Snippet #2824846

The metal bar makes a dull thud as it collides with the back of the bound man.
He groans, falling forward onto his face before being roughly dragged back to the kneeling position.
“Vin’Det,” the man holding the bar spits at the man being beaten. Wormshit.
The six men surrounding the kneeling detainee are all dressed similarly. Short, buzz-cut hair, of varying hues from brown to blonde. Tanned, darkened skin, in deep contrast to the pale of the prisoner. They wear hexagonal goggles strapped to their faces, as well as masks with tubes coming down to their belts, where a filter-looking device hangs, to the astute observer clearly a moisture recollection system. They all wear similar rough-cut robes and pants, one of which has a dyed pattern on his back that looks similar to the mouth of a Sand Worm.
The man with the dyed pattern on his back leans down and unbuckles his mask, letting it hang loosely off of his face. He licks his lips for moisture before speaking, clearly stating the words in Oberan, the language of space-dwellers and the higher class.
“Tell us where he is or your blood will feed the sands, L’Chek.”
Dirty unbeliever.
The man on the ground, in a sand-encrusted grey and white uniform detailing him as part of the Colonial Intelligence, coughs before speaking. “H- Who?”
The man in lead grimaces angrily before speaking again, crouching down to the kneeling man.
“The esteemed L’Chek president, dog. Where will he be holding his next speech? To rouse the K’Lath people, to keep them eating his bread and circus of this war.”
“I- I- I don’t-”
The man is hit in the back with the metal bar again, and an audible crack is heard, one of his ribs splintering. He falls to the ground, trying to hold in his scream, knowing they would just beat him again.
“But you do. You are a part of his crowd management detail. Tell us, and you may live.” The leading interrogator licks his lips again.
“He’ll be in Echo. Nex- Next tenday. He’ll be in the town hall. I don’t know what time.”
“Who will be guarding him?”
“L-local Mobile Infantry. I-I think.”
The man in the cloak grimaces, seemingly in joy. He stands up and turns to the other four men and speaks in K’Lath, the language their prisoner presumedly doesn’t understand.
“Kill him and smash his BrainPal. He may not have signal here but we cannot take that risk. You know what to do after that.”

The man turns away as the other men step out of sight of the prisoner, and buckles his mask back on to his face.
Let the new sun rise, he mutters, entirely unheard by anyone, as the four others draw their Yi’Lirras, machete-like weapons with an L shape, and the one with the bar begins beating the prisoner repeatedly over the head, his screams muffled by the sand, blood soaking deep into it’s granules.

A new age soon rises.