Clockwork Raven Ep. 1: The Hollow-Eyed Girl Part 2

 One never got tired of that rush. The thrum of the engines as the fighter rocketed down the claustrophobic launch tube, crimson warning lights flashing past and illuminating the ribbed tunnel walls. Soon it gave way to open space, vertigo inducing after the close confines of the fighter bay. This was freedom, this was glory, this was flight. As he banked his E-626 "Hellwing" in a tight circle, feeling the artificial g-pressure force his paper-thin lips back from gleaming incisors Einnïn Loinnir whooped. He loved flying. It was what he had been born to do, to soar through the great emptiness, his sleek fighter cutting the enemy to ribbons with it's twin "Hailstorm" cannons. 
Hellwing were a Cemoragh space supremacy fighter developed in the years following the First Contact Wars. The fighter was of an odd design with a cockpit shaped like an inverted triangle acting as the center-point of the craft. Two long wings extended from the sides of the cockpit, both appendages hung with racks of missiles. A third wing extended vertically from the bottom of the cockpit. At the points of the triangular cockpit were rotary cannons fed by belts of 20mm carbon tipped rounds. Resting on the flat top of the cockpit was a bulbous engine that complemented the three already placed at the wingtips and on the back of the fuselage.
    Feathering the throttle he banked the stick to the right and launched into a barrel-roll around the exhaust-trail of the Raven that left his wing-man behind him, floundering by comparison. It was said that Einnïn could pilot a fighter since before he could walk. As the second pilot, Eluvian raider Abhay Agni, pulled her own Hellwing up bedside him he could hear her grumbling at him over the comm. Behind his transparent face shield the Cemoragh raider smirked. He was flight leader on the Raven, in command of the four raiders that guarded their parent vessel and occasionally hunted down target ships and crippling their engines. Glancing down at the chrono on his instrument panel he understood the reason for his subordinates complaints. The purple display read 6:05 hours, early for most of the crew save the Captain, Cian, Seskra, and Einnïn himself. However as flight leader he reserved the right to scramble fighters for drill whenever he so chose. 
    He waggled his wings once in warning to Abhay before plunging into a nosedive that slammed him back into his seat, gaunt cheeks rippling. A gray and purple blur interrupted the monotonous black and Einnïn surmised he had passed the stranded Imperial cargo ship were Ian, Cian, and that idiot Derek had found the little black-eyed beauty that lay in the medical suite. Flipping his white hair from his eyes with a gentle shake of his head he wrenched the joystick up and left, flipping the Hellwing into another roll quickly followed by a loop and s-wave. Returning to level he killed the throttle and drifted. Gazing out into the empty he suddenly felt very small, fragile, alone. He knew the thought was absurd, there were quadrillions of beings in the galaxy but here on the Veil it was very easy to forget that. Here the stars light faded in blurred in disorienting ways, the disturbing milky glow of the Veil nebula adding to the surreal venue.
    Glancing at the phosphorescent cloud that separated Dark Space from the rest of the galaxy he felt suddenly uneasy. Something was coming, he thought. He had no justification for this notion but he knew it as well as he knew the Raven. There was something out there. His mind slipped back decades to when he was a mere child on Xandria when his mother would tell him stories of what lay behind the Veil. The exact nature of them escaped him now, almost half a century later, but the message was there: the Veil and whatever lay behind it in the Dark Space were nightmares beyond even a Cemoragh's imagination. Einnïn grimaced, forcing his thoughts to the back of his mind he blink-clicked the comm channel icon on his visor and hailed the other fighters, "Alright, I know it's early  people but let's hit formation. Two on two dogfights for three rounds then we get into grand melee for a round. Then we can get back to maneuvering drills."
    Double clicks from all channels signaled compliance and Amy took the lead with Derek on her wing, they began soaring straight at Einnïn and Abhay, cannons spitting harmless frangible rounds. The bullets were striated, designed to shatter on impact with something harder than themselves so as not to cause damage to the expensive fighters or put lives at risk. As the large caliber rounds whickered past Einnîn flipped his fighter relative down, pointed toward the disabled cargo ship. He rocketed away from the shots, flicking switches to bring his own cannons on-line. Narrowing his eyes he allowed his agile mind to formulate strategies based on his current position. He could tell, without looking at his readouts, that Amy and her wing, had followed his dive. A slow smirk settled over his pale face, time to play.
    Wrenching the control-yoke back up Einnïn sent the fighter into a loop, drawing his opponent into a maneuver she wasn't familiar with. Half-way through the loop the Cemoragh raider twisted into a half roll bringing the fighter onto it's side and dove again. Throughout the trick Abhay had stayed firmly to his back-right, following him with laser-guided precision. Her own skills and heightened reflexes allowing her to match his movements exactly. He had lost his tail, Amy floundering at the apex of the loop wondering where her target had gone.
    Einnïn glanced up though his canopy, waiting until he was directly below them. Baring his teeth in a savage grin he sent his fighter into his a steep climb, focusing his gaze and his targeting system onto the belly of his target. His fingers rippled on the control sticks, tightening on the triggers. He waited until his proximity warning sounded before clenching the sticks, guns mounted alongside his cockpit spitting rounds into the fuel tank of the fighter above him. A curse echoed over channels as Derek deactivated his engines, had those rounds been real his Hellwing would have exploded. He was out of the fight. Einnïn's triumphant laugh choked off as his keen eyes took in the fact that only one fighter hovered above him, that one was occupied by the defeated Derek...so where was Amy?
    A sharp cry over his headset alerted him to his wing mates plight a half-second before a burst of frange rounds spattered across Abhay's cockpit. She was down. It had come down to a one on one dogfight and Einnïn was damned if he was going to lose to a human. Ignoring the shots hissing past him he banked left on an incline to gain some distance. As he did Amy's Hellwing rocketed past in a taunting flyby. Einnïn gritted his needle like teeth and remained on the flight path he had started on. A quick snap-roll to the right put him in the kill position, eyes locked on the jet wash from Amy's engines. For a normal pilot the distance would have been too great to insure an accurate shot, but then Einnïn wasn't a normal pilot. A burst of fire grazed Amy's port engine but it was barely enough to scratch the paint. Einnïn fired again, this time the rounds smashed into his target's starboard stabilizer and forced her into an uncontrolled barrel roll. He grinned, red eyes blazing with triumph. This was it, he had her dead to rights. 
    His fingers clenched on the triggers but the only thing that happened was a wrenching noise underneath the base of the cockpit, where the rotary cannons were mounted. He swore viciously and tapped a control on his right, as the cannons cleared their chambers Einnïn kicked the throttle open to full and rocketed forward to close with Amy's seemingly out of control Hellwing. Snarling, caught in the moment the Raider captain failed to notice that his opponent's uncontrolled tumble had stabilized, cannons dead-locked on his fighter. The clatter of a new ammunition belt feeding into his cannons snapped Einnïn back to sanity and he clenched the triggers on his sticks, spitting fire across the void only to have it streak back at him. Another curse ripped from his pale throat as the approaching rounds screeched along his fuselage as his his own shots sprayed wide. Keeping his triggers clenched he played the stream of blazing steel-jacketed lead straight into Amy's path even as her own shots crippled his fighter. 
    Staring at the now darkened canopy of his cockpit Einnìn laughed ruefully. He had obviously underestimated , that little human girl, the youngest member of the crew and she had shot him down. Of course he was reasonably confident his shots had ripped her apart as well but in all the times he had dueled her he had never seen her fly like that. Either she had been holding back or she'd learned at an impossible rate. He sighed, not only had he underestimated her but he had also allowed her to control the pace of the battle and draw him not a trap. The only reason he had brought her down as well was due to his decades of combat experience. Sitting there in the dark, defeated for the first time since he had dueled McShane, the first time since he had joined the crew, he had to admit he was impressed. Instead of toying with Amy as he had intended, she had toyed with him. 
    The Cemoragh pilot keyed his comm unit and hailed Seskra in the Raven's Nest, as the cockpit of the Raven was referred to. The pilot had observed the fight as in insurance policy in case of an accident and now held the power to unlock their downed fighters from stasis. He breathed deeply, a little embarrassed, " Hey Seskra, this duel's over, unlock us would ya...all of us?" A slight chuckle tinted her voice as she replied, "Alright Einnïn. Unlocking you ALL..." The Cemoragh pilot gritted his teeth and hissed. This would not go unanswered, Amy Tyler would find out very soon just how easy it was to anger a Cemoragh, and how hard it was to escape one... He stopped then, he stopped cold. What the hell was he thinking? This was Amy, his friend, his wing mate. Funny little Amy who cooked those delicious meals in the tiny galley. Everyone on board loved Amy, so why all of a sudden did he hate her so much...

    And such was the routine aboard the Clockwork Raven. Everyone going about their appointed tasks with the mechanical precision of cogs in a machine, reconvening in the mess hall to try Amy's latest experiment and join in some good-natured recreation. Sparring, sharpshooting, gambling, more fighting, drinking and other activities comprised the evening. These activities encompassed the entire crew, they all joined in save for two. Seskra and Tetsuki Namioshi stayed in their respective places aboard. Seskra because she was unable to move from her chair and Tetsuki because he preferred the quiet of the medical suite. The drinking and fighting and gambling went on late into the night but Tetsuki, as he considered it proper, went to bed at 0:00 hours. However tonight he wouldn't be asleep long...

3:31 Standard Hours Day 2
    The lights were out when Tetsuki awoke, not knowing why. Usually he was a sound sleeper, as with most Delveriin, but barely three standard hours after he had laid down to rest for the night he awoke to an immense feeling of expectation. Pushing himself into a sitting position he glanced around his quarters, a small refurbished closet adjacent to the medical suite, his infrared eyes picking out small heat sources from regulators on the walls  the small diodes burning with latent heat. He tracked his eyes over the perimeter of his darkened room, infrared gaze finding nothing out of place where heat was concerned. His day vision eyes seemed to pick up a shadow darker than the room but it was gone before he could double-take. 
 Then his gaze crossed the medical bay itself and settled on the still form of his patient. His eyes remained locked on her for a moment before deciding to move on. As he did she shifted. His breath hitched in his lungs as the blanketed silhouette began to rise on the table. He swung himself out of bed, prepared for a panicking patient. Tightening the robe around his body he smacked the release stud on his door.  Rushing into the medical bay he flicked the light to life just in time to see the pale girl tilt her head back, mouth opening and ripping forth from her lips a horrendous scream. Sprinting over to her he attempted to push her back down to the bed but even as her eyes remained fixed on the far wall her arm smashed into the Delveriin medic with impossible speed. As Tetsuki slammed into the metal bulkhead, pain lancing through his delicate frame, he heard a familiar sound. His patient's mouth was not moving but issuing forth were two words, "They are..... They are....... They are......." Then his vision grayed out and he collapsed. 
    When he awoke he was a lying on his side, left arms stretched out before him in a small pool of muddy-green blood. He shifted experimentally and winced as a burst of agony from his side sent flashes of stars before his eyes. Clenching his mandibles he placed weight on his left flesh arm and the limb held him aloft. Adding his mechanical arm he managed to push himself into a vague approximation of a sitting position to asses the damage done to him. Using his right upper arm Tetski probed his rib projections and stomach plates. The exoskeleton had simply sheared away, a small patch of bony plates a been ruptured and was allowing a slow trickle of blood. Still probing, his fingers brushed a crack in one of his plates lower on his abdomen. His head spun as he clenched his fists against the waves of searing pain. 
    "Damn," he hissed. This was bad, a Delveriin was protected only by his exoskeleton, internal organs simply suspended in an interstitial liquid that kept them at an equal pressure. Now that liquid was slowly seeping from his side as the buckled plates no longer held their integrity, fell away and shattered on the white tile floor. Rocking forward, Tetsuki used his momentum to gain his feet, lunging for the edge of the table to keep them. His vision swam in and out of focus, he hissed through his four mandibles. A slight groan from the table beneath him caused him to start. In his distress he had forgotten his patient. Allowing his vision to focus again he cast his eyes over her, judging her to be stable, eyes closed, face peaceful, framed by black hair. No trace of the terrifying palsy that had gripped her earlier. Satisfied for now he sought out a plaster kit. A small stack of them rested on the counter beside him but he couldn't bring himself to reach for one lest he lose his balance. He inched his wary way around the bed, cold surgical steel under his flesh hands centering him inside the raging inferno of torment that threatened to claim him. 
     Upon reaching the counter he yanked the cover from one of the medkits and extracted a small syringe. Gritting his secondary mandibles he jammed the needle into the exposed flesh on his side. Barely stifling a scream he bent forward, clutching the edge of the table like a drowning man clutches his life ring. Vision swam from gray to black then back to color as the strong painkillers took affect and left the area numb. For that he was grateful, what he was about to do would in all likelihood cause him to black out again, anesthetic or no. Returning his gaze to the small plastic container he extracted two objects: a roll of antiseptic gauze and a cylinder of pliable white material. Allowing himself to slump back to the tile floor he worked the plaster tube in his hands to warm it. Closing his eyes he braced  for what would happen next. Stretching the putty into a long strip he affixed it over his damaged left side with quick precision. 
    A soon as the plaster was in place pain like red-hot razor wire lanced up his flank. He spasmed plates creaking as his back arch beyond tolerance. Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth as his limbs thrashed against invisible restraints. His four eyes rolled back, how long he sat there, fire crawling through his flesh, he did not know but as the plaster finished fusing to his carapace he gradually opened his eyes, allowing him to wrap the gauze around his chest and waist, protecting his delicate insides from infection. His wounds bandaged he simply sat there, slumping against the tables legs. As he lay there, consciousness fading in and out his mind wandered. This episode bore all the hallmarks of the one the day before. The sudden movement, the scream, the haunting words repeated over and over as the patients eyes remained fixed at the chrono on the back wall. The episode had even occurred at the same time as the one yesterday.  
    There was something to these Tetsuki thought. The same episode, the same time, the same signs of what could be called possession. Again his mind wandered, her attacks happened at the same time but this one seemed to have escalated. Instead of one word repeated there had been too: they are... Tetsuki wracked his brain in an effort to recall details of the previous episode but he could remember little. Here he paused, just yesterday he had witnessed the single strangest occurrence in his medical career and he could barely remember any details at all. Staggering to his feet he considered the girl lying on his operating table. Found as the only survivor of a brutal massacre, almost feral, eyes colored black, trained medical staff if her uniform had been anything to go by, suffered from episodes of violent delirium somehow stemming from 3:33 standard hours. Wait, there had been one more thing. Something Ian had confided in him before the meeting yesterday. The girl had been found with an odd necklace, a silver chain bearing a ring. This ring depicted a snake swallowing it's own tail. The self-devouring serpent had been used by countless cultures as a symbol of continuity but usually inside some context, however, for the humans the Serpent was a symbol of evil and forbidden knowledge.
    Tetsuki turned from the table to make his way to the intercom, hoping to page the Captain before he fell asleep. Then the final connection was made in his head. Whirling from the comm speaker he hobbled as fast as his injured body would carry him, to his computer terminal. Gingerly slipping into the seat he allowed his fingers to dance over the keys, calling up a search bank. He input all of his musings in the search bar and pressed "confirm". As the data scrolled down his vision he gasped, what he saw was simply not comprehensible. As he stared at the text he felt his insides turn to ice. He sat back in his chair mandibles agape at the sheer horror laid out before him. running a hand over his smooth face the doctor leaned back over the controls. He needed more data to corroborate what he had found. 
    
    1:30 standard hours Day 3
    The interior of deck four was darker and cramped, slick metal walls dripping with condensation and coolant. The dark bare floor was slashed here and there by plasma scores and old coolant spills. Pipes ran haphazardly at head height, forcing anyone traversing the cave like interior of engineering to duck or risk injury. These pipes also ran from floor to ceiling creating a maze of metal bars, narrow gaps providing the only path forward. Adding to the claustrophobic atmosphere the air hung damp and thick, the oppressive chill threatening to suffocate anyone caught in it's noxious grasp. The smells of ozone and radioactive coolant caused the head to spin and the dark seemed to press in even closer. 
    Here in the dark, cold, and wet, was where Cian Rèal spent most of her time. Solitary by nature the oppressive, fearful engineering deck provided a barrier between her and the outside world and that suited her just fine. Born on Xandria, the central planet of the Cemoragh, she had served alongside McShane in the Unification war against the Empire. She had been there, at Umbra, when the planet had fallen. She had been with Ian McShane as he had flown the drop-ship into the heart of the the 6th Imperial Fleet. She had witnessed the fleet destroyed. Ian had vanished and Cian had been left in an Imperial prison. After her "release" she had been found by the Raven and had served aboard as engineer ever since. 
    Currently she was overseeing the three-day long process of siphoning fuel from the cargo ship, sitting at a makeshift control console simply watching the readouts. A dull job, or it would have been if there hadn't been this nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she was forgetting something. Some little tickle of apprehension caused her to sit upright, legs rigid, arms clutching at the arms of her chair. There was no reason for it. To her, a rational mind, it was maddening. Cian had a gift for reason, she could justify almost anything, making even the most brutal murder into a logical and foregone conclusion. Now however, she could find no reason for the fear. She sat at home in the dark, dampness small diodes blinking like multi-colored constellations, to her this was the safest place in the world. And yet that nagging at the back her head told her that there was something bad just over the horizon. 
    Renowned in the war for her uncanny sixth-sense she had predicted everything from minefields to whom a sniper had his rifle trained on. For it to be back while she was on board the Raven meant the something, somewhere was very wrong. Gritting her sharp teeth against the anxiousness and returned her gaze to the instruments. The siphon was going smoothly, fuel draining down the umbilical and into the Raven's reserve tanks at a steady rate. Turning from the console the lithe Cemoragh rose smoothly to her feet and brushed aside a lock of silvery-white hair from her face. Stretching her legs she decided to try a short walk around the deck to clear her head. Shrugging on the blue, sleeveless jacket that hung beside her on a vacant crate, over her white shirt she began to pace. Soon the only sound on the deck was the swish of her black BDU pants.
    As she wove her way between the stalactites of pipes and ducked the vents on the ceiling her eyes flickered unconsciously over every shadow as if seeking some conformation of her paranoia. Even with infrared vision activated she could barely pierce the darkness that enveloped the deck. Her shoulders tensed, breathing growing faster, eyes roving with lightning speed seeking what she did not know. As she passed a doorway leading to the FTL drive chamber she froze. Either her eyes were playing tricks on her or she had just seen a shadow cross the door. It had been a black human-form registering no heat, just a dead back shape. Her hand drifted down to her holster deft fingers unsnapping the clasp over the grip, freeing the weapon for drawing. She advanced on the doorway a few paces but when the shape did not reappear she halted. 
    An exasperated sigh escaped her as she refastened the clasp on her gun. Here she was, a hardened veteran of a fifty-year long war, jumping at shadows on her own engineering deck. Gritting her teeth again she turned back and returned to her seat at the console. As she sat there, dozing in the chill of the engines, her eyes closed halfway as mind began to wander. She fancied she could see the black spires of Xandria, massive ebony spikes that menaced the sky with razor sharp points. She had lived there once upon a time, about 120 years ago in one of the top residences. She could overlook the entire planet from her bedroom window. Now the view changed and she saw the harsh lines and blocky silhouettes of the massive Imperial Cruisers that had ravaged Umbra. They were enormous things, great blocks of steel and titanium designed to bring pride and fear in equal measures. 
    Then, just as the tableau changed, it happened again. A quick flash of movement in the corner of her eye started her awake, right hand drawing her sidearm with lightning speed. She remained frozen, gun trained on the shadows to her left. Breathing light and fast she approached slowly and carefully, infrared vision activated but showing nothing. Tense and chilled Cian remained alert for the slightest movement. A crunch behind her caused her to whirl, dropping to one knee, finger clenching on the trigger. A startled shout and an impact followed and she found herself without a weapon. Standing over her, violet eyes still wide with alarm, was Ian, his dark gray pants and black jacket blending into the dark. She slumped, an overwhelming sense of relief coursing through her thin frame.
Cian, what..." The Captain trailed off in confusion. She shook her head, rising to her feet eyes still flickering around at every shadow. She breathed deeply and held her hand out for the pistol. McShane frowned and tucked the gun into his belt. 
    "You'll get that back when you tell me why in the Ninety-Nine Hells you just drew on me," he replied with a mixture of sternness and concern. Cian forced her self to relax, it looked understandably bad for a crewman to be stalking about on her own deck with her sidearm drawn. It looked even worse for her to have accidentally drawn on her own captain. She shook her head, red eyes glinting with suppressed anger and confusion. Wrenching her back straight, the former pilot kept her gaze dead ahead, not blinking. 
    "Sir! You have my most profuse apologies. I...," here her logical soldier's demeanor failed her and she stumbled over the right words. McShane interjected softly, "You've been getting the vibes too." it wasn't a question, Ian and Cian had known each other for so long that each could read the other's moods at a slightest glance. She nodded allowing her irritation to show a bit, "Yeah. Like back in the war when we were being watched. I keep seeing something darting out of the corner of my eye, like a black shadow. I've seen it twice today and a few times in the past two days. Always down here or on gunnery. It's driving me mad. I can't place it but I really feel like something's down here with me... I'll be glad to be away from here. I'm not sure why, the Rim's never bothered me like this before..." She lapsed back into silence and McShane nodded. Removing the pistol from his belt he spun it expertly around on his palm until the grip was facing Cian. The engineer smiled, a touch of gentle rebuke creeping into her voice, "Show off..." Ian laughed along with her before tossing her a lazy salute and slumping down in the chair beside the console. 
    "So aside from your creeping insanity, how goes it down here Cian," he asked, the boredom of three days creeping into his voice. She smiled inwardly at her Captain's constant need for movement, even when sitting in a chair McShane fidgeted with the clasp of Virtue or ran his hand along the grip of Sin. Never still, ever the wanderer. She pulled up a deck crate beside him, to use as a seat. A grimace crossed her face as she replied, "Rather quietly in fact. The fuel siphon is going smoothly and all that happens is the occasional shadow." There was no response from Ian for a moment and Cian turned to him to continue her thought but realized that her capricious Captain had fallen asleep, fingers still moving restlessly over his holsters. Ever a wanderer she reaffirmed. That, she decided, was why she loved him. 

3:25 Standard Hours Day 3
Tetsuki was exhausted. He had spent nearly a full standard day at his terminal compiling as much data as he could possibly find. Now it was finished, his report on the strange girl, the serpent, the episodes at 3:33 in the morning, and the odd shadows he kept seeing. All of his data was pieced together from scraps he had found on the net. Fragmented as it may have been Tetsuki was confident that McShane would see his point when he would ask Ian to space the strange being that lay unconscious on his operating table. As a man of medicine, he had taken the "Do No Harm" oath but in this case he felt that the impending death that was descending upon the ship superseded that oath.
Closing his eyes for a moment Tetsuki breathed deep, wincing as the action stretched his wound. Allowing his lungs to empty in a hiss of air. He was about to present evidence in a plea to commit murder, emotions warred within him as he sat there. Unlike most of the Raven's crew Tetsuki was not a fighting man. He had never seen combat outside a few bar room brawls and had never killed a living being in his life, yet here he sat, believing the only way he and the other could was to murder a helpless girl.
He glanced at the chrono readout on his console and froze; the display read 3:32 hours. He sat there, paralyzed with fear. So far the black-eyed girl's fits had occurred around a pattern of threes, lasting for nine minutes, and happening at 3:33 hours. Today marked the third day she had been aboard, and giving the tendency of the fits to increase in severity Tetsuki had no reason to doubt that this morning's episode wouldn't be the most violent yet. The chrono blipped to 3:33 and sure enough there was the rustling of sheets announced the rising of his patient. Tetsuki turned as the lights went out. He sat there still, unable to move as a piercing shriek filled the deck.
That horrible floated from the other room, "They are coming, they are the Serpent's Venom, they are here..." And Tetsuki remembered no more.  


3:25 Standard Hours Day 3
    The room adjacent to the mess hall reeked constantly of sweat and spent primer. The training room was one third firing range, one third sparring floor, and one third weapons storage. The padded rings for hand to hand matches were tattered and dusted in a layer of foam that had been pummeled free from the mats over the years. Dried blood speckled the floor from one old injury or another, the stains barely showing up on the red tiles. The ropes for the ring had long since frayed and broken, leaving just a large open area for fights. Old foam fighting pads were stacked neatly in one corner, a patina of dust covering them. They rarely used the sparring gear anymore. Not since Einnïn had bought a set of reality films. A thin shield protected the body from any actual harm but allowed the pain of the prevented injury to be felt quite clearly, the debilitating effects as well. 
    In the center of the ring stood three figures. To one side stood Derek and Alacra, an Eluvian gunner, both males rolled their shoulders and stretched joints as they prepared for the fight ahead. The third figure, Nemski stood perfectly still, amber eyes closed, chest moving ever so slightly as he stilled his breathing in meditation. As the warning bell sounded for the combatants to stand ready Derek and Alacra dropped into combat stances of various martial arts but Nem'ski remained still, his only movement was to open his eyes and shift his weight to his back foot. 
    Standing to Nem'ski's left was Derek, he lunged forward with a swift punch aimed at Nem'ski's head. The feline alien swayed aside and snapped a front-kick with his forward leg, into Alacra's gut. As he completed the movement he snapped a casual backhand into Derek's jaw, stunning him. Alacra had doubled over with the blow and staggered back a few paces but recovered quickly and rushed in, still hunched, arms held wide for a grapple. Nem'ski swung aside and slipped a foot under his opponent's over balanced body, toppling him to the ground. Using the momentum of his twist Nem'ski completed the spin in time to deflect another punch from Derek. Reversing the spin he delivered a stunning blow to Derek's cheek. As he staggered Derek flipped his leg up and over into a crescent kick. Nem'ski flicked out a hand and caught Derek's heel pushing him backwards onto the mat.  
    By this time Alacra had regained his feet and came in with a thunderous roundhouse kick aimed at Nem'ski's head. The kick stopped mere inches from it's intended target as Nem'ski's crossed arms stopped it cold. 
    Alacra recoiled and sent out a flurry of kicks and punches. Nem'ski deflected or dodged them all until he managed to slip aside from a from a straight punch and land his fist in Alacra's throat, sending him staggering back. Nem'ski turned swiftly and snapped out a low kick at the rising Derek, putting him back on the floor. Spinning back he redirected another one of Alacra's kicks and sent him back again. This time however there was no exchange of blows, the hefty gunner simply sprinted at Nem'ski, shoulders parallel to the ground. As his opponent hit Nem'ski locked his arms around Alacra's chest, lifted him bodily into the air and continued until they both hit the floor. 
    Alacra was utterly stunned, his breath knocked out of him, ribs that would be shattered if it weren't for the reality film seared him with fiery pain. Unable to do anything else he blacked out. Derek rolled to his feet, using that momentum he lashed out with both fists but Nem'ski caught them and simply continued the impetus the extra bit until Derek smashed headfirst into the mat. The bell rang a second time to signal the end of combat and the reality films pulsed a sharp spat of electricity into Alacra and Derek's system to awaken them. A both men rose, shaking off the bruises of the match.
   The grumbling Derek cracked his knuckles, a scowl flashing across his broad face.  Alacra shook his copper-furred head in disappointment. Glancing at Nem'ski he rolled his eyes. His sparring partner grinned, just a quick flash of teeth and nodded, mirroring Alacra's eye roll. Derek was notorious for being a sore loser and often left the room after a few lost bouts.    
"One more?" queried Alacra. Nem'ski bounced from foot to foot, shaking out his shoulders. A brief nod and a flick of his head indicated the positive.  They glanced at the clock to predict when the match would start and saw it to be 3:33 hours. That's when the lights went out. 

 3:28 Standard Hours Day 3
    Einnïn Loinnir frowned as he toweled water from his long, silky, white hair. The moisture glistened wetly on his ivory skin and trickled down his bare, muscled chest as he rolled his neck to ease the kinks from his latest stint in a Hellwing cockpit. That was his only complaint about flying, it left you sore for days. Something moved in the corner of his vision and the fierce pilot whipped around, producing a sidearm from the hidden holster under the counter. His shimmering crimson eyes scanned every inch of his quarters for movement but he could detect nothing. A faint tingle brushed against the back of his mind, a strange notion of three pulses repeated three times crossed his mind. That stopped him cold. Einnïn prized his clear head and razor-sharp intellect very highly, he had even withstood the touch of the Psychic. For something like that stray notion to come along was alarming to say the least. 
    Cringing, he relaxed his posture but kept the pistol gripped loosely in his right hand, long trigger-finger laid along the guard. He opened the shower room door, allowing the heat to rush out into the chilled room and steam to billow out around him. He sighed, the Veil was making him twitchy and edgy. He hated the Veil, that glittering, milky white cloud that separated normality from the insane impossibilities of Dark Space. He had never known why but as soon as that glow came into sight through his cockpit a twinge would shoot through his body and settle in place just above his heart. 
    As he dressed he kept an eye out around his quarters for another glimpse of movement but he didn't see one. As he shrugged his long-sleeved Combat Dress Jacket, he saw it again, another shot of darkness that seemed to skate from one side of a door to another. And again that brush of static at the back of his mind, three pulses in three sets. Fear shot through him in a burst of ice but he pushed it down. Whatever it was, there was nothing he could do until it showed itself. He couldn't fight what he couldn't see... That was the thought that crossed his mind when the lights went out. By that time it was 3:33 standard hours.  

 Ian McShane was dreaming. He dreamt he was back on Umbra, wandering into the darkness of a cool, verdant forest. Umbra was covered in such forests, a lush world with two large continents bisected by a sparking azure ocean. Small settlements dotted the woods, interspersed here and there by stone cities. A feudal system lay in place over the planet. One city would supply farmers in the rural area around it with tools and they, in turn, the farmers supplied food to the cities. 
    The planet was populated mostly by Cemoragh refugees that had fled from the First Contact War when humanity had overtaken Cemoragh agricultural worlds. The fleeing civilians had found the world after many months of discreet hopping from one system to another. A stealthy exodus from the heart of the newly formed empire became a journey to find a new home. As soon as the first settlers disembarked from their transports they knew they had found a paradise unequaled. The forests provided shade from the sun and it was into one of these shelters that McShane now walked. 
    The flitting  of dart-beaks and the gurgling of streams were the only sounds aside from the rustling of deciduous branches in the chill wind. Here he was happy, alone but never truly alone. His companions kept their distances, and in turn her kept his. A quick scamper to his left alerted him to the presence of a grelph. The large, cat-sized, rodents were fewer in number now thanks to the off-world poachers who frequented Umbra. A thick coat as soft as down and ivory teeth that gleam like pearls made the grelph a prime target for the hunters. 
    Pretending to ignore the grelph McShane continued walking. The breeze drifted lower, it's 15 degree C temperature slashing through the rough-spun tunic and breeches he wore. A larger rustle caused his hand to drop reflexively to where his gun-butt should be. The groping hand encountered nothing. Instead of his black linked-steel gun belt he wore a simple leather strap, tied in the front. A short, rectangular blade hung from it, horizontally across his lower back. Ian's breath hitched as his hand closed over the leather-clad steel hilt. Drawing the blade he sighed, a content grin spreading across his face at the sight of a familiar blade glimmered in the dappled sunlight. 
   The weapon was about 60cm long, rectangular and of an odd design. The blade was split down the center by a 5cm wide gap that divided the blade into two razor-edged prongs. The blade was edged on all sides and when swung made an eerie ringing sound like a scream. This was a singing sword, a short blade created during the First Contact War as a simple melee weapon based on the medieval weapon of the Cemoragh's lost home-world. 
    Ian turned the blade in his spidery hands, examining every facet with his luminous eyes.  Memories flickered in and out of his mind, leaving behind sparks of joy and pangs of sorrow in their wake. There had been a time when every Cemoragh soldier had carried one of these blades from induction to death. Each weapon was personalized by the owner and indeed it was said the blade reflected the true nature of the soldier. Ian couldn't recall how his had looked, shattered these fifty years in the Battle of Umbra. Human Imperial forces had descended upon his home world and many others in an attempt to bring the thirteen planets back into the fold. There had been a war, and SUCH war...
        He shook unpleasant thoughts from his head and slipped the singing sword back into its sheath. Sighing, McShane cast his eyes to the path he followed. A winding, narrow thing, carved into the forest floor by countless years of stalking feet. This was a huntsman's trail., a faint dirt track etched down into the loam. Sparses of violet weeds and verdant grass poked through but mostly a narrow stripe of dirt marked the path. He allowed his eyes to wander further down the path, following the strip of dirt, so dark and rich as to be almost black, until another facet of the forest caught his attention. 
    A large fruit tree had fallen ahead, it's sturdy girth blocking the path. To a Cemoragh, or even a half-blood like McShane, the tree posed no problem. He could already spot several handholds among the now vertical branches and the rough bark provided footholds aplenty. His keen sight played over the tree in a leisurely fashion, simply sizing up the obstruction. This was a blood-fruit tree, around 2.5 meters across, it's branches seemingly devoid of the crunchy russet fruit that had earned the tree it's name. A flowering tree during the spring months it's petals hung the rusty color of dried blood, but when autumn came those petals dropped and fruit the color of fresh blood slowly ripened, weighing each branch down. As he neared the tree Ian could see that sap had oozed from the shattered bark and encased a Vampire Beetle unlucky enough to have flitted into the sticky substance. The insect, the color of sun-bleached bone with black speckles upon it's wing sheathes, would forever remain frozen. This creature of blood and stealth trapped in a gilded cage for all to see, eternally frozen in time. Ian's mouth twitched at the cruel irony. 
    Turning to a low branch on the now horizontal tree he started. Eleven crimson globes hung heavy on the branches. Two of them were shriveled and rotten, odd dual punctures marked their blackened skin. Beside them grew a flower, not the ruddy hue of the normal flower, this one was a glossy black with a bloody ring in the center of the petals. He brushed his fingers along the flower and out wafted a faint scent of fruit and blood. He frowned and turned his attention to the blood fruit. He had extended his arm to pluck one free when a dry rustle caught his attention. With a blinding quickness he drew his arm back as a rust colored blur flashed from the dying foliage. The crimson head of a Spite-adder buried its four fangs into the side of the fruit McShane had been reaching for. Instantly the rich bloody color of the fruit faded to a withered black and the taut skin of the fruit slackened and began to ooze a clear, sickly smelling liquid. 
Ian remained still, spite-adders were some of the most dangerous predators to inhabit the forests of Umbra. An apex predator, the serpent was about 1.3 meters long. Scales colored a dark lustrous crimson and banded with black chevrons hid the beast among the fruit and foliage, allowing it to lie in wait for an unsuspecting creature coming to feed off of the now low-hanging fruit. The adders name was derived from the sheer toxicity of it's organs. A build up of any venom the snake created was stored in both the blood-stream and organs, this hemo-toxic substance could kill a grelph in mere seconds. In short anything that killed and ate the Spite-adder would die along with it.
Staring down at the reptilian menace Ian realized that it was staring back with it's amber-pupiled viridian eyes. A three-forked tongue flitted from its mouth, whipping back and forth as it tasted the damp air. McShane's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword but those unnerving eyes tracked the movement. In a flash the adder reared back, mouth opening to allow the four fangs to spring forth. The front two teeth were serrated and hooked, used for gripping, while the posterior fangs dripped with a silvery venom.  A shrieking hiss issued forth from it's pale throat and clear films flicked down over its eyes, readying itself for combat.
They sized each other up, the man and the serpent. Ian swayed gracefully one way and so did his adversary, he leaned the other way and the adder followed. It was a classic stand-off, both parties aware that if they were to make the first move there was every chance they would wind up dead beside their enemy. They remained in that swaying dance as each tried to intimidate the other, violet gaze locked on green one. Lipless mouths writhed open and twin hisses seared the forest as both warriors tensed for battle.
They struck as one, Ian's sword flying free from it's sheath in an upward arc, the serpent's head snapping out on a horizontal trajectory. A wet slish disturbed the air and blood splattered the forest floor. Two soft thuds sounded as a body fell. The adder twitched as it's life ebbed away in a stream of cerulean fluid. As he stood there, arm upraised, sword dripping with the adder's steaming blood, Ian gasped. He had narrowly escaped death at the teeth of a vicious killer, only escaping using his own teeth. The thrill that coursed though him was an addicting feeling, a reaffirmation of the prowess he had built his life on. He was careful not to get too attached to the feeling.
An odd mournful pang followed this elation as he cleaned his enemy's lifeblood from the edge of the precious blade. He had slain a beautiful creature, one who had promised death to all, but a beautiful creature nonetheless. He bent to examine his fallen adversary, pale fingers playing delicately  the ivory fangs. Carefully, the adder's venom caused vivid hallucinations while it did it's lethal work,  he broke free a rear fang. Turning his prize over in his fingers he examined the hypodermic organ before tucking it into a belt pouch.
A noise echoed from the other side of the tree. A voice was calling his name, "Captain, Ian! Wake UP dammit!!!" He blinked in surprise and when he opened his eyes all was blackness...