Oh fuck-Ensign, you know the SOP."
"Yes sir."
He presses down on a small intent in the floor, offset from the center. A seam reveals itself and a rectangular panel is slightly elevated from the floor. As he wedges his claw into the gap beteween panel and floor, I'm cutting open the elevator emergency panel with my standard issue multi-tool.
A minute later I'm examining the conections and integrity of various wires, cables, a section of belt within my field of view and the commlink module hanging amongst a bundle of wires strapped to the back of the elevator panel. A moment after I'm examening the buttons themselves when my immediate superior taps my shoulder and hands me a general diagnostic tool.
"See what you can find out with this. It looks like a newer model, but still standard issue. Hopefully it's just even slightly more helpful. Turns out this is the escape hatch. I'll survey outside. Also..."
He gestures to the radio module in his belt.
"For some reason, our cyberwarfare defense is jamming us inside our damn ship again. So, hollar."
I nod in affirmation and he goes under. I see one standard port on the backside of the elevator panel poking out from the minor fusebox. I jack in and the little screen on my diagnostic tool flashes red with lines of corrupted code scrolling in many directions all at once.
"Fucking damn it I'ma fucking engineer!"
"Something wrong, Thein?"
"No. This tool puts me on fucking rails like I'm a newborn pup. Twelve. Years. Two degrees. Navy treats me like a pup and completely ignores my qualifications! So much for the newer model. This one puts the user on rails, just touch a line and press "fix" or at best place it somewhere else! This isn't helpful at all! Basic diag-tool isn't built for this workload. Ugh."
"I remember. Fourteen applications for advanced tool sets and they give you last year's junk. Fucking navy. Eh, back to work we go~" With a mockingly singsong tone we resume our troubleshooting. Commander Yilna may be brass and a groundpounder, but he's smarter than the average officer. Honestly, he's the kind our "prestiegious" academies should accept-and they don't. Fucking waste.
"Hey, Ensign?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"I heard Cap'n saying that the information you recovered deleted itself..."
OH NO.
"...and now we're having elevator problems..."
I'M AN IDIOT!
"...we're fucked. Got any ideas, college boy?"
I disconnect the diag-tool from the port and slam the elevator panel close. "Yes, one: We stay in here and do nothing."
He finally pokes his head up from underneath and gives me a strange look.
"We've been sabotaged." He reaches a paw out and I grasp. "Lots of components are missing and the wiring is either cleanly burned-" I pull him towards me, a grunt, he rises from the hole. "-or just missing." Now he stands, dirtied with dust and grease. "Plus, the auxillary tool kit that should come standard in every mil-spec elevator is missing." Now he gestures at me to look down the hole.
"I didn't know they were attached that way."
"Yep, electronic lock either failed-"
"-or was told to release."
I look at my friend. "Yilna, the Terrans are infamous for their cyberwarfare. I thought I had sanitized everything, but I think they have a more keen nose for cyberwarfare than us if they can manage this."
We slump against the elevator wall, sitting next to each other.
Yilna sighs and says, "So, we've been spiked?"
"Seems that way. But it's wierd. I haven't heard any sounds of chaos and destruction. Atmosphere is still being pumped through the entire shaft."
"You're thinking it's much worse?"
"Yes. Also, I don't think the Captain noticed as I was scrolling through: everything was deleted, there was nothing to scroll through anymore."
"I'm not educated in this area like you are, but that alone reeks of Terran."
"Ah...you've heard the rumor, Commander?"
"Yes."
"That's classified...but at this point? Fuck it. Now I can actually confirm you know as much as I do."
"You should be some intel officer spook. You're wasted as a technical engineer."
"And you're wasted as a groundpounder. Should be commanding an entire division."
We chuckle for a moment and silently resign ourselves to whatever comes.
"Hey."
I look at him.
"It's probabaly faulty navy manufacturing. I swear we can't trust our shipbuilders anymore."
"Yeah. Ever since the Black Marines-hey we're moving again!"
I look through escape hole and we're definitely moving. It's only another minute of waiting and we're finally at the Crew Deck.
"Smell that?"
"Damn it."
The doors uncharistaclly slide open so fast they slam against the framework and maybe even embedded themselves.
"NO!"
I wish I didn't re-enlist and stayed home now.
"NOOOOOO!!"
The stench of flesh, burning and raw filled my nostrils.
"SHAWNA! NOT MY SHAWNA!"
His mate-which was against regs-now lies dead only partially recognizable amongst all the viceral carnage. As for me?
"..."
I'm no frontline soldier. I've never seen this firsthand before and I'm failing to contain my tears-
"HEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUGH!!"
-and vomit.
Some minutes later I'm exhausted from my vomiting and now dry heaving, salty tears stinging my eyes. I look my friend as he holds his unborn young in his paws-oh no. Not that! Damn it, this just is one of the many reasons why this is against regs! Now he beholds his dead unborn spawn.
I need to leave this scene.
And I do. But I see it repeated over and over again through out the Crew Deck and truly take in the amount of devastation. Holes through the floors, ceiling and walls. Entire sections of walls and many panels seem to be either missing or mishapen and scattered or embedded into the immediate surrounding. Large swaths of walls, cieling and floor are burned, either partly melted or completely melted. There are some areas where even the hull seems to be melted and, when I press my hand against it, only a thin layer of armor remains as it flexes beneath my paw. Corpses even hanging over holes tangled in cables or impaled on all the rough edges left behind. All this death, chaos and destruction transpired in relative silence inside the elevator! The fucking elevator shaft is a overengineered sound proof chamber!! If I ever get out of this alive, I am QUITTING! But first, priorities.
Eventually I come back to the mess hall directly in front of the elevator and I see my friend slumped against a broken bench.
"Hey..." I cough.
"Hey, we need (cough) to go. Check th-(cough)-the bridge. Hey?"
I walk around to the front of him...
...and I see his sidearm in his hand shoved in his mouth. Only now do I realized it wasn't the gore from a corpse on his head.
It was the exit wound.
My only friend comitted suicide and I couldn't hear it through all the bulk heads.
I feel so empty that I can't vomit. I've cried all my tears. Now I'm engulfed in this void of dead silence as I realize the subtle humming of a running ship is gone. I can hear my heartbeat pounding faster and faster-calm yourself!
I look at my friend's other paw holding his mate's paw and the corpse of their offspring.
I must get to the bridge.
For some reason, the elevator still functions. I reach the main deck and the silence of death still drapes itself over my spirit, threatening to snuff it out forever as if to kill me within. Doors are pryed open, blasted away and even cleanly opened yet drenched in blood.
"The Black Marines.", I whisper to myself. Yes, this is their handiwork. One of the sources of skyrocketing suicides which further drove up the fear of Terran forces.
Finally I reach the bridge. Or rather, what's left of it.
The blast shield have been lowered, protecting the bridge from external assault. Almost every control panel is destroyed and has the corpse of its operator draped over it. I spot a stray canteen. I drink, spit out my blood and somewhat soothe my throat and continue surveying the slaughter. Blood splattered everywhere, organs torn to shreds, bones shattered and embedded like shrapnel. At last, I reach the Captain's console and in the captain's chair is the captain diced up and rearanged as if to mock us. Thankfully, this console is still active. The switch to raise the blast doors flickers gently. I flick it.
The blast shield slowly ascends revealing to me the vacuum of space and the massacre outside.
A Terran fleet steadily butchering my brothers and sisters in arms!
I look back at the captian's console and a little screen reads, "Distress beacon active." The rumor was true. The silent butchering of the crew, self-deleting transmission logs, no Terran munitions, savage personal combat...
This ship was the bait and we were covertly boarded.
But if I stay alive, I can still pass on what I've learned about the Terrans. I must live!
Oh...oh no. No...nononononononononono.
Was I targeted?
FUCK.
I MUST STAY ALIVE!
Alright. SOS is still transmitting, I have to assume disabling it will tip them off. Oh fuck-what if there are still some on board?! Damn it, I'm not armed nor trained for this level of combat! Prisoner exchange-no, they've made their policy of no quarter painfully clear. I need to make it to a hidden area in a subdeck with-hopefully-enough provisions to outlast and at least a sidearm with enough ammo to discourage them. All things considered, lofty goals. I suddenly feel like a the small tyi'lo running about in the plains, I'm easy game for mighty preadators of the Terran kind.
Suddenly the lights go out.
I'm frozen in place, paws on the console and afraid to look behind me.
"kzzz-Fangs of Defiance respond. This is lieutenant Ram'mas The Great Hound. Repeat, this is The Great Hound. Fangs of Defiance, please respond."
"T-t-this is Ensign Kru'sk technical engineer of Fangs of Defiance. I read you loud and clear The Great Hound."
"By the gods, someone is alive! Ensign Kru'sk, where is your captain?"
"Lieutenant Ram'mas, sir, the captain is dead and all crew on Crew Deck and Command Deck have been slaughtered. I have not checked the other decks as I suspect the boarding party may still be aboard. Sir, I was trapped in the elevator en route to the Crew Deck under the presumption that is was simple malfunction. I believe the data recovered from the nearby wreckage was spiked with hostile Terran code. How copy?"
"Solid copy, but, uh, Ensign Kru'sk, there is no wreckage near you."
I didn't think the disgusting pit in my gut could get worse, I think this just confirmed another rumor about the Terran tactics. I recall my earlier spacewalk and the wreckage all around Fangs of Defiance, yet as I look out from the bridge I see none. Though I can't account for anywhere else outside my view,
"Lieutenant Ram'mas, have you heard of the rumor about Terrans sanitizing and-or staging sites of quote-en-quote alleged combat unquote?"
Suddenly the line is cut and a holographic display pops up with the text: You know too much.
I'm officially peeing myself. The cold hand of death grips my spine firmly and forces my tail between my legs.
Your kind destroyed one of our nursery ships slaughtering thousands after repated pleas for mercy. The text continued...
Why should we spare even the lowliest of you?
Now I have learned true fear as I realized the lies we've been fed. It wasn't a ship of our civilians, it was a ship of their young. Suddenly many rumors and things I thought I knew are turned on their heads and make too much sense. They are not native to this galaxy. They themselves were running from a threat far greater than them. They peacefully took nearly forty percent of our galaxy even though it is estimated only ten percent is being utilized. And some of their number is STILL finding their way here!
And now I realize why the Terrans are fighting as if their backs are against the wall. Now I realize why, to us they are the large, lumbering beast whose side we have pricked. In reality, they're still in fight mode coming fresh out of whatever hell they just came from and now they're using the lessons learned on us.
I can barely begin to fathom what kind of horrors they had to endure to become so adept at warfare. It is true: experience and the enemy are the greatest teachers. But now, when a species is faced with its own extinction, how else do you expect it to react?
I now truly believe the Terrans will unleash the devil himself upon us if given the chance. When a human is threatened with a fate worse than death itself, it is willing to cross every single line to ensure its survival. Every city down to a mere hamlet will burn beneath the Terrans' wrath.
The text changes again.
This is how your kind dies.
A video plays...and I feel death's cold grip spread throughout my body as I watch a single Terran Black Marine rip and tear through everyone I've known on this ship and more. I've seen videos of small Terran units and even the rarest Black Marine video butchering us. But this one I've heard only in the terrified whispers of the dying. The tallest amongst the Terrans. Allegedly bioengineered to breathe acid and more.
But what I'm seeing just seems impossible. I am beyond sickened.
The Terrans don't need to summon the devil.
They already have the devil amongst them and it simply raised hell while I was isolated inside an elevator shaft that practically doubles as a overengineered sound-fucking-proof chamber!
The devil breathes white-hot fire burning through the ship itself which explains the holes in the floors and walls.
The devil conjures blades of red energy slicing through everything with no effort which explains the perfect cuts.
The devil lifts and morphs metal and even shattering it like shrapnel, yet having precise control.
So many unbelievable feats I thought could only be seen in movies of fictional superheroes, yet this devil does it with ease. Seeing these things happen even on this video is far more realistic and far more terrifying than all the horror movies could ever be. Those movies are a joke. This is real and I never want to see another superhero or horror movie again. I'm done with movies. If and when I get out, I'm retiring and living in the country. If I get out, I'm gonna beat the shit out of that smelly asshole from highschool, take Lo'eva-because that guy is never serious-and marry her. We're gonna go live in a colony like she wanted and leave the city life for good. If I ever get out alive...and for some reason the Terrans spare whatever colony me and Lo'eva on, I'll never piss off a human for the rest of my life.
But suddenly, the video changes...
"Yes. Also, I don't think the Captain noticed as I was scrolling through: everything was deleted, there was nothing to scroll through anymore."
The devil crawls down the wall shaft, fingers gently, softly pressing against the wall of the shaft and lifting off.
"I'm not educated in this area like you are, but that alone reeks of Terran."
The devil cuts bundles of cables and wires and hides them on top of the elevator, yet it appears the bundles float in midair?
"Ah...you've heard the rumor, Commander?"
The devil is using active camoflauge.
"Yes."
The devil's head turns back to the elevator.
"That's classified...but at this point? Fuck it. Now I can actually confirm you know as much as I do."
The devil crawls back up to the elevator entrance to the Crew Deck, it's wide open.
"You should be some intel officer spook. You're wasted as a technical engineer."
The devil looks at her and is bathed in red light from its eyes. The womb is mutilated beyond recognition, she slumps further as the baby is crushed and torn.
The devil then snaps its head toward the elevator entrance, his hand waves and the doors silently close. Then the devil crawls on the ceiling and waits right in front of the elevator. It flicks a finger and the doors slam open.
The devil watches one mourn and the other wander off. Eventually, the devil stands behind the mourning one and deactivates the active camo. Red light shines upon the mourning one and turns in surprise, yet is frozen in place.
The devil reaches out and grasps the mourning one's head. The eyes lose focus, he slumps down unto the floor, slowly places the female's hand upon his own and the dead offspring. Pistol in his mouth ready to fire-
The video stops.
I am bathed in red light.
I summon the courage to look behind me and I finally see...The Devil.
The Devil towers over me. In the Devil's mouth is the offspring and more flesh, the blood flowing from the Devil's mouth and pools at his feet. The human's helmet is more like a mask, yet I can see its teeth.
The human's head slowly tilts to the side.
"The rumor is true..."
The "Black Marines", in reality, is a misnomer. They have dark colors. But there is only one, the tallest Terran warrior, truly wearing black armor. The biggest brass, after reviewing numerous reports about this "black marine", gave it a simple, corny designation out of spite.
"...you're the Blackened One."
The Blackened One's head straighted. It grasped my head with both hands...
Iͤ̉̍ ̯̦̊͋̏ͣ͛a͔͍͎͉̖ͪ̓m̧͍̻̤͉͓̺̋̆ ̜̲̘̳̇t̨̗ͭͭͫ̋͒hḛ͉̟͈̲͈́͐͋̂ͣ̀ ̜̺͇͓̦͂͒ͅB͚̘͇͖ͧ̈̊̍̃̀ḻ̸͙̾ͮ̊ȃ͉̻͚͙̪ͭ͗͋͊̍ͭ̕ċ̝ͮ̾͐k̟͓̝̣̲ͫ͗͆̚e͇̪̙͍̅̒́͆̍̏n̸̘̬ḛ̢͎̗̇̄̇ͬͪ̅ͬd̓ͪ ̥̀͐̉̂̂̑Ő͇̻ͦ̆ǹ͚͉̯̩̮̟͎ͦ̃͒͂́ͪ͜ė̘̩ͨ̄ͤ͂.̦̞ͩ̑̈̍ͅ
Damn it I wish the translation software was faulty! I am definitely going to wish I just killed myself because OH FUCK HE'S IN MY HEAD! PLEASE JUST KILL ME! JUST KILL ME! PLEASE! PLEASE STOP! MERCY! MERCY! NO MORE PLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖ A̺͉̞̼̹̋̈́͗͡Ą̜̯̩͇͑A̠͔ͮ̿͐ͣ͛ͨA̖̼̳̖̙ͭ̽̒A͆̏̓͏̩A͇̱̐ͭA̺̓A̱͓̹ͫ͋̆̊͘ͅA̸̱̱̻ͣ͊ͥ͒Aͭ̊ͬ̓͂͌̊҉Ā̗̰̭ͯͭ̃́̍̚̕A̹͙̎̌ͥ̎ͯ͜A̖̍ͮͨ́͗A̶̫͔͎̹̿̓Ą͉̪͖͋̅̈͐A͐͗̚͡A̘̔̎Ảͫͩ̎A̟͇̦̲ͬͭ̓̑Ḁ̖̝̼̳ͭ͂̆A̢̼̘͖͚̎ͪ͛̋̍A̟̅̅͂ͥͨ̉̌À̫̞͍̮ͯͫͩ̔ͧÁ̪̆ͥͤ͆͡Ã͌̈͑́̿̇҉̫̠͔̘̮A̎̐ͨA̠͊̋ͅA̛͇͙͉̺ͭ̔͛̏À̤̽̋̾̓͋ͯĄ̳̬̜͔̘̳̖A͋ͩ̋ͮ̄̈͊Ą̭̦͉̟̾̈́ͨ̒̒͋ͅA̛̳̹̰̱A͉͇ͤ̃̆A̝͔̖̳͖͖̜ͣͧͨ͗Ấ̶̫͚͙̂ͪ̄̉À̺̫̩͎̦͕̑̎͛ͦ͒ͥA͇̝Ȃ̯̜͚̥̭̅̈́͑̾A̺͘Ă̯̪̺ͧ̈́ͬA̹̖̙̙̙̓ͣA͓͉̲̯͕͍̓̔ͨ́ͩA̙ͭ͋̓̋̐ͬA̛͉͍̣̫̞͔͑͆͒̚Ā̸͑ͣ̂ͅA̼͕̞̖͆ͅȀ̴͇̟͖
Y̜̙̫̮͓̘͆̏͝o̫͍̫̝͈̜̫͑̓ͮ̎u͂͘ ̶̬͍͚̪͇ͯ̊̆͗̄̓ͦẗͤ̌̄͜h̳̥͉̘͇͈r̛͖͕̺̉ͯ̎́é̶̞̻͓̠̙a̒̈̌ͬ͝t̜̖͇̫̘̳̱ḛ̷͚͈̭̿ń̻̣̭̗̤̻͊̔̿̈́e̙̺̮̝̙͇̎͑̿̈́d̆ͮ̐ͩ͂ͮ̇ ̲͖̫͇̼͎̎͌ͅo̮͚̪͔̘̥ͦͭͥͭư̼ͥ͑̈̽͐ͪ̏ͅt̞͎̹̉ ͖͖̳̩̱̀s̖͖̦̆͋ͬu̗͛̈̓ͬr̷͚͈̼̪͊̃̄̑ͤ̚ͅͅv̪̜̳͓̗i͖̙̽͂ͅv̗ͪ͂̄́ͨͯ͒͜aͫ̽̅̉̇̚l̤͉͐͂ͤ͛͘.̞̼͙̼͓͓͑̅ ͎̮͗ͨͩ͐́N̩̣̲͖o̾͂w̸ ̣̠̪ͩͪ͑͢ỳ͇͐ͦ͊̄ͩo̖͓̰̦̠̽ͬ͗ͦ̽̂ͧͅu̸̲̺̞͔̪͉ͬͅ d҉̳̘̤͚̜ͅi̠̹̟͇̭̦̦͌e̹̟̜͚͒͂̂̈ͧ̉̿.̡̻̹
Sometime later aboard CR-401b aka The Crucible
Rear Admiral Henry stands at his desk and takes a moment to straighen out a stray wrinkle.
"Come in.", he says.
The door slides open.
A very tall man steps in, squares up and announces himself.
"Colonel Wesson, reporting as ordered, sir."
Admiral Henry nods and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."
"Thank you, sir."
They both sit.
"Let's get right to it. We know the op was successful. But what else?"
"Rumors do spread. We do well at controlling what information we reveal and as we expected there are some hints that we also give away. Thanks to the work of the counterintelligence corps, I tracked down the last of the smart eggs in the field. Painstaking work that truly paid off.
"Good." The Admiral nods. "Is there more?"
"Yes." Colonel Wesson pauses and the Admiral waits.
"Sir, the Kromwiel Confederacy has intentionally lied to to their people as we suspected. As is typical of a communist regime, we and others in this neck of the 'verse have been portrayed as servants of some kind of devil."
"Pfft."
"The Kromwiel Confederacy doesn't trust their ship captains, they are subordinate to the communications chief officer and each comms chief officer has a hotline straight to the tyrant's inner circle. Also, the crew itself are very much like normal people who enlist in their military. A clean-cut, guilt free war is urealistic."
The Admiral nods. "Indeed. But, they are carrying out their threat in promising extinction."
"The end justifies the means."
"And they too shall go extinct like the two other races that threatened us. Colonel Wesson, I can read the rest later. For now, get some sleep. And thank you." The Admiral smiles.
"You're welcome, and thank you too, sir."
They nod, the Colonel leaves and the Admiral sits.
"One more race of people to kill off. Will we finally be able to rest without facing extinction?"
Admiral Henry ponders aloud to himself.
But a incomming transmission interrupts his pondering.
Henry reaches for his cell radio in his pocket and plugs it into a small base on his desk.
"Rear Admiral Henry, speaking."
"Hi daddy!"
A soothing warmth fills his heart, calming the chilling grasp on his spine.
"Hey precious! Whatcha doin?"
"I'm drawing flowers with mommy and uncle!"
One wholesome call later, Admiral Henry retires to bed and he dreams of his brothers and sisters in arms dying and fighting beside him when he was another warrior on the frontlines. Nightmares from fighting the Kirzan still come to haunt him, but the thoughts of his family beat the nightmares back. Rear Admiral Henry remembers his roots well.
Elsewhere, on a battlefield...
Fireteam Leatherneck comprised of Staff Sergeant York, Corporal Hernandez and Corporal Hondo are latched unto a fleeing hostile dropship carrying two HVTs and eighteen troopers.
"Hercules, prep those charges. Hondo, MG. I'll distract the pilot. On my mark, breach, snatch and fly."
"Aye, sir!" Both corporals affirmed SSgt York's orders as the radio crackles.
Two grenates plastered to the exhaust of the engines and the machine gun overclocked for prolonged output. All the while their climbing did alert the occupants that something is amiss. It's not the first time Terran infantry have taken down their craft midair.
SSgt York makes his way to the cockpit, crawling along the hull and intentionally banging on it.
"Fucking dogs still don't know what to make of it!"
York reaches the canopy and wacks it twice. The pilot looks up in astonishment. York shoots the bird. The pilot levels the dropship, reaches for a handle, pulls it. A small, rectangular section of the canopy begins to slide away above the pilot and reaches for a sidearm.
York just drops a pre-cooked grenade and watches the alien dog pilot on two legs yelp in fear before being shredded. York grasps the canopy via the rectangular hole and makes an even larger hole, shattering a large section. The controsl are damaged and the dropship begins to decend. The copilot lays beneath and struggles to escape the confines below to fight off SSgt York.
"MARK!"
The hack goes through the firewall.
The engines begin to overheat and the maneuvering thrusters begin to malfunction.
"THIRTY SECONDS! GO!"
The boarding ramp pops open and flies upward. Hercules rips off the ramp and throws in two frags followed by a nine-bang. They explode, prompting Corporal Hondo to mount his machine gun to the cieling, magnetic bipod toward the middle of the gun and magnetic grapple plates in his armor solidifying his perch.
"HVTs confirmed! Both wounded, but survivable!"
"TWELVE SECONDS!"
Hercules quickly stomps through the vicera of anguish and pain, lifts the HVTs over his shoulder, leans out the exit and the jetpack ignites.
"HVTs secured!"
SSgt York and Corporal "Hercules" Hernandez engage their jetpacks and leave their mission area. The overheated engines explode killing more occupants and the crash seals the deal. No survivors.
Half a day later, Corporal Hernandez and Corproral Hondo finally fulfill their critera for promotion. SSgt York, Sergeants Hernandez and Hondo all recieve commendations.
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Author's Note: For the sake of convenience, expediency and tbh my lack of originality, the human equivalent of many things will be used when in a alien's perspective whether it be first, second or third person. Some things may not be accurate to the more well educated. I'm in the amateur fanfic club, not the AAA author's club. As far as the action part goes, just imagine York, Hernandez and Hondo wearing some spinoff of Mandalorian armor, but more coverage. Hell, just imagine some kind of crossover between Iron Man and Mando armor if that helps you. But beefier jetpacks. Hey, in the book of Starship Troopers the Mobile Infantry had Iron Man-esque powered armor. Haven't read it, but that's what I heard. Anyways, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!