News
Spotty
Spotty’s crystalline blue eyes darkened as Sergeant Scott delivered his report. She sat straighter, her usual warmth replaced by a cold intensity that filled the room. Her hands rested lightly on the table, but her fingers curled ever so slightly, betraying the storm of emotions roiling beneath her composed exterior.
"Duke Erik Dowe," she repeated softly, her tone measured. "Rescued. And no survivors."
The phrase hung in the air like a knife, her mind racing with possibilities. Who could have done this? she thought, her sharp intellect already working through the suspects. But the description of the scene—the butchery—gnawed at her. This wasn’t just a rescue. It was a message.
"Thank you, Sergeant Scott, for the news, even if it is bad," she said gently, her voice soft but carrying an edge. Her crystalline gaze locked onto him, searching his expression. "Can I do anything for you?"
Sergeant Scott
The Spartan II stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he absorbed the weight of her words. His armor gleamed under the room’s soft lighting, a testament to his readiness for action. Yet beneath the polished exterior, his heart felt heavy.
"Madam Empress," he replied, his deep voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath. "No, but I promise to do anything I can to find the bastards responsible and bring them back to face justice."
His mind replayed the footage from the Corvette, the images burned into his memory. Bodies torn apart with savage precision, evidence of a team that had acted with terrifying efficiency. He had seen combat his entire life, but this… this was something darker.
Kismet
Perched silently near Spotty, Kismet watched the exchange with narrowed golden eyes. His sharp feline senses could feel the shift in the room’s atmosphere—the tension radiating from Spotty and the barely contained fury in Sergeant Scott’s voice.
"Looks like someone woke the beast," Kismet said telepathically, his tone a mix of grim humor and unease.
Spotty didn’t respond, her focus unbroken. But Kismet could feel the sharp edge of her thoughts, a blade honed for vengeance.
Whoever did this, Kismet thought, they’re going to wish they hadn’t.
One of the Attackers
In the shadows aboard a cloaked mercenary ship, Kren Malis leaned against a bulkhead, his combat armor smeared with blood—not his own. The mercenary, one of the elite operatives hired by Solis, cleaned his weapon with meticulous care, his movements precise and practiced.
The ambush had gone perfectly. The Corvette’s defenses were neutralized within minutes, its crew and passengers slaughtered with chilling efficiency. The goal had been simple: extract Duke Erik Dowe and leave no witnesses.
Kren’s lips curled into a smug grin as he replayed the scene in his mind. They never saw us coming, he thought, his pride swelling.
But there was a shadow of unease in the back of his mind. The Empress’s reputation had preceded her. He knew she wouldn’t take this lightly, and Solis’s instructions had been clear: move fast, stay hidden, and prepare for retaliation.
"She’ll come for us," one of his comrades muttered nearby, their voice laced with nervous anticipation.
"Let her," Kren replied coldly. "We were paid to do a job, and we did it. If she comes, we’ll be ready."
Duke Erik Dowe
Duke Erik Dowe sat in the corner of a dimly lit room, his wrists shackled and his clothes disheveled. The adrenaline from the rescue was still coursing through his veins, but it couldn’t mask the unease gnawing at him.
The mercenaries had been efficient—brutal, even—but their motives were still unclear to him. He had expected rescue from loyal remnants of the Sons of Reclamation, not these cold, calculated killers.
"Where are we?" Erik demanded, his voice hoarse.
"Safe," one of the mercenaries snapped, not even glancing at him.
Erik’s fists clenched. He didn’t like being kept in the dark, especially not by those who clearly cared little for him. Am I just a pawn in someone else’s game now?
A Crew Member of the Corvette
Ensign Lira Vos had been at her station when the first shots hit the Corvette. The hull screamed as it was breached, alarms blaring in a cacophony of chaos. She remembered the captain shouting orders, the crew scrambling to respond, but it had been futile.
The attackers had moved with terrifying speed, cutting through the ship like a blade through cloth. Lira had fought—she remembered firing her sidearm, even hitting one of the intruders—but it hadn’t mattered.
Now, in the moments before her death, she had clung to the hope that the Empire would avenge them. "Empress Spotty…" she had whispered, her voice trembling as she bled out in the cold, metallic corridor. "Please… don’t let this go unanswered."
Her last thought was of her family on Keprog IV, and a flicker of solace that her sacrifice might mean something.
Spotty
Spotty’s eyes narrowed, the crystalline light in them hardening as Scott finished speaking. "As do I," she said, her voice dipping into a dark, menacing tone.
The room seemed to grow colder as her resolve solidified. This isn’t just an attack on my Empire, she thought. This is a challenge. And they will regret it.
Sergeant Scott
Scott nodded solemnly, recognizing the shift in the Empress’s demeanor. Her calm fury was more powerful than any outburst, a force he knew would drive her to act decisively.
"I’ll keep you updated, Madam Empress," he said before taking his leave, his mind already turning to the task ahead. We’ll find them. No matter where they hide.
Kismet
Kismet watched Spotty closely, his tail swishing lazily but his golden eyes sharp. They don’t know what they’ve unleashed, he thought, his usual humor replaced by a rare seriousness.
"You’re going to burn them to the ground, aren’t you?" he asked telepathically, his tone almost approving.
Spotty didn’t respond immediately, her gaze distant as her mind worked through possibilities. Then she turned to Kismet, her expression resolute.
"Every last one of them," she said.