Deacon Woods's Story

A warning popped up on Jeane's console and she cursed beneath her breath. The stupid Terrans were attempting to board her ship during super sonic flight speeds. It was beyond the most idiotic thing ever attempted before.

The capsuleer wasn't pleased. Jeane had planned to keep the Prosecutor but it looks like the plans had changed on the drop of a hat. The mission was to get the attention of the Terrans and Jeane was about to go overkill on succeeding.

“Alright, boys. They're tryin' t'board us. I ain't gonna fly 'round all day long tryin' to get them offa our tails. Time to go out with a bang, ya hear?” Each of the crew members was a capsuleer. They would understand what was coming next.

All off Jeane's screens went dead as she switched over to manual visuals. At the speeds the Prosecutor was traveling there was going to be very little debris left over after Jeane crashed it into a mountain.

And there was one dead ahead.

Jeane grinned and pushed the Prosecutor to maximum potential velocity.




“Grove stop! G'damnit, woman, stop running! I'm not gonna hurt you!”

Grove crashed through the underbrush of the jungle with a man hot on her tail. A few times her collar had been tugged back . She jerked herself away before she could be stopped. A break in the trees was ahead and Grove gunned for it.

A massive weight collided against her back and Grove went down hard. The two bodies grappled on the rain soaked jungle floor. Whoever the man was that was chasing Grove didn't seem to want to hurt her, but rather incapacitate the woman. His sheer size and weight won over the fight. Grove was effectively pinned down with the man straddled on her chest.

“Get off of me! You don't exist!” pleaded Grove as she continued to struggle.

“Look! Look at me, damn you! I am real! I am alive!” Deacon shouted at her. He grabbed Grove's face and forced her to look at him. She screamed and shut her eyes.

“You're dead! You're dead! I saw you die!”

“I said look at me!” Deacon yelled.

Grove fell silent and opened her eyes. She shook her head and didn't want to accept who was staring down at her. There was no possible way that Woods was alive. It was impossible. They had told her that he failed to attach to a new body. He was supposed to be gone.

“I'm not dead, Grove. I am here and I am real. Now, we can't stay here and debate. There are people coming after you and we need to leave. I'm going to get up now and I need you to not attack me,” Deacon said as he began to alleviate his weight off of the other capsuleer.

Grove waited until Deacon was off of her before she kicked out his knee, threw herself on top of him, and pressed the blade of her knife against his throat. Her fingers tightened in the collar of his clothing as he muttered a curse.

There was a mad look in Grove's eye and Deacon met it with cool collectiveness.

“Don't do this, Grove. I am trying to help yo—”




An explosion boomed across Nebrajit as the Prosecutor collided through the canopy of trees and into the mountain. A wide crater was all that was left behind with scattered piles of twisted, torn, or folded metal debris.

The marines magnetized to the hull of the Prosecutor watched in awe as the massive ship set full thrusters towards the nearby mountain range.

"Abort! Abort!" one of them shouted, "they're crashing this thing!"

The soldiers quickly detracted themselves from the ship, the air-resistance pummeling them far away from the doomed cruiser. Their raptor packs stabilized their flight patterns a moment later. They stared flabbergasted as the ship went up in a massive ball of flame.

"...strike team to recon..." one of the soldiers slowly brought his hand up to his helmet, "...we need a salvage squad down here...

---

The two Terran marines advanced cautiously down the dark hallways of the mysterious complex, gauss rifles trained at the ready. Sonar scans emitting from their helmet wingspans every few seconds kept them wary of any hostiles ahead of them or ambushes taking root behind them.

"Light at the twelve," one of them murmured, "another flare."

"What, does this guy WANT us to follow him or somethi-"

The soldier's hand went up. Both halted.

"That sound, what is it?"

They listened, the harrowing noise echoing coldly off the dank walls of the tunnel.

"...screaming?"

"No. Crying." He tapped at a button on his wrist, running a scouter flash before flipping on his comms. "Command, this is Dante One. We need a second strike team at my location. Multiple life signatures ahead."

The comm squawked. "Copy that, Dante actual. Strike team in bound. Recon of you can, don't expose your position."

The guardian nodded, making another motion with his hand. The two soldiers proceeded warily, muffled feet moving silently across the crack stone floor beneath them. They made their way toward the light source, the chilling sound of a thousand different sobs getting louder and louder until it blocked out all other noise.

When the marines did at last reach the flare, its blood red light illuminating the scene before them in a gruesome contrast, they were horrified.

"Jesus... Christ..." one of the soldiers lowered his gun, crossing himself, "what in God's holy name..." He looked into the cell of a young girl, no older than six, flicking on the flashlight on the side of his helmet. She groaned, turning her head away from the intrusive brightness as best as she could. Lashes and cuts knicked up her arms and between her thighs. Her head was shaven. Her nose broken.

"Dante One to command," the other trooper commed, "keep that strike team inbound, but we also need paramedics down here stat." He growled. "...hell, send me an Oracle Convoy with healing specialties. Rations too."

"Copy that, Dante actual," the comm squawked, "...but, what is it you're seeing?"

The marine shook his head. "Hell on earth. We're moving ahead to pursue the hostiles, but get here as fast as you can."

"Copy Dante actual, keep moving. We'll have men down at your position in less than five."

Nodding to each other, the troopers took up offensive positions once more. They raced forward, guns ahead of them, cutting a neat, swathe line through the pits of hell in their search for the devil.

The agent continued down the main arterial hallway, whitewashed walls and office-like roofing and lighting above him a far cry from the dank, miserable cells where the ‘produce’ as it was called was kept. One hand nursed the stock of the firearm, the other, dangled from his side and hovered just above the sheath of the knife as the soldier walked at the brisk pace of an officer with something important to reach. The balaclava masked his identity but it could only hold up so long, especially since he was coming from the part of the base that had been compromised. Soon, the Terrans would be hot on his tail, and the SRL would realize what had happened -- sabotage.

Hadden put away any fears he had of death though, not of facing His Lord though, but of facing Him without completing his duty. He would rather burn in hell than fail. Justly enough, he thought those two might not be so far apart.

Another capsuleer was charging up the hallway, doors quickly opening in front of him and closing once again. Hadden bit at his lip just slightly, now aware he would be needing identification of some sort to make it through these doors. His objective here was complete: first things first, he needed to sabotage the greatest artery of resources and, importantly, manpower to the League on Terra. The hellholes.

With the hellholes gone the League would be forced to resort to their less favorable, far more amiable tactics. This is was a double edged sword, but better than a slow bleeding war of attrition fought between the Terran defense forces and a capsuleer army, which the capsuleers would undoubtedly win.

No, the only way you stopped the League was by burning it’s every last appendage like a tick. Then, then you simply squashed it. Once and for all.

As the other capsuleer passed him Hadden drew the knife and inverted it into his hand, spinning sideways he stabbed the soldier through the temple: obliterated the delicate machinery in his skull, and ultimately sentenced him to eternal slumber as he crumpled against the wall with a tiny noise.

Reaching down, he wiped the blade off on the corpse’s shoulder and then took the keycard from him. Drawing one last flare, a digital signal beacon this time, he dropped it into the dead man’s lap and quickly broke away into a jog.



Several kilometers from the base, the League had retreated in a hasty, but coordinated, defeat. Battered and bruised, the militia forces garnered as “extra muscle” and particularly cannon fodder for the capsuleer units were completely annihilated: they had served their purpose and they had served it well. Of the thousand people held in detention at the slavery depot, a large number had been successfully evacuated -- a frustration that was recuperated only by spur of the moment thinking.

The trail through the jungle lead away into blackness as the other soldiers milled their way about in lines on the side of the road, standing aside for vehicles carrying the slaves or transports moving what equipment could be salvaged. This round went to the Terrans, most certainly -- and whoever it was that helped them -- but the League was a hydra, the first fight was in Nebrajit, but the next would be of their choosing.

The mud crunched and gurgled under his feet as the soldier slowly let himself fall behind the machinegun crew carrying their heavy weapon from the fight. The balaclava was stained in mud and rain, which still continued to fall, and with every step his boots became wetter and wetter until his feet were simply ice cold.

Slowly, quietly, as the soldier stepped off the trail, a ballistic missile vehicle trundled up the mountain road. Hadden Kovodnik pried off his balaclava and silently disappeared into the jungle.

Grove peeled off her blood and mud caked shirt and waded it in her hands before she tossed it aside. The MR-32 was slung over her shoulder before the capsuleer hooked the knife through her utility belt. As Grove tried vainly to pulled back her matted hair she watched Deacon with cautious eyes.

The man was standing several feet away from Grove. His fingers touched the small cut at his throat as glanced over at the other capsuleer. The distrust that wafted off of Grove was almost palpable. Deacon knew that it was going to take time for the realization that he was who he appeared to be to set in.

“They've got a transport set up nearby. We should be able to overcome them and steal a ride,” said Deacon.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Have you ever had a reason not to trust me, Grove?” Deacon shot back at her. The woman's eyes dropped from his and he cursed under his breath. He paced around with a hand running through his hair in frustration. Deacon strutted over to Grove and stood toe-to-toe with the capsuleer.

“Look, I have got to get you out of here. They know who are you and the SRL will do anything to get their hands on someone like you. Do you know how long I have been looking for you?” The finger that Deacon pressed into Grove's collarbone was swatted aside with a sharp movement of her hand.

“Don't fucking touch me,” spat Grove.

“Fine, I won't fucking touch you, Grove, but at least have the fucking sense to get out of here. Do you know what they do to people like you!” Deacon yelled into the woman's face.

“I can protect my—”

“No you can't! Not against these people you can't! Listen to what I am fucking saying Grove!”

“And when are you going to say what the fuck happened to you, Woods!” Grove spat back at Deacon.

Silence hung between Deacon and Grove. The only sounds were from the roaring storm above the tree tops and thunder rolling through the mountains. Both of them just stood there with heavy breaths with anger, frustration, mistrust, and deep hurt in their eyes. Deacon was the first to break the silence.

“I never meant it to happen the way that it did. I will explain everything once we get somewhere safe. I promise Grove. Now, you're just gonna have to trust me. Can you do that or am I wasting precious escape time?”

“I don't give a shit what you do. I am fine on my own,” said Grove. She looked down at the AP 50 in her hand. She released the magazine, checked the number of rounds she had left, and then tossed it aside.

“These people are dangerous, Grove. They will—”

“So were the Aschen and that didn't stop me from taking down a Reverence on my own.”

“The Aschen are pussies compared to what the SRL can do to someone. Open your eyes, Grove! Take a fucking look around.” He gestured wide with his arms. “This shit here is only the fucking beginning. It can't be stopped with raids on their slave rings,” Deacon said with a finger pointed to the ground.

“Do you think this victory today is going to stop the SRL or even make them blink twice?” asked Deacon.

Grove stared at him from across the small clearing with an unreadable but intense look on her face. The gears were turning in the woman's head and Deacon knew it. He was getting through to her if only by a small fraction.

“Just let me get you out of here, please,” the man pleaded to Grove.

“I can't leave yet. I have someone to find first. I am not leaving without him, dead or alive,” said Grove unexpectedly. An image of Hadden laying in the tunnel bleeding and her being unable to help flashed in the forefront of the woman's mind. Grove's jaw clenched tight and she shoved her last magazine into the hadngun.

“Fine. Whatever it takes, Grove. Whatever it takes,” replied Deacon.

And the forces of the TAF won the battle, still quite confused as to how this skirmish had started in the first place and why there was a slave-ring nestled right under their noses. They were still in the dark as to their mysterious helpers of course; as far as they knew, this was a mutiny between opposing pirate forces that just got too loud. Investigators would begin pieces clues together eventually, but as it was now, the Terrans remained blissfully unaware of the true threat lurking on their planet's surface.

For the time being, however, order and peace was returning to this little part of the world. The surviving prisoners would be healed, fed, debriefed and given as much help as the TNG could afford them. Every trace of League scum that couldn't outrun the Terrans would be killed or taken prisoner. For what it was worth, one facility had been purged.

The lights overhead were bright. Jeane lifted up a pale hand to shield her eyes. There were freckles on the back of her hand and down her forearm. She lifted her other hand and sat up from the metal table. Her new legs didn't even reach the floor and were far too slender for her liking.

The capsuleer scowled and then looked straight ahead at a full length mirror. A moment of surprise and shock crossed over an unfamiliar face's reflection. That only lasted a split second before the young woman's expression darkened as much as her sweet and lovely features could. It wasn't foreboding or intimidating whatsoever. The face was just too supple and young.

“I'm going to fucking kill him!” Jeane screamed out a frustrated sound as she bounded down off the table.




The sun was sitting low and red on the horizon in Wing City. A cool breeze raised goosebumps up on Grove's skin as she walked through an underground parking lot. Deacon was following the capsuleer around attempting to look inconspicuous. The two Scatterran bodies stuck out like a sore thumb in a city of Terrans. They needed a means of travel without drawing undue attention.

“So, you said you have a hunch?” asked Deacon in a dry tone. Nothing but Grove's footfalls answered the man. It left a sour expression on his face as he stared at the back of her head. She had not said a word since they left the battle at Nebrajit.

“You're going to have to talk to me at some point, you know, Anna.” Deacon stopped short as Grove wheeled around and glared at him.

“That woman is dead. Do not ever mention that name again or I will shoot you.”

“So you'll speak to me to deal out death threats. Cool. That makes me feel like I am makingso much progress,” retorted Deacon as he held up his hands in surrender.

Grove turned around and headed toward a black sports car with tinted windows. Over her shoulder she said, “I need you to get me into the SRL operations here in Wing City.”

“Again with the death threats. Really?”

“You said you were going to help me.”

“Yeah. Find Hadden. You said we needed to find Hadden.”

“He'll be there,” said Grove.

“Right because you said that you have a hunch. Why is this dude so important anyway? Oh, sweet baby Jesus, Grove, tell me you're not with an Oriyak.” Deacon attempted to look at Grove's face as she refused to answer him … again. The woman was downright frustrating.

Grove knelt down by the car's lock and studied it. There was no way she was going to be able to pick it without the necessary tools. The capsuleer woman stood back up, took a look around, and then slammed the stock of her MR-32 into the small window near the mirror. It gave way after a few hits and Grove popped the lock.

“An Oriyak. You would think—”

“Shut the fuck up. We're not going to discuss my personal life. Period,” stated Grove. She yanked open the door and slid into the driver's seat. Deacon followed suit in the passenger seat.

“So had sex with him yet?” Deacon asked with an arched brow.

Grove revved up the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. She took an intentionally sharp turn and slammed Deacon's head into the passenger window. He yelped a curse and stayed silent for a long while as he nursed the new bump on his scalp.




Jeane Remington's fists opened and closed repeatedly as she padded around barefoot trying to find the one responsible for her new disposition. Many of the faces she passed were obviously attempting to hide their amusement. For everyone except Jeane it was absolutely hilarious what she had woken up in.

One of the male APs whistled as she stalked past him in nothing but a tank top and shorts. Jeane immediately stopped and turned on her heel. The man burst into uncontrollable laughter as the capsuleer's fury—attempt at fury—turned onto him. Jeane was just too adorable to pull off any sort of anger.

“Come on over here sugar. I could use a little sweetness in my DA—” The man's voice rose up three pitches and he collapsed to his knee as Jeane withdrew her own knee from his crotch.

“Where the fuck is Castor?” spat Jeane.

The man rose a shaky hand and pointed down the hall. He wheezed and groaned as he doubled over his midsection. He felt like he was going to puke. How could such a tiny body hit so hard? The man blinked back tears as he watched Jeane take off.

“I'm going to fucking kill him,” muttered Jeane.

The streets of Wing City passed by from the car window, Hadden drew the window up and looked over at the Scatterran next to him driving. Carter Ross wore the WCPD uniform underneath an armored vest and leg protectors while on the dash was strapped a 9x56mm Allet handgun.

“When I said an obvious pedestrian disguise I didn’t mean native cops.” Captain Kovodnik replied shortly as the sedan turned on a road to an industrial warehouse, traffic well behind them when he looked down at the single Mk. 98 handgun he had carried since escaping Nebrajit.

“No I have a better idea, you say what you want -- I can find anything here, you smelly yakking fuck.” Ross said bluntly, notching the turn signal and pulling the car towards a long drive with a series of temporary building modules were obscured with bright lights. “I know where you come from you guys just sit on all your fancy hardware and shit, they make good lawn ornaments yeah.”

“This is an insignificant accusation.” Hadden remarked and placed one hand on the car door as it slowed to a minute acceleration. The portable structures could house a rather large vehicle and enough space to outfit and repair it, while Hadden felt a brief consideration that disguises and stealth had been abandoned the moment he entered the car earlier.

“What’s insignificant is the amount of shit you can find here left over from those Coalite fucks. Not just tanks either, y’know I found an entire boxset of that 80’s comedy show Stars for Hars at a dump a while ago?”

“A tank?” Hadden was midway through crawling out of the car when the word hit him. Closing the door behind him the Captain placed his Mk. 98 in the back holster on his trousers.

“Oh yes, my gibbly tsov friend, a fucking tank.” Carter pulled the handgun from the dash, leaning back out the window and closing the door behind him. The approach to the modules was a track of dirt and gravel, shifting once at times while the noise of treads and engine grumbled.

“I’m going to assume I was just not understood when I said something not obvious.” Hadden said back while he dusted off his hands. Entering the temporary module Carter made a welcoming gesture with his hands as Hadden found the source of the noise; roaring every few seconds as the engine purred to its peak a horned behemoth of armor sat atop a repair access.

“I’m going to assume you’re not appreciating that this thing will get us into that League vault like a fucking crashball star in a Union sorority alright?” Carter made a quick remarked with his hands, before descending to the floor of the module where the tank remained. Several mechanics were seen at the side and front of the beast, or loading ammunition into its singular, ram-like carapace. “All we need is a man in the commander station, you were in the Soviet Armored Cavalry and you said you wanted to knock them off in this area with one last job. Besides, this things entirely legal -- old hardware from the Galactic War, left up in lockup for the TNG somewhere. Think of it like a very upfront search and seizure, but in a tank.”

“Well the tank is here now.” The Captain replied shortly and took a few steps towards the 38 ton Spitfire, before examining one of the main cannon rounds in position for loading in front of the tank. “What the fuck aren’t we going to kill with these shells?”

“I’m really not concerned about that part too much -- you saw for yourself, they’ve stepped up security across all their houses around here.” Carter ascended up the sloping front of the vehicle, using the 152mm cannon barrel for leverage. Hadden crept up the side of the Spitfire just as the engine let out a long hum, the electronics of the assault gun sputtering to life and the gun ascended in the air.

“The only one we want is guarded with a small shock force practically.” Hadden replied as he crawled in through the commander’s hatch and found himself seated before an enveloping interface that nearly reached around him. “There’s enough standbys in the sector to bring down backup to fight off some Green Veltd protesters and then some.”

“See, when you look at it like that we should have a tank right?” Ross seated himself at the gunner’s station, the hatch closing automatically and he planted himself right beside the auto-loading mechanism of the 152mm stanchion cannon. “I know you’d see it our way -- welcome to Wing City.”

“I think it’s long past welcoming.” Hadden said with a dry look on his face when turning on the interface screens and bringing the secondary trigger out from under the desk-like apparatus in front of him. “Though I hate to say it, this is at least one of my most favorite nights on this hellhole so far.”

“You oughta’ be here for Weird Wednesday then!”

A driver crawled his way into the main casemate to take the position at the last station in the vehicle. Only a few minutes passed until two doors opened at the end of the module and the Spitfire went trundling out of the repair shop. Dust and small rocks flew up behind the assault gun while it crawled up a bank of rubble and then crashed through a fence separating the industrial site from the back alleys of a strip mall. Captain Kovodnik only closed his eyes in regret, as the tank bucked and tossed him about in the seat when it crushed its first car of the night.

“This will escalate quickly.”

Detective Gary Kwong was enjoying a turkey sandwich while resting against his car door. His Caddy was pressed to his ear.

"Nu-nu-nu-no," the irritated officer spat into his phone, "we are NOT taking this case to court, Kaye. Don't even THINK about it. We've got a set of fingerprints and two shaky witnesses who can barely scratch their asses without having to be reminded where there fingers are." He growled. "No. No. Kaye. Stop it. Just stop talking. It's not gonna work. This kid has - yes, I've seen the pictures, and no I don't think... well that's beside the point..." He scowled, little flecks of mayo and deli meat spewing out of his lips. "Listen, Randin. Would you rather be fucked up the ass with a studded dildo or just oralized? Because THAT'S the decision you're making here. This kid has lawyers like a Niihama prostitute has herpes. If we don't settle outside of court, I will GUARANTEE you this little bastard will..." A deep rumbling shook his car. "...take us for everything..." the sound of moving metal and rolling tracts filled the streets, "...we're... worth..."

The detective moved slowly away from his squad car, jogging over to a nearby street corner and peering the block. He had just enough to see a massive tank trolling across Sol Avenue.

"Aw FUCK!" Gary swore, "godfuckin'..." He ran over to his squad car. "Kaye! Kaye, I'm gonna call you back. There's a tank taking a joy ride down Sol. We're not done with this conversation. DON'T accuse the little twerp, keep him in custody for another day. I'll see you when I get back to the office." Kwong picked up his radio and called it in.

---

A few minutes later, a trio of WCPD squad cars would be racing after the Spitfire in earnest, lights strobing and sirens wailing.

"Pull over immediately!" one of them shouted from a speakerphone, though none of the cops really knew what the meant. How do you pull over a tank?

Gabriel Ereb, aboard a private jet, skimmed through several files on his tablet. There were numerous schematics depicting everything from weapons to spaceship parts.

Meteor zoomed high in the atmosphere above