Empire of Decay: Confrontation

Certain pieces of jargon and units of measurements have been translated into proper human and Earth-based terms, for the benefit of this file’s superior human readerbase.

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After she got used to the fact that she was a prisoner of the humans, Mok took to her incarceration surprisingly well.

The first thing she did when left to her own devices was take a shower. A proper shower, for the first time in living memory. Huddled together in that rathole, the best she ever got was a sand bath. Water was a luxury and hot water was an unthinkable thing for a rebel. And in an even greater bout of madness, she - as a prisoner - was granted near unlimited access to the hot, running water of her private shower. Mok made certain to take advantage of this blessing every day.

The human’s toiletries lacked any pumice stone but they did include a stiff scrubbing brush for her to scrape all the dead scales, dust, and detritus from her body. When she stepped out of the shower on that first day, emerging from a veil of steam, the turquoise of her scales were gleaming like they never had before, like she was one of the highbreed military brass or political administrators. Even the soft tan of her underbelly looked as unblemished and smooth as a chilled pot of cream. A lifelong soldier, Mok had no affection for aesthetics or her appearance (save that it met standard military protocol) but it had been so long since she had access to even the basic elements of grooming that the difference was too stark not to be dazzled by it.

The toiletries were not the only thing better in her jail cell compared to the cave her rebel cell hid in, much as it pained her to admit it. And even then, when she received her first meal, she had looked at the pile of grey mush with a jaundiced eye.

“It’s called ‘**** slop’.” The taunting, smiling Private Ramirez explained when she threw the tray of grey goo at Mok’s feet with intentional cruelty. “Or ‘bitch food’ or ‘xeno paste’ or… well, it has a lot of names, honestly. But I like **** slop. All the nutrients a growing, active lizzie **** could possibly need.”

The private’s vile language and derisive smile only coloured Mok’s perceptions even more negatively, but she was exceptionally starving. Much to her surprise, the slimy texture of the grey glop was comparable to dry military rations, and it somehow tasted better (and definitely tasted better than raw thangl worm), if only by a vanishing margin. And then, true to word, it was chocked full of nutrients, and after eating three heaping piles of it each and every day, Mok felt her strength and vitality return to her.

She was even able to requisition resistant bands to finally and properly workout. Her atrophied, underworked muscles felt sore after every exercise session, but she was able to soothe them in the balmy cascade of the shower, basking in the warmth of both the water and the effort of her exercises. It was almost enough to make her forget about her circumstances.

But that was where the good things about this arrangement ended. Much to Mok’s displeasure, one of her two “liasons” would spend hours of the day sitting in her room, supposedly to keep an eye on her, but she suspected it was mainly to **** her. Between Private Ramirez and Sergeant Rainsong, they alternated shifts, and she wasn’t sure which one of the two was worse.

Ramirez, already established to be the crudest sort of ape, spent her time on guard duty with her - blech - cock whipped out, always on her data-pad openly watching - ugh - pornography with the most disgusting of leers directed at the screen and Mok herself. She had to endure hours of the most vile, lurid sounds and images imaginable: inflated, over-sexed alien bimbos enslaved to serve humanity as walking, talking, breathing sex toys worshipping the enemy of the stars. The victims of humanity’s crusade played out on the screen, blared away on the pad’s speakers. Once more, Mok was wishing her gag reflex had been excised from her genome, as Private Ramirez’ ritual made her feel physically ill, every time without a doubt.

But whenever it was Sergeant Rainsong’s turn to play guard things played out differently yet the same. Instead of mocking smiles and simpering smirks, the Sergeant was largely silent and stonefaced, but Mok could see the barely masked contempt hidden behind those sullen, dead eyes. She too liked to watch programming on her data-pad during her time in Mok’s room, also blasting the program at max volume, but Rainsong preferred war documentaries and those indecipherable human drama serials. It was all human propaganda, of course, glorifying humanity while painting over their atrocities and casting their foes as savage, monstrous demons who liked to eat human young and other such nonsense, but the Sergeant was supremely focused on them, all her attention directed to the screen, and even Mok had to admit they had some value in terms of cultural intelligence.

Then, on the eighth day of her imprisonment (Mok had been counting by etching tally marks into the tiling of her shower with her talons), she just had to open her big, fat mouth once again and make things worse for herself.

“That’s not how it happened.” Mok idly commented after one scene of the current documentary played out.

“Hmm?” The monosyllabic noise was the most Rainsong had said all day. “And I suppose you know better?”

“I know much better than your human propagandists.” Mok said, mustering as much pride as a Dranza in her situation could. “When your fleet broke through our lines and made a rush for the homeworld, the majority of troops were recalled to bolster the homeguard. I was stationed in the capitol, Virdalis, during the siege.” She explained all of this in a numb, mechanical recitation. Reciting the downfall and demise of her people. For a moment, she was in shock over how distant she sounded telling this to a human of all things.

Then she steeled herself and motioned back to the screen of the device. “That’s not how it happened.”

Much to her surprise, Kota Rainsong set aside her data-pad, fully turning her attention onto Mok. “Okay, then, eyewitness. Tell me. How did the siege of Virdalis go?”

“...Were you not involved yourself?” Mok ventured, slowly and uneasily. Seeing the size of the fleet and ground forces brought to bear on the Dranza homeworld, she always imagined most human grunts in the system were requisitioned for the siege.

“No. I’ve never seen ground combat during my service. Haven’t seen much combat period. I’ve typically been posted to scouting parties.”

Again, illogical. For all of her flaws of being human scum, Mok recognized Kota Rainsong as a soldier in all ways: tall, strong, disciplined, and possessing a certain ruthlessness behind those overly-emotional mammalian eyes. Not deploying her in the field was madness, and a madness only afforded to the barbaric crusaders and their endless legions of **** soldiers.

“Regardless, the siege was a simultaneous ground and space battle.” Mok brushed off Rainsong’s comments and explained the nature of the battle to her captor. She felt a tiny shred of pride showing off her military and historical acumen, even if it was to a filthy human ****. “It took months solely for your forces to pierce Virdalis’ shields, as our fleet in orbit disrupted your supply lines and routinely bombarded your ground forces.”

“Until the Fifth Invasion fleet arrived, then we began to unleash Vyraxis interceptor drones, converting your people and turning them against one another.” Rainsong replied, arms crossed over her chest, displaying her own sense of pride and smugness. Mok flinched from the wound dealt to her, reminding her how badly things changed in a hurry.

For five months, it seemed the Federation’s invasion of Zandra would stall out and they would be able to fend off the invaders. Then, the events as narrated by her jailed happened, and the Federation forces broke Virdalis’ defensive barrier in a matter of days. Mok still remembered when Admiral Qii-10-1 - freshly converted into a human supplicant - happily announced what had happened in orbit and that the Dranza homefleet now served the “master race”. The feeling of hopelessness that spread amongst the ranks like a contagion. Despite everything said by the Empress and her generals, the gnawing dread of inevitable defeat that grew with each passing day, as the human legion and turncoat Dranza armada hammered at the shields until they shattered and the invaders flooded into the city.

“Even then your victory was far from assured.” Mok said in an attempt of defiance, only for her voice to come out quiet and restrained. “It took almost two weeks for your forces to claim just the outer districts, as we bled you every step of the way.”

“And as we enslaved the survivors of every battle we won.” Rainsong countered with a smug look, scrolling through the timebar of her documentary, bringing up scenes of captured Dranza being led off to secure areas for field NOXET injections. A quickie conversion to turn an enemy combatant into a doting helper. “Though, you Dranza pretty much perfected emergency suicide methods, making it difficult to capture your alive.”

“Don’t act like you know anything.” Mok replied in a snippy tone. “By your own admission, you weren’t there. You never saw combat.”

With a dull, condescending look, Rainsong tapped on her data-pad, turning it into projector mode and casting a holographic information document. The holographic page was filled with dates and astrographic coordinates, myriad examples of them. The human tapped on one of them at random and the link opened into a proper document detailing the events of a human boarding action against an Imperial Vek-seere class warship.

“I fancy myself a historian, too.” Rainsong explained through the pale blue cast by the holo-projector. “This document contains detailed, first-hand information on every engagement against your people since 275 AL, the start of what we call the Fifth Dranza War.” Mok was not familiar with the dating system or terminology and let her confusion show. “That war is over. It ended with the conquest of your people.” Rainsong added with a particularly ghastly grin that made Mok bristle.

She wanted to go into a fiery diatribe about how the war wasn’t over, her people were still out there, still fighting, but… well, she wasn’t. She was here. Supposedly and potentially collaborating with the enemy. Selling out her cell to save her own hide. She didn’t really have any ground to stand on in this case.

So, instead, she crossed her arms and flashed the human a condescending sneer of her own. “You can read as much of your government’s propaganda as you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you never saw action, unlike me.”

“Okay, then. Tell me. What was the siege like? We got the fall of the shields and the Federation reaching your outer districts.”

“In a word: brutal.” Mok narrowed her eyes as she recalled the weeks of ceaseless fighting. “Urban combat. Tight quarters. We made your people pay for every inch of the city in blood and bodies. We had to pay a similar price for every inch we took back.”

Weeks on weeks of combat. Street to street. Building to building. Sometimes room to room. Mok and her clutch and whatever other rabble wanted to associate with such an ill-begotten group, battling against the monstrous **** soldiers humanity had sent after them. Withstanding endless artillery barrages from the ground and orbit. Crumbling and burning buildings everywhere. All she had was her plasmacaster and Hi-FQ machete, pillaging power packs from fallen troops or abandoned gear. Mok let out a shuddering breath. Even if the campaign ended in failure, the memory of battle - bloody, brutal battle that she had been bred for - filled her with such exhilaration. Her heart was pounding in her chest and in her head as she remembered it, the glory and the savagery. All of it, save for the bitter defeat at the end.

“Well, you clearly had some skills if you survived the siege.” Rainsong sounded bored and unimpressed with Mok’s exploits. “What was your body count?”

“I… cannot recall. Too many foes. Too chaotic a fight. Hard to say who was mine and who wasn’t.”

Then, suddenly, the human pressed forward to Mok, almost standing nose-to-snout with her. Heavens, she knew humans were ugly, but they were even grosser up close. She reeled back from the suddenness of Rainsong’s invasiveness and recoiled from her appearance, but Rainsong pressed forward, until Mok was pinned against a wall.

Then, in a dark, serious tone, she asked, “Did you ever kill a human?”

“No.” Mok tensed out, trying not to sound disappointed in the fact, afraid of the human, or ashamed of herself. “The first waves that invaded the city were your slaves, of course. Cowards, the lot of you, letting them die first so you can mop up at your leisure.”

She had seen the footage over the security cameras, endless hordes of Ligreon commandos, Vyraxis assassins, and Zee-Rai berserkers streaming through the gaps in the retaining wall surrounding Virdalis. Following them came humanity’s menagerie of war-beasts, the fauna of a thousand distant worlds warped into biological weapons. They had been her opponents during the siege.

“By the time you humans showed up, we had spent weeks fighting nonstop. We were exhausted and our supplies were running thin. We were no match for the human vanguard in their mechs and their strange bio-tech battlesuits.”

She remembered the first time she saw such a human, wearing a Symix undersuit and techno-organic plate armour above it, leading their own troop of **** soldiers. Mok-1-13 charged them with two Hi-FQ blades in hand. Despite 13 being one of the strongest of the clutch, being their best melee fighter, the human effortlessly dodged all of her strikes with supernatural agility before knocking her out in a single blow.

As Mok relived that horrible memory, Rainsong wore another, smug and ghastly grin, as if she were responsible for the defeat. For such abominable technology.

“The mechs are Seraphim. The bio-tech soldiers are Arma Kaisers, heroes of the Federation. The bleeding edge. The elite of the elite.” Her smugness fell for a moment, as something approaching genuine curiosity entered her features. “How did you end up escaping the capitol after it fell?”

“When central command and the imperial palace fell, we knew it was over. What few squad mates I had stayed out of hotspots and away from patrols, thinking we could engage in a guerilla campaign.” Then, Mok paused, for this memory was truly traumatic, unlike the bloody, stressful battles of the actual siege.

“Then, one night, we saw many Dranza and humans and other slaves gathered around a great fire. The Dranza were dancing around the bonfire, already a ridiculous concept, uttering paeans of worship over their conquerors.” Her words were tinged with acid, her eyes full of venom. Mok was as stiff as a statue as she recalled this humiliation and horror. “Then, they began to throw things onto the bonfire. Tapestries, pottery, portraits, books - our culture, our history! All of it fed to the flames of your Federation, the memories of a six-millennia old civilization consigned to ash and oblivion!”

She was shaking. She was breathing heavily. Her heart was pounding again, but not from the thrill of battle. Rainsong wore a cold and clinical countenance, as if the greatest shame Mok ever witnessed bored her.

“We knew the battle was lost, then and there. We fled the capitol and made it to another city not yet under siege. Evacuations were already being organized and so we fled off-world, as you **** and pillaged our people and our land…”

After Mok choked out the end of the tale, she fell into aggressive silence. Mok clacked her teeth together, feeling bitterness and shame on her tongue. Why did she have to open her mouth? Why did she divulge such things to this wretched human? And the worst part was, despite the resentment radiating from Mok, Kota Rainsong was more occupied with her tablet, scrolling through files, seemingly ignoring Mok and her heartache. Humans. They truly were just cold, soulless monsters.

Rainsong holo-casted another set of files, these ones videos depicting a similar ritual of cultural relics thrown onto a bonfire. She flicked through several of them, depicting Ligreons, Amarleans, and Zee-Rai happily engaging in the same debasing ritual as her people did.

“That is standard operation post-conquest.” Rainsong explained, watching intently as enslaved and geneforged aliens sensually danced before flickering flames. “We call it the Cleansing Ritual, as newly inducted slaveraces throw away their old lives and their worthless culture, embracing their new identities of whatever we wish them to be.” She then flicked to a recording of the Dranza “Cleansing Ritual”. Mok flinched. “Of course, it’s not like your people had much of a culture to purge…”

Mok snapped out of her funk. “You…”

“We have a plentiful amount of information from both your people and other races. The Dranza’s cultural cache was war and ****.” Rainsong ignored Mok’s growls, folding her arms once more and holding herself up high and proud as she inflicted such invectives of Mok and her people. “You claim to be a ‘six-millennia’ civilization, but that would date to pre-gendercide, and we both know the Dranza committed their own cultural purge after the gendercide.”

Mok’s ears flicked and her snout twitched. “Yes, but-”

“So, really, the Dranza Empire is a three-millennia civilization, at best. Furthermore, the imperial offices had heavy control over what art was created. Art was not created for the sake of art or personal expression. It was all propaganda, glorifying your war efforts, your conquests, your savagery, and your own sense of superiority.”

“You’re one to talk about propaganda! Humanity is a fucking scourge on the stars! Vile warmongers and slavers of the worst kind and all other life wishes to see you be snuffed out.”

“Like how the Dranza wanted to forcefully kill all male life in the galaxy? And sterilize and de-sex the female population?” Rainsong stood her ground, puffing out her chest and summoning the aura of a victory. A conqueror. “Whatever you level against humanity, I can turn it around on your people. Your worthless, disgusting people. Worse yet, we did what we did out of self-defence. You engaged in wholesale slaughter to stroke your own egos.”

Mok was about to snap back when Rainsong bullied forth again, roughly shoving Mok back against the wall once more.

“In fact, in hindsight, humanity’s biggest mistake was making the Ligreons our test subject. The Dranza attacked us first, before them, and I bet if they were the first race to be enslaved and we stopped there, the CGA and every other race would thank us for getting rid of - what was that wonderful turn of phrase you used? The scourge of the stars!”

Despite being warned of such aggressive posturing, Mok hunched over into a fighting stance, opening her mouth and snarling, teeth glinting in the LEDs of the prison cell. “Your vile gene-sorcery is an abomination! A fate worse than **** I would not wish on the evillest of villains! Nothing my people or any people did give you the right to treat our minds and bodies as your playthings! From first contact, we should have gassed and sterilized your entire putrid fucking race, you disgusting ape!”

Once more, without warning, Kota Rainsong went cold and moved swiftly. Her hand shot up and seized Mok by the throat, effortlessly lifting her from her feet and pinning her to the wall. Mok kicked and struggled against the ironclad grip of the human, but even if she had been recovering her strength and vitality these past few days, she was still far too weak. Especially as she saw the bulging muscles on the human’s arms. And the cold look of killer intent in her eyes. No longer were they large, overly emotional, and offensive. Now, they were simply dangerous.

“Gas…” she murmured in repetition, once, twice, thrice. “You lizzies like using gas, right?” She was breathing heavily through her nostrils, snorting like a territorial gaugur beast rising from the swamp. “Do you - have you ever heard about the colony of Mazer-9?”

Mok’s hands were on the wrist and forearm of the humans, claws digging into her flesh, drawing blood. They did not do a damn thing to help her predicament, so she answered the question, in a strained breathless voice.

“Human space colony… edge of imperial space… attacked… pre-invasion…”

“It was a research colony.” Rainsong corrected, sternly. “Scientists. All humans. Didn’t even have a single **** with them in order to be seen as respectful and non-threatening. You attacked them. Your people attacked them. Gassed them! Killed every single fucking one of them!” The great size of Kota Rainsong’s dark eyes suddenly made them seem like bottomless abysses, full of infinite rage and contempt. She had been cold, smug, and condescending in turn. Now, murderous.

Those black hellpits flickered. Tears began to well along the edges for a moment, as Kota said, “My parents…”

Mok gasped and gagged, certain this deranged monkey was going to strangle her to ****. But then, she found herself wheezing for breath on the floor. She looked up at her assailant in wonder, confusion, and fear. Rainsong was at her data-pad again.

From the speakers came a stirring piece of music, the likes of which Mok had never heard before. Rising. Glorious. Stirring yet restrained. An anthem of such beauty that even a jaded soldier like her could only gog in wonder.

“That is Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony - The Ode to Joy.” Rainsong explained coolly, as if she wasn’t throttling Mok a moment ago. “It was first composed in 1822 CE, which is the old calendar from when humans still lived on Earth.”

Then, she showed her images of great towers of wood, divided into segments, the segments carved and painted to resemble figures and animals.

“This is a totem pole. My ancestors carved them two-thousand years before Beehtoven composed the Ninth. Even though we fled Earth long ago, we still carry our culture with us. Art, history and truth. Hundreds of cultures, thousands of peoples, millions of pieces of art and heritage.” With Mok prone on the floor and the towering Sergeant before her, it was as if the Dranza was prostrate before an angry, vengeful deity. “We are a six-millennia civilization. I was a student, part of a loving family, with my whole life still ahead of me. You were nothing more than a vat-born, rank-and-file grunt, born and raised to be a disposable soldier and then have your genome thrown back into the vat so your masters could repeat the process all over again. You are nothing. Even before the empire fell, you were nothing and I… was something…”