Troubled Nation

[Khendon Sevon]

Khendon focused on his crushing emotional fatigue, the day had been long and strenuous, reports had been filled in triplet, meetings had run hours in length, and this all compounded with an immense feeling of weakness that ravaged his body. The image of Imperialism, Khendon was wearing his black uniform, hair neatly combed, though still slightly wild with jets of amber and golden red clashing under the bright light of the room.

Khendon walked into the square room fully, unbuttoning his uniform top and throwing it aside, revealing an Imperial College sleeveless shirt underneath. His clothing was comfortable, and allowed some movement, though his pants were a little tight for his liking, much too formal.

The dark leader clasped his wrists flexing his forearm, his face scrunched up as he looked down, Just pains from not having worked out in so long, he told himself. The former Vice Diktat began stretching, starting with his calves then moving to his quads then hamstring and continuing up until he had stretched every finger on his hand, and all muscles he was about to use were limber and ready.

The Federalist looked around the room, taking in the utter simplicity. The room was bare, white, and harsh on his eyes. The overhead lighting bounced off the whiteness and refracted, broke, curved, creating the feeling of a doctor’s office.

He cursed at himself for a moment, remember how battered he had gotten the last time he tried to do something physical. Sitting in a desk all day had begun to take its toll on the young leader, his spine would scream in the night, he had trouble sleeping from both that and the dreams of his youth. Khendon, in his lifetime, had probably killed several thousand people, very few directly, most had been done by his vocal commands of, “Fire!”, “Now we have her, bring us about and give her a broadside!”, or “Launch the final barrage, make them bleed.” These moments now would come rushing back to him, as if he were in some sort of fancy time warp, he would relive the moments, but also, he would see the faces of those that died, faces he had not known in life, he would see their bodies burn like incandescent light bulbs then turn to ice and float off into space, it was graphical, but nothing compared to the dreams he remembered of his youth.

In his youth, Khendon had been a special forces officer working for his father’s research firm, his main job being to remove threats or recon a test area. As he had matured, he gave up this line of work, especially since his father was interested in mainly bioengineering and the missions Khendon had taken had exposed him to all sorts of gruesome sights. Sometimes, late at night, when his bed was cold and he felt empty, he would think about what being exposed to those chemical agents could have done to him, but, as usual, he shrugs that off and thinks about work, after all, he’s in charge of an entire Empire in the absence of his master, Viscera.

“Begin,” he says under his breath, and suddenly the scene is a blur. Electronics power up and scream in delight, they smell blood. The room begins to spin and Khendon’s center of balance is thrown about, but he quickly adjusts, allowing a trickle of the force to flow from the mighty dam of stored energy, preparing his reflexes. The former Vice Diktat jumps to one of the walls, now made the floor, and then does a forward flip. Turrets fall from the ceiling and the ground begins to separate, square blocks lifting and falling back into place spontaneously, even more little lasers sparkling out.

From the Federacy’s premier’s hands spring two devices, his silver sabers. The beams come to life with a recognizable snap his and begin dancing, enjoying their freedom from their container. It had been a while since Khendon activated his blades, favoring a blaster strapped to his thigh, showing that he was going away from the old ways, not towards them, to his people.

Khendon flipped again, dodging a barrage of laser fire that collided with the wall and bounced back. The room was quickly filling with energy, and Khendon was batting wildly at the blasts, calling upon more of the force, demanding it to bend to his will, using his frustration to power him, using his tension to relax his thoughts and become one with his inner evil.

Then it all happened so quickly. Khendon was struck by several blasts at once, but not because they were from the turrets. The room shook, the lights went out, and Khendon’s blades fell to the ground, sliding along the floor, deactivated.

The former Vice Diktat hit the ground hard, a warm trickle washing down his forehead. The room shook again, outside, sounds erupted, lasers. His own lasers. The defensive turrets. He reached up and opened his mouth to speak, to call for help, to find some way to stay… his arm fell limp, his eyes closed and the scene went static.

“Well, men,” said the admiral, “as you can see… we’re in a situation. The Imperator was conducting training exercises in the remote D78 sector in a box space-training unit. The automated defenses, four quad turrets and a single defensive battery, an older version one, were the reason that we didn’t provide an escort of heavy craft… that, and he ordered us not to.

“Men, the situation is grave. The Imperator has been kidnapped.”

[Federalist Radical]

Darkness seemed to last forever on this infernal planet. The blackness of the outer world was so dark it could no longer be considered night, it was simply a never-ending cycle of pitch. The Alliance for Unification of the Imperial Factions had taken the planet only a month after the separation of the Galactic Empire, secretly building up men and material, setting up funding and preparing for this event. The Alliance decided to think small, they chose the group they felt was the least of a threat to them, the Imperial Federacy, and setup a group of informants and radicals from within the empire.

Now, the first stage of their plan was going into action. “Wake up, Mr. Sevon,” said the black clad man. His face had a scar running down it, his hair dark as the outside world. His visage was thin, his bones clearly influencing his facial features. The man stood straight, hands clasped at the small of his back, leather boots together, uniform impeccable, an Imperial of the Old Code.

“I said, WAKE UP!” he shouted ravenously, spit flying from is mouth. He nodded to a man dressed in like garments and the other man threw a bucket of water on the leader of the Imperial Federacy. The interrogator resumed his stolid composition, “Ah, good morning… or night… Mr. Sevon. Do you know what has happened?”

[Sean Piett]

With a snap, he flipped another penny into the air. It fell heads, and he leaned forward to jot a tally under the "H" column of a little graph. His feet were kicked up on the desk and crossed at the ankle, and he slumped in the comfortable corporate-style office chair. Obsolete games and experiments were commonplace, here in Piett's Omerose-based office.

A trite little red beacon sat on his desk. Red was basically reserved for assaults on held planets, or bad things of that caliber. So, naturally, Piett flipped on his commlink immediatly when it started flashing three times a second.

"What the <smallfont color=#997583>-Censored-</smallfont> is going on?" he asked, less excited than his word choice suggested.

[Keldrik Domache]

The Inquisitor’s steel lined boot soles caused a dull click to emanate down the winding corridors of the facility as they came in contact with the polished durasteel floor plates. He was tall, dark, and hansom. The Inquisitor stood six feet two inches, towering over most of the officers that passed him as he moved slowly towards his destination. With his military cut black hair, custom cut uniform, and imposing figure, Inquisitor Domache was the most dominating person on base, and with right, he was a ruthless, well trained cleanser of ineptitude in all forms and facets. Domache was trained well in the arts of extracting information, and using it.

Domache approached his assignment, Room 342 C his mind ran coldly over the details, Your assignment is of specific importance, “patient” 742IF is to be treated as our “guest.” Pay attention to all of his needs and make sure his stay is comfortable… then kill him… publicly.”

Sure, the Alliance was bloodthirsty and power hungry, but so was he, and as such, he would do anything to rise in the ranks, even if it meant he’d have to kill a man he looked up to as much as Mr. Sevon himself. The Inquisitor stopped in front of the door, turning sharply on his heel. Domache gave a quick tug to his uniform, flattened his collar, then entered the access code for the room.

“Wake up, Mr. Sevon!” said the interrogator, “I said, WAKE UP!” he reiterated, spit flying from his mouth, a frenzied look in his eyes. The interrogator commanded water to be thrown on the Imperator of the Imperial Federacy, and an equally dressed man did as the officer’s gestures indicated.

As the inquisitor entered, he nodded to the two other men in the room, and then finally let his eyes lock with the groggy blue eyes of Mr. Sevon. “Ah, good morning… or night… Mr. Sevon. Do you know what has happened?” said the Interrogator.

“Interrogator Amonan, that’ll be enough, I’ll take it from here,” said the Inquisitor, his icy eyes causing Khendon to flintch.