Eridan ==> Get your face blown off
continued from x
[ From: Admiral Nemato Gnathi
To: Legate Eridan Ampora
Subject: URGENT! PLEASE READ AT ONCE.
Attachment: map_24045data.xml
Dear Legate Ampora,
I hope this email finds you well. Per the Grand Trierarchos' command, you and your fleet will be dispatched for a QRF mission at Third Fury, as early as tomorrow night. Once you’ve reviewed the attached strategy map, please begin packing. Our strategists estimate that this contingency may span several months, given rising hostilities at Third Fury.
If you haven’t been apprised of the situation on Third Fury, please read the following paragraph transcribed by AI:
Third Fury, a military base on the planet Nazakeron, is currently under enemy siege by the indigenous Phylum Chilopoda. A savage and uncivilized species, at first, they resorted to rudimentary guerrilla warfare. Naturally, such primitive threats posed no obstacle to advanced Alternian technology. However, two days ago, one of the insurgent soldiers was captured, and it was discovered that he was carrying an Alternian ray gun. We believe there is an illegal channel stationed somewhere on Nazakeron by the Resistance supplying the locals with Alternian armaments.
Legate Ampora, despite your youth, you have accomplished a storied military career with honorable victories on both Seneke and Pitropoli. This is an opportunity for you to demonstrate the fruits of your labor. Should you be successful, the Grand Trierarchos himself will award you the Indomitus Crown.
Best,
Admiral Gnathi ]
A flurry of emotions stirs in his guts. Grand Trierarchos is a larger-than-life name that eclipses the bounds of digital space, or even the Capital itself. He’s weak at the knees. Simply imagining Grand Trierarchos deigning to look at him is surreal. Admiral Gnathi may as well announce he’s having dinner with the Condesce one-on-one next. But even the Empress herself doesn’t hold the same sway over him as the Grand Trierarchos. Nowadays, Her Imperious Condescension wasn’t nearly as active after acquiring an entourage of Subjugglators, Threshecutioners, and Laughsassins to do her bidding. She grew fat and lazy on her very large, tastelessly fuchsia throne while everyone else did the dirty work necessary to maintain her authority. The Grand Trierarchos, however, was a different story. A fellow violet, he was thousands of sweeps old and held the highest military rank in the Empire. If Eridan were a whit more zealous, he would pray to his effigy. As much as he had admired the orphaner as a wiggler, he couldn’t hold a candle to the supremacy of the Grand Trierarchos. No one could. He was just that grand.
He jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth across the room. Tavros’ horn lay angled on his desk, beside his husktop. It was already light outside, based on the streams of yellow light spilling through the cracks in the violet draperies. The disbudding wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. Upon his return, he had given one of the chambermaids a thorough switch-lashing to satiate the hunger that Tavros had exacerbated rather than quelled. Regalia stained in a slurry of bronze from both of tonight’s targets, Eridan decided to postpone a clothing change and shower to respond to Gnathi, who had been graciously clear about the urgency of the contingency mission. He flopped back into his chair, grinning. Legate Ampora, despite your youth, you have accomplished a storied military career. The email played on repeat in his pan like a broken record. He was getting a near-aphrodisiacal high from reading it. Finally, after years of hard work, he was being taken seriously as the master tactician he was. The Grand Trierarchos. The Indomitus Crown. Life was enriching again, as if he were a child reborn, experiencing the world anew. Everything glowed and dazzled under the promise of even greater military prestige.
Dear Admiral Gnathi,
He leaned in close, the tip of his nose inches from the husktop screen. His eyes were feverishly wide. His smile loopy, like he’d eaten a serving of soper pie.
I am beyond honored by this opportunity. As you know, I live and breathe for the Empire. I will bring victory to Her Name at any price necessary, even my life. To die for the Empire is the highest privilege. However, I have little concern about my safety in the hands of these fiends or their Resistance buddies. I will cull them all. I will raze Nazakeron and its barbaric society to the ground, although calling their Hadeian planet a “society” is quite generous on my part, leaving only Third Fury standing amidst a field of corpses.
Eridan paused. Gnathi had mentioned a map. The rest of the email could wait.
He clicked the little download icon next to the attachment and waited impatiently until the download bar filled.
The map opened, a highly rendered, digitized version of Nazakeron’s topography. Eridan zoomed in on one of the coordinates. Then another. Before he knew it, he was hopping, impassioned, between the red blips, his mouse moving haphazardly across the map.
Suddenly, a black text box blinked across the screen.
the 2ort of deed2 a man doe2 are the 2ort that are done two hiim.
Then everything went dark. It happened so quickly, he didn’t even scream.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The steady, slow pulse of violet from his nose.
It takes Eridan a few seconds to come to. He rises to his feet with a grunt, using the nearest surface as a support. Despite his emaciated appearance, he has a highblood’s sturdiness. He’s aware of the following: he can’t see, he can’t hear, and his face fucking hurts. Trembling, bony hands instinctively reach toward his glasses, but what’s left of them has been embedded in his visage. His pulchtritude, which had once earned him the attentions of court tale-tellers, who couldn’t help but ohh and ahh over what a handsome young man he was, and so accomplished too, was now in literal shreds. Flesh hung from bone in jerky-like tatters. The bottom-most half of his jaw was entirely without skin, exposing vivid violet muscle and lipless, white teeth. He fell to his hands and knees, and this time, he screamed, so guttural and loud, it was almost a roar that shook the manor-like hive’s footing. He saw and tasted white, as house staff rushed to his room.
Sollux Captor.
The name flashed in his mind as quickly as the surprise text box had flashed across his screen.
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. A hatred so black it makes it hard to breathe, burning through his chest like a fireball. It’s as if his ribs are being split by a dull meat slicer soaked in vinegar. It stings and it aches. And yet, the pain is secondary to the chemical loathing that dominates every other sensation. There is nothing left inside but bile, emptied of all things that made him a member of an ostensibly civilized race.
Sollux Fucking Captor. I hate you.
