[Unnamed Sequel to "Iron Will, Crimson Whispers", Chapter 4, final paragraphs.]
"Crush my vocalizer," the Magos rasped, its voice box muffled but unpanicked, "And your planet dies with me. When you return a failure, your Warsmith will demand your head. And I imagine your precious Red Corsair would be terribly disappointed to find his investments wasted."
Theron's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. With a disgusted growl, he released the heretek's neck.
Pixis clattered onto the desk, instantly righting itself with unnerving grace. Theron collapsed back into his chair, the metal groaning under him.
"What is your objective, Magos?" he spat. "Are you attempting to extort me?"
"Negative," Pixis replied, adjusting the creases of its red robes. "I require no additional resources at present."
"I merely require you to understand your position, Lieutenant," the Magos said, its voice sickeningly smug. "It seems you have forgotten who truly holds the power on this planet. I have reminded you now. Consider it a minor recalibration of your ego for your recent slights against me."
"I should have left you to the rot during the clear night."
Pixis seemed to sag for a fraction of a second before its maddening air of arrogance snapped back into place. "But you didn't," it said, "And so, here we remain."
It scuttled off the desk, its metal legs clicking toward the blast door. It paused at the threshold, optics gleaming in the dim light.
"Until tomorrow, Lieutenant. Remember, we are always watching. We execute so many invisible sub-routines for you. The least you can do is be polite."
The door hissed shut, leaving Theron alone with the mocking rhythm of the toxic rain.
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