(Language, of course. And ultraviolence! And bad humor.)

A meeting between men like Dillon and his, for lack of a better word, 'boss', was destined to be nicely dynamic. One a man who had long since sworn to bend his knee to nothing or no one, and the one above him who was supposed to feed him orders. Thankfully both men were those that while prideful and touched by arrogance, knew their place in the realm of things.

In other words it basically boiled down to drinking and each trying to get upper hand on the other. But these were also those who alcohol no longer really worked, and arguments no longer had the teeth of unknown violence.

"That it?" A rumble from the larger man who sat in the overly stuffed chair in front of the blazing fire that flicked for a moment in its digital falsehood before reassuming its crackling form. Even pumping out a decent amount of heat. Dillon swirled the alcohol around in his rocks glass and gave the man across from him a critical eyebrow.

"Yes."A simply reply from the other man who looked no more out of place in his finely tailored suit, then Dillon did. Curtness at the end was nothing new. After a long day, or week of work the last thing they both wanted to do was brief the other. But this was part of the price they paid for their chosen fields.

The silence between them wafted heavily, mostly because Dillon knew something was about to happen. And his boss, Robert, knew that he was about to make something happen. So Robert merely got more comfortable, a stark contrast in size to the man across from him. Hair of a salt and pepper, but he wore it well. And even while smaller then Dillon, he still wore his six feet of height well. He was a picture of casual calmness, while the other man was a playful sight of apprehension in his own way.

Dill narrowed his eyes over to the other man. Elbow coming to an arm rest so he could cup his cheek with his palm and try to give the air of someone that had somewhere else to be. But still the silence lasted, and just when Dillon shrugged broad shoulders and leaned forward to stand did Robert speak.

"There is, one more thing." Of course there was. Robert watched as Dillon halted in mid stand, just to growl and flow right back down in his seat.

"Of course there fucking is, there always is." A deep growl of annoyance from Dillon, but it faded quickly. His pride replaced with whatever sense of duty the man had.

Robert seemed to ignore the other man's comments, and fluidly go right into speech.

"We have another cruiser leaving dock today. The marine in charge of defense is one of your own people. He's requesting the presence of his war leader to bless the voyage his pack is about to commit." Bobby relayed the words smoothly over to the other man, without an ounce of humor in them. But much to Dillon's annoyance, his boss had long since mastered making unfunny thing, amuse him greatly.

"And?" Dillon made a bit of a motion with his hand to 'get to the point'. "We took care of this a year ago. Any Officer of a high enough rank can do this work. Even the Master at arms of this boat technically." But Dillon already knew the story behind it. One does not work at the Company, constantly tied to their technology, and hear what is going on around you.

"Yes well, this one is different. It's entire marine detachment is your own people. From what I understand of the cultural significance, this is the first time your people have made a 'pack' in our forces. I believe they intend to tie their fates to the ship." Bobby was happy to explain Dillon's own culture to him, as if the man hadn't studied it for this exact eventuality.

A low rumble of a growl from Dillon towards the other man, before he spoke. "Yes, like my people do with a fortification back home." Silence quickly, waiting for Bobby to speak. But words never came, just the unblinking watch and curled smile that unnerved others besides Dillon.

"He's refusing to leave isn't he?" Dillon finally just laid it out in front of both of them.

"Exactly! Our multi-trillion dollar weapon of absolute war is sitting in the dock right now, because your master at arms, a veteran of a thousand conflicts with us requires his honor sated." Bobby clapped his hands together once. "And since he won't budge, you can go fuck yourself and get on the boat."

There was another long moment of silence between the pair, before Dillon finally sighed. Realizing this was battle he could not win, and thus one he had to yield to.

"Fine." With an almost funny amount of immature pride, the man rumbled again and rose to stand fully this time. His drink sat down on the end table beside him. Gloved hands smoothing down the front of his suit and adjusting the knot of his tie perfectly up to his chest.

More silence as Dillon readied to leave, before Robert decided to push it a bit.

"Hey, how's that hydrophobia working out for ya" Still got it pretty bad." To which, the man only got a pure glare from Dillon as he cinched up his tie. "I hear it stems from abandonment issues you know. Something about being out in the ocean, on a ship....Hey, does that mean that with you going on the cruiser that..." Words trailed off into yet more silence, before Dillon smoothed down his tie to calm himself and give Bobby a calm look.

"Yes, it means that." Sharply down to the man beside him.

"What do they call that then?" But it was called to the back of the man that was slipping out of Robert's office. The heavy oak doors parting, then slamming shut. Their loudness not affecting Bobby one bit, who just sipped his vodka and rolled out a low laugh of pure humor.

———-

Within a few minutes the signals were already sent up. And a few minutes after that, Dillon was actually on board. And immediately found someplace that no one else was to spark up a cigarette. Now surrounded by metal, in a hallway that was quite alike one that one might see in a modern Terran naval warfare ship today, though on a larger scale.

Dillon leaned his shoulders back against metal of a still shiny gray. A long inhale of a cigarette burning through his lungs. His people were one of rituals and respect, and the man leaning there at his heart was still one who just wanted a shady spot to sit down at. But fate never had that in for him. He steeled himself, then leaned off the wall to turn and slip right to a door that snapped open with a wave of his hand over the small reader beside it.

He stepped in before he regretted it, and immediately he was in a rather large space. Ship marines were usually separated a bit from the crew, usually. The Company went one better actually. The Marine living quarters, mess, and armory was the same area. And that place was open, and busy. The usual business of war kept anyone moving. Groups gathered, rumbling speech and laughter between them. Weapons were readied and stowed. Ammo loaded up in heavy looking crates that sunk into the ground when filled, a plate sliding into place on top to provide a place to walk.

By the first step in, he was already playing the part he should of been. A part he knew well. Shoulders raised back, and height drawn up with a hint of nobility about it. Each step drawn with a purpose, drawing the eye and rather quickly in response a sharp snap to attention that exponentially grew as Dillon passed by.

With the Terrans, he could get away with it all. He would just raise his hand, and people would go about their duties. With his own people, this was not possible. So Dillon did not even try. Their War Leader cut dark eyes over them as he passed, as if looking for any weakness that would threaten his crusade. Form moved like a shark's fin through water. And it only stopped when it reached the nuclease of all the action and the form of a man that dwarfed even Dillon.

There the War Leader waited, until the larger man noticed the stop in motion. A growled out curse in their own language that echoed even across the expanse, before he turned and came face to face with Dillon.

"War Leader!" Snapped sharp in tone. The master of arms was an old man, even before he joined the crusade. He came looking to find a good death, but thanks to the Company's technology and ready supply of wars, he found something more. Amal'do Jon-eas. One of the first sons of Dillon's own fathers clan. Stark white hair was cut close and buzzed, form looked like one that even a 20 year old would blink at. A trio of scars drew a jagged line down the right side of his face. A gift from a Brumah class Infernal that tore out the man's eye and a nice chunk of his lip.

The man had not taken a cloned replacement eye. Or a mechanical one. Or even a damn eye patch. Dill found himself drawn to look at the sight of the man's socket, which somehow showed its surprise at the War Leader's sudden presence.

"Master at Arms Amal. I hear that You require your War Leader's presence, to bless this pack of mine." Dillon's words were carefully chosen. Showing respect, while threatening to punch the man in the face. A delicate balance that kept warriors such as this in check.

"Yes. Yes War Leader." To his credit, Amal recovered swiftly. His hand drew up the Terran cigar he had grown accustom to, and hooked it into his teeth. Right where one of his scars drew down to the chunk of his lip, which was missing. He snapped a harsh growl, and the attendance of men and women drew even straighter, if possible.

Dillon knew his place, and remained silent. Now was a time of old traditions, no matter where they were now and what weapons they used. The pack must meet the specifications of their warleader.

"500 Chu'gol, children of the mother, ready for combat War Leader." Their tone switched to their natural language, which sounded more like growls then easily identifiable tones. But Dillon's eyes followed where Amal motioned, to where all still stood stock still.

"All are veterans of at least a hundred combats. Strict devotees to your training regime for their associated positions. Infantry, infiltration units, heavy armor, air support, everything needed for a perfect combination in a fighting company. All drawn from our own people. Masters of the Terrans technology in their own right." The Master of Arms moved, as did Dillon. Following him as he spoke, but his eyes never left the people before him.

"All pledged to give their lives for this pack if need be. And I will lead everyone gladly." Amal nodded slowly, but was drawn right back to Dillon when he spoke.

"Do they meet your approval Arms Master?" A deeply growled tone that was much easier to balance now that they moved from common to their own language. Dillon met the man's....eye, and didn't blink. Staring him down blatantly, ferally.

"They do War Leader. And more." The man didn't look away, but he nodded slowly.

There was a long moment of silence there, as both men seemed to let their egos battle it out. But it was more then that, it was a direct call to authority. These men would follow Amal, but Amal had to choose who he would follow.

Dillon finally took a step forward and got into Amal's personal space, looking up at the man. But height didn't seem to matter at the moment.

"And you Amal, do you think you meet my approval to lead them?" It was aimed right at the man in the low growl tones that was just barely treading a challenge. Both men dancing slowly to the ties of their own traditions.

"If I am not War Leader, I will take my own life. But first, you would have to remove me from my position..." The horrible visage of scars and age grinned down sharply to Dillon.

Another long moment of silence, as things seemed to be breaking down. But it was well in hand. Dillon returned the man's grin and leaned back slowly. Just enough to create some air.

"I shall have to set aside fifteen seconds if I ever need to, Arms Master." Without breaking their unblinking glance. But finally, the older man bowed his head and looked down. Still grinning though, as wide as Dillon was. And when he looked up, he found Dillon's hand waiting in the air, and he clasped his own around the man's forearm and felt his War Leader's fingers grasp his.

"You pack exceeds my standards Arms Master Amal. I shall run with you, for this first hunt." And like that the place erupted in roars and growls. And like that Dillon was tied in to this trip. He still grinned warmly though as he looked over the assembled people. Proud, not of himself this time though.







He ate with them. Laughed and drank with them. Told stories of war and listened to those of others. He shared tactics and strategy, imparting knowledge even as he learned some himself. And a few hours later the door to his own personal quarters slipped open with a cheerful little beep that Dillon growled at as he stepped inside.

As was per ritual, his own room would never be occupied by another. The Marines aboard would hold it as a place of honor, and someplace their war leader could always rest. It was a small comfort to the man, that sighed as the door shut behind him.

It was nothing fancy at all. No more then ten feet by ten feet, and still the same metal that was the bones and skin of the ship. A bed in the corner with a footlocker in front. A shower, a sink. And a rather large and impressive looking piece of technology that could of been another shower. But it was far too large, and out of place for something personal. It fit the ship too well.

Dillon rubbed at his face as he paced up towards the only window in the room. The blinds still drawn on it, letting no light through. Though for good reason. With a thought, the technology snapped back. Revealing to the man the vast expanse of space. Dotted with flecks of pure white stars that glimmered so brilliantly that it could only be a vacuum between them and the window.

There was an immediate revulsion from Dillon as his mind processed fully where he was. A nausea that worked through his stomach, and was punctuated nicely by the sudden ding announcing a ship wide broadcast.

"All hear this. This is Captain Mitchell. Prepare for first jump of the....Unnamed" We haven't even given it a name yet...?" And the comm shut off as the commander realized their ship hadn't even chosen its own name yet.

The sudden horrible feeling of sickness, combined with the fact that Dillon's mind just began to process that they were on a ship with no name. An unlucky, and now doomed ship by Terran superstitions. And then the rush of technology, as the ship peeled back reality and slipped away through the cracks. Sudden shifting out of sight with a ripple of matter, and disappearing.

There, a sensation beyond even Dillon's technologically enhanced senses and mind. Just the unknown until a split second later, they broke through and a new starscape awaited Dillon to look out at. The comm's beeped again, but Dillon was hunched over and vomiting, did not hear them.

When he came up again, his stomach was empty, and mostly on the floor. And a swarm of small robots were cleaning up what he had left. He rolled his tongue around his mouth and looked out to the new stars. Another section of the cold dead vacuum of space.

"Mother Fucker..." Was all he could say as he stepped, then dropped himself onto his bed. Not much of a sleeper, but if he could knock himself out and miss a few jumps....this was a far better plan then sticking around to feel all of them. And to that, Dillon blissfully, and rather quickly went to sleep to the hums and chips of the tiny cleaning robots.

——

The Cleansing of the Unnamed

"What it really came down to in the end is the fact that the Infernals had us bent over a barrel. They planned their trap well, sprung it, and we were caught. Our higher technology was muddled at best, our escape was impossible. So we found ourselves on death ground, with only one thing to do....Fight. What the Infernals never seem to realize is how well Mortals will fight with their back to the wall.

This battle became yet another where it was Mortal mental strength and technology against the horrors of the Infernal realm....It was a good brawl."

- General Dillon Jones.



The War Leader had long since put himself into a deep state of sleep. Jacking up his own levels of serotonin to make the dive into exhaustion lading rest quite easy. By the time he was dreamily coming awake there was a well wet patch of drool by his mouth, and the bleary eyes of the man blinking open saw only repulsive flickering red lights.

He should of known by now something was wrong. Just by the pure case, that something was always wrong in his profession. But nothing was telling him -what-. More data usually flowed through his mind that neither he, nor his hoards of helper artificial and virtual intelligences could decipher it all. Now though, just the calm ease of a normal mind. Something he had long since forgot and in his weakness, enjoyed too well.

There was no alarm in the form that rose slowly from the bed. Stumbling over to the window from before he passed out. Reaching up his hand with no warning to what was behind the screen, but with a press of his fingertip it snapped away to reveal the sickening sight beyond.

Where ever they were, there was nothing good to Dillon's eyes to see. Pulsing colors of red and black played out with others that the General had no words for. It was more then light though, it all hit the back of his mind in that dark place that has existed since humans ever looked out from the caves. Like a needle pricking the most terrible of fears.

His mind rejected it as he reeled back from it, hands coming up to cover his eyes as he cursed openly, and loudly. He knew the taste well. Infernals. His mind pitched, trying to grasp onto something but only finding smooth surfaces. His palm slammed into the wall to keep himself upright. His will began to break and shred as the pure insanity of the moment got its teeth into him.

He reached out with his technological link in his mind, and found it lacking. A deep struggle to breath as he fell to his knees. His eyes began to slowly adjust, and he blinked alight to look over towards the far wall. The rather large looking device set against it still looked operational. And even in Dillon's weakening mind, he found something he could grab on to.

Armor. Yes, it was one of those rules of war. Like diving to the ground, it always helped. He rose only high enough to toss himself across the room. Falling to his face in front of the device, but he would crawl himself up into it. Slapping his palm against the wall, to activate the technology. The large tube snapping down and encasing him in metal for that second.

The impossible darkness was rarely now, a feeling he appreciated. Even the Black, that began to pour into the cylinder he still sat on was something good. Even when the black liquid rose and reached the level of where his head sat there was nothing but the slow breathing of a beaten man, even when it cut over his mouth and kept filling up. This was a much lesser fear then the one that was outside waiting for him, and all his people.

Outside in the hallway the emergency lighting flickered on and off as it fought for energy. The door to Dillon's quarters chirped happily once again, but not before the entire door was torn out of it's housing and impacted the hallway wall opposite. The reader now quiet and sputtering sparks.

It was nothing to what stepped out of the hole created, having to hunch down with even the added extra size made. Seven and a half feet of black armor that changed a mortal man into a monster, disgraced the area with it's presence. The first boot fall on the metal deck elicited a harsh sound of heavy weight that clanged and echoed. Then another, and another as it began to move towards it's destination.

The added size of the hallways was made quite apparent then, as even that beast in technological plate mail was able to move with a decent amount of speed. In it's armored grip already rested a weapon, a bit over sized but matching the monster's size. Even with its change and evolution, the old axiom that 'the shotgun can't be improved' still held true. Putting a bunch of pain into a small area was always helpful. And the closer and more restricted the enemy, the exponentially better it became.

But the mask was the worst part. Reflecting what light was around with it's chrome shine, and showing a very displeased mockery of a smile out to whoever met it first.

Dillon was a beast on the hunt. The barrel of his weapon leading the way as he paced forward on the corridors. His link to his people stronger now, and already he could tell there was a lot fewer numbers then there should be. He began to pull those out of combat towards areas that there seemed to be problems, and was pleased when he realized the Master of Arms was already up and doing so. So Dillon just reached out with a thought and pulled two errant soldiers to him, signaling them to join him when they could. He however moved forward.

His pace stopped once he reached another long hallway. No outwardly signs of combat evident yet, but for whatever reason the large form of Armor halted with a statue stillness with the weapon aimed out. Even with his senses, now multiplied by the link of technology Dillon's gaze saw nothing. But the pit in his stomach was growing by leaps and bounds. A single thought snapped up in his mind and began it all. Killswitch: Engaged

Then the weapon barked thunder in his hands in a horrible sound that was much worse for the enclosed space. A collection of metal pellets flicked out with the sudden snap of a chemical explosion added with the power of magnetic energy. Towards empty space, but they stopped in their path in the air to hit....nothing, but the sudden splatter of an wet black ichor on the walls. His mind flicked out another thought even as he sent another shot down the hallway to splatter more demonic ichor on the walls.

Contact: Chameleons

He alerted his men to their presence by the nickname given to the creatures. Dillon adjusted his technology as he shot the third round and suddenly what was invisible soon came into the view of his enhanced vision. The forms not perfect, but they were there now. And a few were already falling to the ground from the Generals assault.

The rest were in motion though. Movements meeting the barking of the shotgun and more falling, but more kept coming and soon were too close to Dillon for comfort.

Outwardly it might have been funny to watch. That large form of armor apparently shooting at nothing, and then soon enough moving to dodge the slice of a claw that only he saw. Lashing out with the butt of the weapon with a sickening crack to something that hit the wall with enough force to dent the metal.

The brawl was on though and soon more and more of that sinfully black blood began to splatter on the walls even as rents began to show in the armor from strikes the invisible demons made against their attacker. Dillon reacted quick from the assault, dropping his shotgun out of his hands and letting a magnetic field snap it into place on his back. Hands balling into fists as he mind signaled out to let blades pop free from the sides of his wrists. Soon snapping in the air as fists began to lash out against the demons.

The demons rage and speed was impressive, but they were bottle necked and Dillon was taking full advantage it. Pacing back slowly as hands slashed out to end another attack, or the attacker.

Soon enough the two numbers called in for backup revealed himself in a quick run coming down the hallway behind Dillon. One of them easily identifiable as the Master of Arms by the trio of marks that worked down his mask in silver lines. Marring the typical golden visor. The only thing they found was an area now more wet black then metal. And their War leader grasping at something in mid air that was fighting against his grip. Just for a second, before the other armored hand snapped over to slice blades over whatever he held. One last splatter of black before Dillon tossed whatever he was holding, away with no more respect then he would an errant napkin.

There was a bare moment of silence between he three large forms of black armor, watching each other. Then Dillon's jesters mask split away and broke apart mechanically. Revealing his face to the other two.

"The Bridge is our goal." Only thing said before they all three were in motion. Heading through the carnage that Dillon caused. Blades snapped back home as he reached back and let the shotgun drift back into his grip. It lead the path once again. Metal underneath being beaten by the falls of armored feet.

When the hallways ended, and the trio stood in front of the large single impressive door that barred their entry into the bridge there was no hesitation in their actions. Their General reached out with his mind and grasped the door with pure magnetic force. A second, and the metal flex. Two and it was ripped from its post and tossed into the room. A room that Dillon already read held no mortal life signs.

The three stepped in through the destruction and their weapons blared noise for a few quick seconds. Three Armors standing shoulder to shoulder was a dangerous force. And surgically, more invisible forms splattered their bloods over walls and consoles that remained dark and dead.

A bare moment of silence as the slaughter ended, and then masks were breaking open mechanically as the three began to move in different direction. Dillon aimed to walk up towards the rising levels of height, most likely a position of control or importance. The master of arms flowed down, weapon aimed out in case of the bare likelihood that they had missed a target. The last set of Armor stayed at the broken door, and aimed it's weapon down the hallway in a blatant guard of the area.

Dillon's hands opened and the shotgun fell for a second, then hovered back to his back smoothly once again to lock into place. Armored fingertips tapped on the black screen of a console, and nothing came up. He quickly tried another, then another.

"Nothing's on up here. No power is coming through....Arms Master?" Called down to the armored form of the man who was doing the same down below. Both men growled in unison, already their answer known. Dillon paced to the side to try another, and saw a tube in the wall....One that had glass shattered and a pure red blood of a human on the walls.

"Fuck..." A long curse as the armored form vaulted a console and came down on a run. Coming over to what was left of a form of a man, mostly unclothed with wires running from certain portions of his flesh. A man long since dead.

"The pilot is dead..." Spoken with a small sense of finality. Without a pilot, a jump out was highly unlikely. That man relayed information to the ship, and was immaculately important. But now, gone. Dillon's form rose up with an agility that was unlikely for his size.

The Master of Arms had something different in mind though. He was moving towards the front, where the large black screen should be showing the outside of space. A palm placed to it as his own energy flowed into the object, and it blinked on. Showing the outside of the ship, yes. But what was on screen was like some enormous metal flower that had bloomed in dangerous and chaotic lines. A blending of hell and technology that was looking directly at them. Larger then their ship by a factor of tens.

"War Leader..." Amal called out, to draw Dillon's eyes from the fallen form of the pilot. Looking to the screen that was now on from the Master of Arms own energy. A squint of his eyes, then a slow narrow.

"Well, that's no moon..." Rumbled out slowly with no real humor, besides bad humor. The technologically enhanced eyes of the General watching as floating particulates began to move, and draw closer towards the screen. A good distance between them, but they were drawing closer.