This story follows the events of Those Whom Fortune Favours through the Engineer's eyes. If you want to keep him somewhat of a mystery, probably don't read this.

"Yet though a man gets many wounds in breast,
He dieth not, unless the appointed time,
The limit of his life's span, coincide;
Nor does the man who by the hearth at home
Sits still, escape the doom that Fate decrees."

― AESCHYLUS, Fragment

Wob. Wob. Wob.

The dull drone of the mighty starship's engines, deep enough that one felt rather than heard it, had developed the most subtly irritating warble beneath his boots as he meandered the Juggernaut's curved, dimly-lit hallways ad nauseum throughout the evening. It was hard to put out of his mind, its pervasive echoes through each deck and up the walls stalking him wherever he went, sticking to his soles like a shadow.

The others hadn't noticed, despite the fact that he'd mentioned it on several occasions where it was at its most annoying. It wasn't an issue, supposedly. Did no damage. Calm down.

Easy enough for them to say – they weren't the ones that knew these Juggernauts inside and out, down to the last relay; they weren't the ones that became one with the machine, felt every subtle shift in its operation. After all, to the rest of the crew, it was but a vessel, a means to an end, a mode of transport.

He knew what caused it, too. There was little doubt it was simply a lack of complete, unquestionable control by the present helmsman. Reasonable, he supposed; Lieutenant Hendur was the ship's Operations Officer, after all. Not the Pilot. No amount of persistent nagging would bring him to focus on the most minute details of spaceflight while his own specialty was dragging him away. Nature of the beast, he supposed, in that the ship would fly the helmsman and not the other way around. Until then, the blasted oscillations would permeate every nook and cranny of the vessel at a pitch it seemed he and he alone would bear until driven mad.

Lieutenant Asakku, ever the ham-fisted Tactical Officer, was no better, mind. Not only was there a return to the mind-bending warble at faster-than-light velocity whenever he was in the seat, but crossing the barrier into hyperspace with him at the helm was about as subtle as marching headlong into the enormous, brick shit-house of a soldier himself. The curves of the Juggernaut howled in protest whenever he threw it about its axes, and on more than one occasion the vibration throughout the vessel had grown so terrible that it had booted several bottles of rather expensive ĝeštin off their respective shelves in the crew Mess Hall and detonated them in a sticky, purple mess across the floor – though that had been one of the few times he'd seen the brute genuinely terrified of the Captain's ire. No amount of patient, simple training would convince him that Aldamarak's ears were for anything but decoration, or that his hands were anything other than blunt force instruments.

The Mess Hall, he knew, was one of the few places that was somewhat shielded from the constant, warbling drone.

It wasn't the sound itself that pissed him off, he reasoned as he rounded the corner leading to the broad archway separating the Mess Hall from the rest of the corridor. It was having to stand back and witness someone else doing a shoddy, reckless job of piloting his ship while he was off-duty.

His stomach growled in agreement.

Idly poking at the nearest food dispenser with a long, pale index finger, he released an irritated sigh and waited impatiently for the machine to go about its business. It was hardly his ship though, was it? It was easy enough to ignore the niggling discontent shadowing his every move when the ship was fully staffed; nothing like fifty men and women rushing about the halls to make the place feel lived-in, and focusing on his own subordinates was often ample distraction from the ship's senior staff.

And his underlings weren't allowed to fly this poorly.

It had been a year that felt like three since being assigned to this vessel, but the Admiral's orders to reduce to minimum staff for this mission had left him no buffer between himself and the fact that he simply didn't mesh with this crew – he was finally forced to admit it.

Looks like today's special was yet another bowl of mystery stew. Fantastic.

Seizing the tray from the dispenser, he pulled back one of the scooped, unforgiving chairs lingering about the central table and sank into it with a huff. Forty chairs, and only one was occupied. Seemed ludicrous.

He knew that being selected for these secretive, preeminent missions was a mark of pride amongst most seasoned Officers. There was little else that showed the Admiralty's respect and faith in a crew more undeniably than this, and there was no question that this crew had certainly interpreted it that way. He, however, wasn't convinced.

Perhaps he was just missing the point, but something about these missions didn't sit well and no amount of pride, misplaced or otherwise, could disperse the barrage of thoughts, dark thoughts, that came with the package. The last had left him feeling numb for weeks, and being older and wiser for this one somehow didn't leave him feeling any more resistant.

Today's soup tasted just like yesterday's. Disappointment with far too much salt.

Wob. Wob. Wob.

Even in here, the poor engines throbbed at his feet through the deck. It was as though the ship was begging him to get on with it and start his shift so it could be put out of its misery; at this point, if he was physically able, he simply wouldn't leave the navigation array for the sake of a smooth, sane voyage. Sitting alone on the Bridge was vastly more stimulating than sitting alone in the Mess Hall, too. There was nothing interesting about the vast hoops arching through the roof and down the corridor – he had picked at every detail over the many hours he'd spent sitting here, until recently listening to the idle hubbub that came with Ensigns and recruits milling about the place.

Sometimes he found himself entertaining the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was slowly, painfully going crazy. This was one of those times.

"Hey, Za'il. Why the long face?"

He'd heard the footsteps, but the chaos in his mind had left him all but disregarding them. Cursing his inattention silently, he stiffened in his seat as the Captain strode through the archway and toward the head of the table with the slightest hint of a swagger about his military poise.

"Sir."

"Relax," the Captain offered with a wry grin, spinning a vacant chair around and sinking into it in one fluid movement. "I'm not one to get in the way of a man and his food."

Za'il's expression quickly matched the Captain's as he released a soft sigh, dropping the bread into what remained of the stew. "To be honest, it's stone cold at this point. Couldn't stomach it if I tried."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Well," he began, though he immediately trailed off with a soft huff. The throb of the tortured engines snatched his attention once more, echoing amongst the static of the silence that otherwise gripped the room and hung in it like molasses. That, or when he was actively seeking distraction – though at this point, anything would do: the rings of light playing against the broad, circular table from above; the persistent blinking of the lights above the food dispenser; the pattern of the hooped gunmetal arches leading from the crew Mess Hall; the stack of reports sitting on the bench closest to the door, begging to be filed.

"Spit it out, Commander," the Captain finally enthused with mock annoyance, propping one elbow against the table as he rested his chin on his fist. "What's bothering you?"

Za'il found himself pursing his lips as he fished for words, painfully aware of just how many lectures he was flirting with if he were to word it even slightly poorly. He was as familiar with protocol as the next Officer, and he knew as well as the Captain that a diatribe about governance, the military's role in these blasted missions and his own place in all of it would be wasted breath.

Testing the Captain's patience was another way to step face-first into a lecture.

Gritting his teeth, he opted for the path of least resistance; agonise less, and prepare for a sermon.

"Honestly, this entire mission bothers me." As the Captain's dark eyes narrowed, he threw both hands up in immediate defense. "I know, I know. It's not my place to question orders from the Admiral – let alone the Senate. But it doesn't change the fact that these are hundreds of millions of lives being toyed with here. Sure, they can hardly be classified as people, but it doesn't make it any easier to think about."

"Interesting choice of words," the Captain murmured, shifting to rest his lips against the thumbs of his clasped fists; tall, athletic, imposing, this was a man who imbued the very spirit of the Sebiti military. His stern, angular face was peppered with the scars one would expect of a man of his rank, though those scars would never mask the unnervingly common flashes of emotion from the suitably passionate Officer – much like the thinly-veiled frustration currently directed at Za'il. "Yes, it isn't for you or I to question our orders. Still, the difference between an Officer with intelligence and mere cannon fodder is the ability to think, Admiralty's attitude toward independent thought be damned."

The Commander winced almost imperceptibly at the mention of cannon fodder.

"What do you know about this race?" The Captain asked after a breath, his eyes still trained on the somewhat smaller man before him.

"They're sadistic," the Commander murmured, monotone. "Arrogant, egotistical. They're violent and superstitious, addicted to power, motivated by conquest. I know. I've read the scraps they call a general report. It's the same as every other Anuka atrocity we've had to clean up in the past few centuries; violent caveman races hellbent on self-destruction and determined to take everyone else with them on the way out."

"How many of these missions have you been on, Commander?"

"One. Three years ago." He sighed, pushing aside the half-eaten bowl of stew. The mere thought of that mission left him in even less of a mood to be dealing with food. "Early Anuka experiment. Had developed genocidal interest in their galactic neighbours, and had figured out how to reach them. Went Code Black real fast."

"The Edimmu?"

A chill ran down his spine. The soggy bread and cold soup suddenly seemed interesting. "That's the one."

"Ugly mission, that one," the Captain grunted, albeit in good humour. "Heard about it through my Captain at the time. Didn't realise you were on it."

"Indeed." Za'il sighed heavily, idly thumbing at the tray. "They knew we were coming. They knew we were coming for them, and that they were doomed. They threw everything they had at us – weapons, ships, soldiers. In the end they were trying to set collision courses with our ships, but given they'd only been in space a century or so, it was like swatting flies. They were no match for us. Millions of years – it makes a difference."

A pause. The Captain's eyes pried at the Commander's stony features. "Which ship?"

"Pilot of the lead ship." The mental cacophony had frozen, though briefly – a rare moment where only one thought lingered, but of course it had to be upon the Edimmu. "We were tasked with plucking their defenses off one-by-one. The other two ships dropped the warheads as we cleared a path. Fuckers hadn't a hope."

"Admiral chose well, didn't he? Thought protocol specified against reusing officers from the Code Black missions." Standing with a soft sigh, the Captain pushed himself to his feet and began grazing by the shelves in search of a drop. Anything to soften the conversation. "Well, Commander, you'll be pleased to know this interdiction is of a different kind."

"I know," he murmured. "Same attitude, different meatbags. No interstellar capabilities. In fact, throwing rocks is about all they've managed. They just throw them very, very well."

"Rocks, spears, arrows," the Captain offered a wry grin as he popped the lid off a half-empty bottle with one hand, snagging a glass with another. "Nothing that warrants more than a single ship with minimal crew. And they won't have the foggiest what's hit them. Quite merciful in comparison. Far more than they deserve."

Za'il couldn't help but scowl as his thoughts refused to leave the constant barrage of small, primitive vessels on suicide missions, flinging themselves with all their desperate might at the trio of enormous Sebiti battleships. He could clearly recall the two that had managed to batter themselves against his hull, blowing themselves to smithereens before they could be picked off with weapons, but leaving little more than blackened smut-marks against the Juggernaut. The rest had been mere fireworks. Manned, frantic fireworks, staving off certain doom. "I hope you're right."

Setting himself back down with a huff, the Captain took a short swig of the ruby-red concoction in his glass as he leaned back in the chair. "Za'il, I know the Edimmu interdiction was almost a worst-case scenario. It's a challenge to come back from that. I understand your reservations, I really do – but this isn't the same thing."

Edimmu massacre, he thought to himself quietly as he forced himself to hold eye contact.

The Captain continued. "The Senate does not interdict failed planets on a whim. This is a planet we've had contact with for tens of thousands of years; unlike the Edimmu, the Anuka seemed to have invested an awful lot of time and patience into this species before us, and according to what little documentation is available, had quite insistently handed the baton to us. For millennia, we complied. Sent hundreds of envoys. Offered guidance, knowledge. Soon as our backs are turned, suddenly they're worshipping us, demonising us, writing mythology about us. Fighting wars in our name. Then they carry that mythos onward in their own image, and repeatedly we would intervene – our envoys would start the process again. Teach, guide, engage. Rinse and repeat. Which is all very well and good, but then they started...evolving."

Za'il raised a brow. "Evolving, Sir?"

He took another sip, then placed the glass down, cupping it between both hands. "They're undergoing rapid technological development. Apparently the last of the envoys said it's unlike anything they've ever seen; there's intensification everywhere. Architecture, medicine, agriculture. Weapons. War. None of which we passed on to them. And yet, their mindset stays the same. Still worshipping, still killing in the name of their deities, still forging empires in blood – but now we're seeing regular examples of wholesale slaughter. Not to put too fine a point on it, but they're not very nice."

"I see," he breathed. "Still. If they're still throwing technologically advanced rocks at each other, why not persist with the envoys? It's not like they're even close to interstellar travel yet."

"Yet." Pursing his lips in thought, the Captain prodded at the rim of his glass with a thumb. "See, that's the problem. They said they're evolving...rapidly. I believe the term the Senate used in the full report was 'unprecedented'. They ran several different simulations multiple times to be sure they hadn't fucked the numbers, because there's no way anyone can imagine that a race at this stage of development could hit hyperspace in less than three millennia."

The Commander froze, fumbling with his words. "Wh–…"

"Yeah." The Captain's wide-eyed gaze seemed as surprised by the news second-hand as it must have been the first time. "Smart monkeys. Smart, scary monkeys. Disregarding the fact that several of their little empires have executed quite a number of our envoys in recent times, they seem somewhat harmless now. But give them enough time, they're going to keep blowing things up until they reach orbit. Next thing you know, our great-grandchildren are going to have guests showing up, kicking down the door with weapons that rival our own, declare us gods and demons, and demand anything their unevolved, superstitious minds can conjure up. Can you imagine it – all the technology required to cause trouble, but all they want is magical abilities. Invincibility. Eternal life. Superpowers. And with their millennia of wars behind them, they'll take what they please."

"Pleasant," Za'il grumbled, though he found little else followed.

"You can't take the hunt out of the hunter," the Captain mused grimly, before drawing a long, hearty gulp from his glass. "And, so the Senate says, we can't afford to keep throwing envoys at them in the hopes one of them will finally be listened to. The Edimmu were an Anuka creation, and they were left to their own devices. The creatures of the Utukka system were...tinkered with, from what I understand. At least, that's what I gather from the report, in all its vague glory. Suffice it to say, they're not what they were intended to be, and it's a matter of compassion that we extinguish the fire before it sets everything nearby ablaze. It's not just us they present a danger to; there are several other Anuka creations in the region and one example of independent sentient life, all of which are evolving far more slowly than the Utukka race, and would be defenseless once their thirst for conquest reaches the stars."

The Commander found himself mulling the term compassion for longer than he'd like. Perhaps it was his own overactive mind toying with it far more than he was supposed to, but the word seemed to have so many meanings, so many use-cases, and when looked at objectively, they were wildly different to each other. Offering the shirt off your back to a homeless man, and decimating an entire planet's worth of murderous, inferior lifeforms for the sake of their neighbours hardly seemed equivalent.

Semantics aside, the facts remained: they were eliminating a failed experiment for the safety of those less able to defend themselves. He shuddered to think what this species could be capable of should they start colonising nearby planets and cementing their power in the region. The Sebiti Military, and indeed the Empire as a whole, was more than capable of defending itself against fleet after fleet of rogue, primitive spacefarers; there was little trouble from far, far more advanced races, so why be concerned over fresh faces with no concept of space warfare?

But it wasn't the Sebiti Empire that needed protection.

Perhaps, if one squinted hard enough, it was as they said – they were exterminating hornet's nests for the sake of the neighbours.

"The needs of the many, huh," he eventually murmured quietly.

"Indeed." Standing for a refill, the Captain cast his officer a lingering stare; the Commander had done a splendid job of hiding his discomfort, and discomfort was hardly useful in an Officer. "You know, once this mission is over, it may be worth taking some time off. I need you at peak efficiency; can't get that out of you with so much going on in that head of yours."

He let out a low huff after a moment. "To be honest, that's not a bad idea. I've got some shit to sort out, haven't I?"

"Maybe a little," the Captain grinned. "In the meantime, I want you to try and focus on the operation at hand. I'm authorising you a copy of the full mission report – I reckon there's some material in there that will put your mind at ease."

Za'il arched a brow. As far as he knew, such material was the preserve of hand-selected Captains and higher. "Sir?"

"Captain's prerogative. I can share what I wish with my First Officer."

Finally, a smile. Nothing like a little leeway to begin forging trust, if a little belatedly. "Understood, Sir. Thank you."

"Do you mind?"

The impatient, vaguely nasal voice echoing down the corridor from the Bridge was Lieutenant Hendur's, he noted. Above the clomp-clomp of his own footsteps against the metallic deck, he could hear someone else's footsteps, the repeated beep of buttons, and the telltale squeak of the Captain's chair swivelling back and forth.

The gruff, bassy chortling that followed was, without a doubt, Lieutenant Asakku.

"Some of us are trying to work."

More chortling followed as Hendur's patience wore thinner.

As much as it could be entertaining riling the slight, jumpy Officer, the persistent wob-wob-wob from the complaining engines was on the brink of driving him insane, and Asakku deliberately getting under Hendur's skin was simply amplifying the problem.

Stepping onto the Bridge presented the Commander with exactly the scenario he was expecting to see; Hendur was manning the navigation array, likely fuming beneath his helmet as Asakku continued poking buttons from the Captain's chair. Granted, at first glance it appeared he was genuinely doing work. The dry, scratching screech as he leaned to the side to pivot the chair off-balance suggested he intended to do it loudly.

He stood just outside of the range of both men's line of sight, silently watching with his hands clasped behind his back as they went about their business; Hendur, by now, was stabbing furiously at his console with one hand as he manned the flight controls with the other, caught up in Operations schematics as they flooded in. Asakku had no interest in pulling them up on his own console, clearly – his was saturated with the results of repeated scans of the multiple weapons systems on board, each slightly different as he tinkered a bit here, calibrated a bit there. Noisily.

A deep, infinitely frustrated growl permeated the room from beneath the helmet. "Lieutenant, seriously, can you do that another time?"

Wob. Wob.

Enough is enough. Clearing his throat loudly, Za'il stepped into view from behind the archways as both Officers visibly flinched to attention at their stations. "Professional as always, I see."

A gruff Sir followed from both stations.

"Lieutenant Hendur, you're relieved. Shift's over. Lieutenant Asakku, do you need to be here right now?"

"Running diagnostics," the immense soldier grumbled, half-turning his chair from the Commander as his right hand gagged to return to its work. Za'il once again found himself thanking the rigidity of rank in light of the oversized creature's irritating mood; Asakku easily had a head in height over him and was substantially bulkier, with a face full of harsh angles and heavy, sinewy scaffolding. He was the sort of brute that became useful for intimidating enemies – which he did with great delight and frightening prowess – but he was nothing short of wildly aggravating when kept on a leash. It was as though he existed exclusively for the thrill of the fight, and in lieu of enemies to wreak it upon, colleagues seemed to suffice.

"You can run diagnostics again later," he responded with terse, deliberate authority as he motioned with one hand toward the door. "We've only got another day before we reach Syurga Outpost. Last time I checked, the cargo bay was still a pigsty. Go sort it out."

"I'm not a housemaid," the enormous Lieutenant exclaimed with barely-contained outrage, then aimed a pointed finger at the lithe figure climbing down from the navigation array. "Ilabrat's free! You just dismissed him! Make him do it!"

"Lieutenant," the Commander boomed, "Hendur is off duty. That cargo bay is for your warheads. You have your orders. Get off my Bridge!"

Za'il waited for the offbeat pacing of two heavy pairs of boots to all but disappear down the hall before releasing a long, heavy sigh and releasing both clenched fists. There was nothing like ill-tempered, insubordinate juniors to stoke the fires of the infamous Sebiti rage, and the embers had been sizzling in the pit of his stomach for days.

If he were younger, less experienced, perhaps he would have yielded to the clawing, burning sensation in his gut, churning against the rationality and calm of wisdom. The temptation was certainly there. But it was that wisdom, the decorum of the seasoned, that remained determined to keep his teeth in his mouth and Asakku's notably more tempestuous rage off his Bridge.

It took mere seconds to find the source of the instability in the engines; the helmet had barely descended over his head before he'd begun poking about with the controls. A visceral sigh of relief escaped him as the infuriating, endless warble melted into a soft purr, no longer pecking at his psyche as he set the full gamut of his concentration on the glittering display painted in white and cyan throughout the helmet's visor.

For now, for the rest of the day, all would be right in the Galaxy.

He had to admit, though a twelve-hour shift was unusually long, it tended to fly by in the blink of an eye when he had the Bridge to himself and minimal interruptions. It went without saying that the Pilot's seat was the place he was the happiest, and without the Captain eyeballing his every move or either of the two Lieutenants getting under foot, the Juggernaut sailing smoothly beneath his hand was a rare sliver of paradise.

Still, he was very much ready for rest by the time he'd staggered out of the navigation array and handed control back to the Captain after he'd discreetly passed Za'il a copy of the full mission briefing. Hendur had briefly cornered him enroute to his quarters, rambling breathlessly about some odd development in a nebula they'd passed a day ago after thanking him for booting Asakku from the Bridge. It had taken longer than he'd liked before the Lieutenant noticed the dark rings under his eyes and the slouch in his stance, and seemed reluctant to let the yawning Commander leave and get some rest, but had eventually taken the hint and let him shuffle on.

The Captain's suggestion of taking leave had stayed with him since it had arisen. It had been years, he realised, after a quick scour through his recent memories; it had been back-to-back duty for the entire year he'd been assigned to this ship, with the exception of a few brief spurts of shore leave. He'd deliberately kept himself busy after the Edimmu mission – massacre – and that had been three years ago. Apart from a short two weeks spent sucking his thumb in the bowels of the distant Starbase Isimud after Nanaya had chewed him up and spat him out, the four years before that had been largely back-to-back too, spread across multiple ships as he scaled the ranks and found himself assigned to increasingly prominent vessels.

It had been non-stop since Mami, too. And Makai.

Come to think of it, he hadn't stepped foot on his own goddamn home planet since he left it as a fresh-faced, green-as-Hell recruit at a mere eighteen years old.

He released a frustrated sigh as he tossed the report against the bedcovers, crossing his small, cramped quarters in a short few steps to the basin before hunching over it and reflexively dousing his face in a cupped handful of cold water. Entirely unnecessary in this day and age, of course, but there was refreshment in the cold shock that simply couldn't be replicated with sonic showers. There was little aboard these ships to remind one that they were a living, breathing creature. With as much of his adult life that he'd spent being shuffled from one to the next, it was these small, meaningless rituals that kept him sane.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

He'd spent years in these suits, too. The military had honed the concept of a uniform to a fine art, the height of which doubled as a pressure suit and a biosuit, and could interface with stasis pods at a moment's notice. They monitored and took care of a vast number of biological functions, too – in fact, they had almost rendered the sonic showers themselves, amongst other bathroom utilities, obsolete – and, as he'd discovered on a handful of occasions, offered a Hell of a lot more armoured protection to the wearer than all of the previous iterations he'd worn put together.

As a younger man he'd yielded to the desire to rip it off each night and sleep as nature intended, snuggling into the bedcovers and feeling the fabric against his skin. It had meant waking up earlier before each shift to scrub up and climb back into it, but it was, to him, a luxury of home that stayed with him until several incidents left him scrambling out of bed naked as the day he was born and desperately trying to dress while the ship, under fire, bucked and shuddered and refused to let him stand on his feet.

Nowadays he was content to remain ready at all times, not even bothering to pull back the top sheet as he swiped the report and threw himself down. It wasn't like he was missing out on much in the process, anyway.

Perhaps it was time to spend a few months back home on Senbi and do things that normal people take for granted. It had, after all, been years since he'd been to the public baths. It had been years since he'd seen his mother. Heck, it had been bloody years since he'd felt sunlight on his skin for more than a brief jaunt, and on more than just his face and hands. After all these years, surely he deserved the privilege of standing in an actual shower each day for a while, and sitting down to actual food – a hearty change from the synthesised gunk the dispensers burped up aboard these ships.

Yes, after this confounded mission was over, it was time for a proper leave of absence and a good, hard think about where he was headed exactly. Right now, his answer would simply be 'around in circles'.

The report made for pretty grim reading, he soon realised as he thumbed over the thin, clear tablet, grazing over the never-ending scrawl of bureaucratic ramblings spewed across it. Utukka was, apparently, one of the most vibrantly diverse natural planets the Anuka had come across before their interference, festooned with a rich history of rapid evolution and life lurking at almost every single biome. By the time the Anuka had discovered it, there was already semi-sapient life ambling its surface. They had simply chosen the most promising amongst the plethora of species hidden in every nook and cranny, and given it a little kick in the right direction.

Naturally, the result was a species that looked somewhat like the Anuka, and by extension his own people, but far more recognisably different than the experimental species spread across the galaxy.

Unfortunately, the Captain had been right about one small detail – the species had been prolific and inventive hunters prior to Anuka interference, and it had served their evolution well. Even with their new, rapid evolution toward true sapience, that instinct had struggled to die off.

Their mindsets had also failed to evolve with their technological leaps and bounds, too. That much was obvious as the report went further and further into detail of their atrocious behaviours.

Perhaps this was the right thing to be doing, after all.

Thumbing through, he noted a different code alongside the recommended warheads; while the Edimmu had been sentenced to run-of-the-mill blasts and follow-up supposed 'cleaner bombs' that disassembled all organic life down to and beyond its genetic structure, leaving the planet completely decolonised and ready for subsequent recolonisation, Utukka seemed earmarked for something a little more precise. These, he recognised as the 'scraper' warheads, primed for a specific genome that he imagined was that of the species causing all this angst amongst the Senate. He'd never seen them in action, but he understood they carefully plucked apart whatever they were primed for, leaving all other life largely intact and able to reclaim whatever world they inhabited.

That was supposed to make him feel better about this whole ordeal, he supposed; it was more compassionate, apparently. Perhaps the Senate valued naturally-spawned life, then.

It was the final note at the very base of the report that left him somewhat sure he'd actually sleep at all tonight. It would be the first night in many, he had to confess, that he wouldn't thrash about, thinking and thinking and thinking about the Edimmu mission that plagued his memories, wondering how differently things would have played out should the Senate have ordered different actions.

Utukka species has shown an unusual propensity toward violence for gaining power, amassing possessions for status and enforcing social tiers that do not serve the majority. Some colonies have proven responsive to Sebiti envoys, welcoming them into their communities and absorbing some of their teachings. The larger empires have resisted, with some engaging in dialogue for their own eventual gain while others resort to more violent means. Three of the last four envoys were murdered by two prominent empires, with the surviving envoy recommending ceasing all contact after repeated attempts at engaging in peaceful strategies. Two clandestine operations arrived at the same conclusion after lengthy studies. Utukka species is dangerous and will soon become a threat to nearby peaceful species.

These, he decided, were creatures he never wanted to meet. There was something uncomfortable, something sordid, about a species that had the nouse for rapid technological advances but no interest in or intelligence for peaceful coexistence with others like them. He imagined their mere presence would be revolting – his military mind could not understand those of the ever-diplomatic envoys, but he couldn't help but feel their frustrations in this instance.

As he closed his eyes, the dimming lights gave way not to the scorch of fiery explosions and the flare of energy weapons, but to the echoing tramp-tramp of alien feet along the streets of Senbi's capital city, rifles drawn and demands declared as they gunned down innocent citizens of a peaceful world in their bottomless thirst for conquest.

"SJX-591, Syurga Station. You have clearance to land – dock at Hangar A-14."

"Understood," the Captain nodded from his chair, shoulders squared before the holographic woman etched in a halo of white-and-cyan pearls of light. Her uniformed figure, ramrod-straight and preternaturally imposing, soaked up far more of the Bridge than she displaced; the beads of light that etched every inch of her barely missed a single crease amongst her stony features. She was, in every sense of the word, authoritative. "Admiral Nusku, one request, if I may."

"Yes, Captain Shamar?" The brief jolt throughout the vessel momentarily displaced the hologram, blurring it in a haze of motion as the dots of light sought to rearrange themselves.

"Permission to reroute past the storm to the south of the base. The designated approach will put us directly through the eye." He offered his First Officer a quick glance, but Za'il's attention was entirely focused on keeping the ship steady, his hands a flurry of movement upon the controls.

A pause. "Permission granted, but make it quick."

"Yes Sir." Another bow of his head, and the hologram dissipated with a faint bzz.

Another jolt surged through the deck, followed by a bassy, droning throb throughout the vessel as it resisted the storm. Lieutenants Hendur and Asakku had visibly tensed by their stations, each gripping the nearest surface they could find as the shock oscillated through the deck and rolled straight into the next bout of turbulence. The Captain, poised in his chair in as much a relaxed slouch as he could muster, gave himself away only by the ripples of sinew pulsating through his cheeks as he repeatedly clenched his jaw.

Beneath his helmet, Za'il was grinning. Grinning. He could sense the discomfort on the Bridge, knowing there were multiple hands groping at whatever solid fixture was within reach. The deathly silence in the wake of the Admiral's message was rather telling. But when presented with landing a starship, its crescent-like curves designed for the vacuum of space and woefully inadequate for atmospheric flight, let alone battling a massive, surging storm on a gravity-ravaged moon, he didn't feel an inch of the trepidation soaked into the skin of his fellow Officers. No; he had flown in far more hazardous conditions. This was a challenge.

"Diverting East via the Ninegal Range. Reducing altitude to six thousand metres for approach." The whirl of his hands was at odds with the practised calm of his voice, and defied the persistent jostling throughout the vessel as it continued to penetrate the monstrosity outside.

The Captain scowled as he jabbed at his leftmost console, scrutinising the reading it immediately burped up. "Commander, I asked for a diversion to reduce how much crap gets smashed against the decks, not just to dodge the storm."

"Admiral said to make it quick," he immediately shot back, frustratingly calm.

A deep, rumbling sigh escaped the Captain. "If Ilabrat pukes everywhere, I'm holding you responsible, Commander."

Lieutenant Hendur's already pale complexion faded to something distinctly ghostly at the mere suggestion.

Stony, thick silence filled the Bridge as the ship journeyed onward, trading sharp troughs of turbulent shaking and jolting that its artificial gravity fought valiantly against as they exited the storm for the telltale flutter and bounce of surging, swirling mountainous conditions. He knew how disconcerting it must be for his three crewmates, bracing against the atmospheric undulations blindly, forced to place their trust in his piloting. For that, he almost took pleasure in being the only one with a view outside, their fates at his fingertips. They didn't know these ships like he did, and they most certainly hadn't shown signs of understanding how to force planetary physics to comply with their interstellar design.

The storm, thankfully, had yet to reach the base; exiting the confines of the Ninegal Range brought with it a relieving stillness, leaving little bar the thundering of the engines as they eased the mighty Juggernaut toward the yawning hangar to its southeastern edge. Calm conditions were a blessing, making their final descent into the gaping maw mere child's play to experienced hands; there would be no need of tractor beams or automated guidance systems often doled out to the supply and occasional civilian ships that passed through.

"Commencing docking procedure, Captain," Za'il announced as the ship sank toward the hangar door.

"Noted." A pause as he stabbed at his console with an index finger. "Syurga crew standing by."

Going about his tasks almost by rote, routine etched into his fingertips to the point of being mere reflex, the Commander found ample opportunity to glance about the Bridge from beneath his helmet to observe his three crewmates. Captain Shamar, he knew, was a man not unlike himself; steely resolve and a mind for the task at hand, his career too had been forged in fire the old-fashioned way and yielded similar outcomes – it seemed the biggest point of difference lay with the Captain's fixation on discrete sections of time, methodically dividing missions into their individual tasks and navigating them with the mastery of experience rather than Za'il's preference for examining the lot from a steady distance. It was not Shamar's discomfort that had led to the diversion request – he knew for a fact the Captain would have happily ploughed straight through the storm if it were just the two of them on board an empty vessel. No, it was purely common sense as far as decisions went.

Lieutenant Hendur, conversely, had gone a sickly shade of grey as he stood stiffly by his post. There was an almost imperceptible wobble in his stance as he rocked back and forth in the aftermath of the turbulence, dark eyes trained upon a fixed point immediately in front of him. Despite the fact that there were only a few years between them, it struck him that they were not cut from the same cloth; it was frustratingly easy to ruffle the Lieutenant's composure, and despite repeated exposure to more adventurous flying techniques, a slew of skirmishes and plenty of training, his resolve had shown minimal improvement in lieu of a persistent, nagging obsession with the most mundane of interstellar phenomena.

Which, to be fair, was largely the point of an Operations Officer.

It was Asakku's response that had caught his attention the most, though. While both he and the Captain had expected yet another woozy response from the notably delicate Lieutenant Hendur, the larger Lieutenant's similarly grey, clammy complexion was a far more unusual sight. Lips pressed thin, his steely stance by his post seemed as though like he was clinging for dear life but was loathe to admit it.

How strange it was to be a part of a crew with whom one had nothing in common.

The final bump of the immense vessel coming to rest against the base of the hangar was mere static at his periphery as he began powering the propulsion systems down, but as the Captain set about interfacing with the base, a loud, wet retch echoed through the Bridge. As a second, somewhat more violent retch followed, he paused in his tasks to find not Hendur but Asakku bent over, closed fist pressed against his lips, desperately fighting the wall of bile filling his throat. Idly he wondered if it would trigger a chain reaction, or whether it would result in a day or two of ridicule for the otherwise composed Officer.

"Docking complete, station airbridge and airlock in place." The Captain released an amused sigh as he turned in his chair to face the massive Lieutenant. "Asakku, you'll join us in the cargo bay once you've pulled yourself together."

Narrowing his eyes through a damp glare, the Lieutenant turned on a heel and, hunched over his stomach as a third, convulsive gag wracked him from head to toe, swiftly marched off the Bridge and down the hall.

"You too Ilabrat, or are you still functional?"

"I'm fine, Captain," he offered after expelling a deep, shaky breath, his voice thin and unsure.

"Excellent," the Captain responded as he pushed himself out of his chair. "Then you have the Bridge; commence planetside operations. Commander, you're with me."

"Question, if I may, Sir."

The Captain arched a thick brow as the pair marched the length of the darkened, abandoned corridors leading to the cargo bay. "Sure."

"Since it wasn't Hendur that lost his guts, am I off the hook?" Za'il asked, deadpan.

Shamar simply marched on in silence for a breath, jaw slack as the cogs turned. "I knew it. You did this on purpose."

The Commander's expression swiftly mimicked the Captain's prior surprise. "I beg your pardon, Sir?"

A wry grin eventually crept across the Captain's scarred face. "You enjoy toying with those two, don't you?"

He couldn't hide his amusement for long. "It's not like it's hard. The moment we're in orbit of anything they go grey." Releasing a sigh, he shook his head. "They're just not made of the same stuff."

"Of course they aren't." The Captain's grin soured somewhat as they rounded a corner, the corridor widening as it approached the vast hoop of the cargo bay door. "You know neither of them have actually set foot on a planet for ten years prior to today?"

A thoughtful pause. "I'd be surprised if I wasn't just about in the same shoes. I think I've had maybe a month of actual shore leave in the last thirteen years. Maybe less. Most of it ends up being on board whatever Starbase is closest. Lucky to be in orbit of anything. Surely you're no different."

"You do have the advantage of atmospheric missions, though. As do I." Drawing a breath, the Captain pressed his fingers against the door lock. "Keeps you grounded. It's different, being in space year upon year. It changes you."

"So I've heard." The Commander fell in behind the Captain's broad march as they crossed the empty expanse of the cargo bay. "Enough that planetsiders can tell after many years, they reckon."

"They," the Captain chuckled. "Who are 'they', specifically?"

Another pause before the exterior doors. "Always straight to the point, Sir." He offered a lopsided grin. "You know, since we're here for a day or two, maybe this would be a good opportunity to let the kids off their leash and get some real air into them."

Shamar seemed to entertain the idea for a lingering moment. "Maybe."

As the mighty doors hissed apart and retracted into their alcoves, they were met with the unmistakable silhouette of a large, fully-loaded artillery trolley blocking the majority of the tunnel's overhead lighting; a stony-faced Lieutenant stepped toward the door from beside it, a thin, clear tablet pinched between both hands.

"Your full name and rank please, Sir," he offered in a detached monotone, offering the tablet to the Captain.

Pressing his hand against the glossy surface, he paid it no mind as a flash of light within traced every edge, every minute detail of his palm and fingers. "Captain Enmesar Shamar of the Juggernaut SJX-591."

The tablet, as the Lieutenant withdrew and examined it, was inclined to agree. "Thank you, Sir. We have a consignment for you."

Shamar offered a cheeky smirk. "You're all smiles and personality aboard this station, aren't you? Must be all that carbon dioxide outside."

With that, the Lieutenant's expression crumpled into something notably more panicked. "We have company, Sir," he quickly whispered.

"Are you bullying my staff, Shamar?" Icier than expected, and with a depth that came with age and wisdom, the Admiral's voice was velvet-smooth but not without a hint of danger; stepping around the towering trolley, she stood before the Juggernaut crew with predatory calm.

Both stiffened, immediately standing to attention. The Captain quickly responded. "Admiral, Sir."

Black eyes plucking apart each and every detail of the two Officers, she allowed the silence to draw out to almost unbearable lengths before offering the faintest hint of a smirk. "At ease, gentlemen. Welcome to Syurga Station."

"Thank you, Sir." A pause, as Shamar paused to look the trolley up and down again. Three more station crewmen had arrived to watch the exchange, earning a quick glance from the Captain. "Are we handloading today?"

"Until further notice, yes," the Admiral responded coolly. "We had a near-miss last week with the automated lifts. Suboptimal, really." She offered another almost-grin; Za'il quickly noted her eyes remained starkly humourless.

"Sounds wise."

"Indeed. Better safe than sorry, in my mind." Turning on a heel, the Admiral clasped her wrists behind her back. "Captain, will you accompany me?"

One brow raised, he regarded the statuesque woman for a lingering moment before briefly turning to his First Officer. "Commander, you'll take good care of my ship until I return, yes?"

"Of course, Sir."

With little more than a nod, Za'il watched as the Captain fell in behind the Admiral and marched down the airbridge alongside several more artillery trolleys. Behind him came the telltale grunt of Asakku begrudgingly joining them, likely as unimpressed as the Commander himself was upon seeing thousands of warheads waiting to be loaded, by hand, into their housings onboard.

By the time the ten bloody trolleys of warheads had been offloaded and slotted into place, filling the immense cargo bay from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, the Juggernaut's skeleton crew were more than ready to call it a day.

To his credit, Asakku had remained surprisingly on-task for the evening and had proven particularly helpful, keeping the pace quick without risking clumsiness and had been almost obsessive about each warhead being loaded in the correct order. He'd outclassed the Syurga crew in every way that mattered, and though it had been the most menial of tasks, through the drudgery he had earned a fair bit of respect back in Za'il's mind.

By this hour all three of them had since retired to the Mess Hall, each making short work of yet another bowl of stew and washing it down with whatever came to hand. Mind adrift as his fingers idly tore small, fiddly chunks from his bread, Za'il found himself once again entertaining the idea of preferring a busy Mess Hall packed with low-ranking staff than the present company. Be damned their exuberance, it made for excellent people-watching. Their conversation meandered between the inane and the insane, and it was all too easy to simply get lost in the noise. With only these two for company, the conversation had little direction it could go in.

Predictably, tonight it had gone around in stilted circles as both Asakku and Hendur apparently toyed with the concept of deliberately pissing each other off, but with neither committing to the idea. Perhaps they were too exhausted to be bothered. Perhaps they were finally learning to at least tolerate each other. Only time would tell, really.

"Commander. Commander Suen."

It dawned on him that it hadn't been Hendur's first attempt at catching his attention. Despite himself, the half-dead huh that escaped him hardly sounded intelligent.

Ilabrat released an irritated huff, and apparently repeated himself. "Do you think we'll get to go on base, or are we going to stay cooped up in here again?"

He couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. "Actually, I'd asked the Captain the same thing before we ended up with ten fucking trolleys to unload. I think we need to, for the sake of our collective sanity, but I don't like our chances."

Another sigh escaped the smaller of the two Lieutenants, while Asakku indulged an unimpressed grunt as he waved his drink in Ilabrat's direction. "See. What did I tell you?"

"It was worth a try," Hendur scowled.

"Not an awful lot of value is lost if we're left aboard, as much as I'd like to get us out there," Za'il interjected quietly. "From what I understand, the air on Syurga isn't great. The carbon dioxide levels are pretty high. Not enough to do damage, but enough to leave you feeling a little lethargic after a few days. Which, to be honest, is the exact opposite of the point, isn't it?"

"True," Hendur responded, one brow raised. Pausing for another mouthful of what remained of his stew, he gesticulated with the bread in his free hand. "What about just going on base, though? I mean, don't most stations have a promenade, or a bar, or something just a bit different?"

"This isn't really a normal station," the Commander replied carefully, "So I doubt it. We're not here long, anyway."

"Uh huh. What about a rec lounge? Something? Anything?"

Asakku rolled his eyes as he shovelled the last of his dinner down and pushed the bowl aside. "What's the big deal, anyway?"

Another sigh. "We've been cooped up for months! It'd be nice to see some different faces for once. No offense Aldamarak, but you're pretty ugly."

For a brief moment, visceral offense gripped the huge man's features – though amused realisation quickly followed. "Different faces, huh."

By this point, Za'il found himself struggling to keep a straight face. "Itchy feet, Ilabrat? Or are we talking further North?"

"You know what, sure," he spluttered, his cheeks taking on a grey flush. "It'd be nice to see a few ladies outside this sausage-fest. Isn't that what shore leave is all about?"

A loud scoff followed, Asakku rolling his eyes again. Hendur raised one brow once more, though with considerably more malice than the Commander had seen in some time. "What, you prefer the sausage-fest?"

"No," Asakku spat with obvious irritation, "I don't prefer anything. I'm here for business, not pleasure. How old are you, eighteen?"

"Wasn't aware there was an age to give up and tape it to your leg," Hendur grumbled. "What about you, Commander? Blood still run in your veins, or are you all dried up too?"

The idea of booting Hendur out the nearest airlock to sleep outside was growing tempting. "I'm far too useless to play that game, to be frank. Team Business, I'm sorry. You're on your own."

Drawing yet another deep sigh, the Lieutenant's gaunt features twisted in muted frustration for a drawn moment of silence before succumbing to a long drag from his glass. "Okay then. Indulge me for a moment...what do you two do on shore leave?"

"Go outside," Asakku quickly responded, lingering on the concept for long enough that it seemed as though there was nothing else to it. "I hear the mountains on this moon are pretty big. Wouldn't mind climbing them."

The Commander couldn't help but grin at the thought. It was a suggestion he certainly wasn't opposed to, but he was far easier to please. "I'd be happy just to feel some sunlight on my back. I swear being in space all these years and almost permanently in uniform has left me paler than ice. Last I checked I could see my veins through my skin."

Asakku took a healthy swig of his drink, raising one index finger in the Commander's direction as he continued his original thought. "What about both? Rock climbing, no shirt, boom. Multi-tasking."

"Shame you can't multi-task more often," Za'il smirked. "I'd get on board with that, though. Maybe not on this planet, but definitely the next we stop by."

"You've got a deal," Asakku nodded, offering a grin that was all teeth.

"Lighten up, Lieutenant," the Commander shot with a smirk as he observed Hendur's sour scowl. "It'd do you some good. Might burn off some of those raging teenage hormones in the process."

"Teenage?" He spluttered, mouth agape as he fished for a witty response, eventually coming up dry and instead draining his glass through an indignant pout. "I'm almost thirty."

"Then you haven't learned to sweat it out," Asakku interjected, the grin remaining. "This is the military. Rule your body, or it rules you. It's a machine. Can't just let it do its own thing."

Hendur's scowl grew deeper as he shot the Commander an irritated glance. "Are you gonna just let him lecture me, Sir?"

"Loathe as I am to admit it, he's right," Suen shrugged.

"I feel like this has become a one-directional mud-slinging match," Hendur eventually frowned. "Can't I make an observation?"

"It wasn't an observation, you randy bastard," Asakku spat, expression lingering between a malicious grin and a frustrated scowl as though he couldn't quite decide which way he erred toward.

"Excuse me!" Ilabrat spluttered, apparently fighting back a shriek. "I'll have you know–"

"Now, now, children." The Captain's deep voice penetrated the Mess Hall's increasingly thick atmosphere with characteristic caramel, jarring all three Officers silent as he sauntered toward the central table. "Off the clock doesn't mean out of your minds. Tone it down."

"Yes, Sir," came the collective response before an extended, increasingly awkward silence as the Captain set about pouring himself a drink from what remained of the flagon at the centre of the table.

Casting his First Officer a somewhat vexed glance, he pulled back one of the free seats and sank down into it with a sigh. "So what spawned the nonsense this time?"

"Shore leave," Suen stated, matter-of-fact and devoid of any visible emotion. "I suspect the cabin fever is setting in."

"Ah," Shamar grunted. Pausing to indulge in a swift gulp from his glass, he stole a moment to glance about the table at each of his Officers, noting each man's vastly different demeanour through tired eyes of his own. It had been hours since he'd trailed behind the Admiral; it seemed as though the meeting had drained significant resources from the normally relaxed Captain. "Well, it's about to get worse. Word from the top is that everyone stays aboard their ships here. Something-something weapons facility, something-something classified. No tourists. Zero tolerance policy." He rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"Great," Za'il mumbled as the two Lieutenants groaned in unison. "Might I suggest scheduling something before we pick up the rest of the crew, in which case, Sir? I'd rather we didn't go bonkers before our next mission."

"I'm of the same opinion, don't worry," Shamar murmured, punctuating his thoughts with a heavy sigh before drawing a far larger gulp from his glass than was healthy and stifling the resulting cough against the back of his free hand. "Shame they had to build a facility like this on such a pretty little moon. There's quite a view from the Admiral's windows."

"I can only imagine," the Commander scowled. "I guess it wasn't to be. Guess we'll just push through, drop these blasted warheads and hold out hope for next time."

"That's exactly what we're going to do." Draining the rest of his glass, Shamar reached for the flagon with the other hand, only to find it as empty as he'd left it. Tossing it back on the table with mock disgust, he stood to fish another from the shelf nearby. "I'll put the case to the Admiralty, lest they make alcoholics of us all."

"C'mon, Commander, just a quick glance," Hendur all but whined as he paced the expanse of Bridge before his station, pausing only to drum his fingers against the console with uninhibited frustration. "What's the harm?"

"You can't have it, so stop whinging," Asakku shot without missing a beat, his own thick, meaty fingers gripping his station with barely-restrained irritation.

"Can it, Aldamarak," the Commander scowled, his gaze never leaving the Captain's console as he continued his work. "Ilabrat, we're scheduled to leave in less than four hours. What's the point in gazing at a planet we'll never set foot on?"

"Sorry, Sir," he eventually sighed, visibly wilting by his station. "I just...it's been years, y'know? It's all starting to become pretty joyless. Like, I love the idea of protecting and serving as much as the next Officer, but lately we've just been doing a whole lot of–"

"Maybe mention it to the Captain after this mission is completed, Lieutenant," Za'il quickly interjected, stealing a moment to fire the smaller man an annoyed scowl.

"Mention what to the Captain now?" The trio stiffened to attention as Shamar entered the Bridge, arms clasped behind his back.

"Sorry, Sir," Hendur repeated, his face twisted into an unhappy grimace. "I'm just curious. Wanna know what we're missing out on. Shore leave bug won't unstick."

In contrast to his First Officer's deepening scowl, Shamar offered the Lieutenant a lopsided grin and sat down in his chair as Za'il vacated it. "You know what, I suppose it couldn't hurt. We've got a few minutes before we need to commence departure operations; let's take a quick peek behind the curtains."

For the first time in the two days that they had been docked on Syurga, a palpable wave of relief washed over Hendur's expression. Arguably it had been longer; apart from a brief, rambling diatribe before they'd arrived, Suen couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the Lieutenant at all pleased. Both junior Officers had by this point turned to eagerly watch the Captain's hands fly about his console with almost musical dexterity, with Za'il watching with tempered bemusement from his position to Shamar's right.

The Bridge was alight with colour in the next breath, the distinct domes of the facility forming in beads of light beneath abstract walls of white on either side; to the Eastern side, Za'il immediately recognised the Ninegal Range they had traversed days earlier, its distinctive shelf-like ridges and sheer cliff faces hard to miss. To the West lay the vastly more imposing Nabu range, its tallest peak easily arching into the planet's thin stratosphere. Its dominance of the landscape was absolute, and as the dots of holographic light continued to congeal, it became apparent that its mighty surfaces beyond those closest to the valley at its base were perpetually caked in snow and ice; few of its rocky outcrops lay exposed, with the majority at such an extreme angle that it would be nigh on impossible for any substance to adhere to them. The rest were a plethora of arctic valleys and soaring cliffs carved by the immense glaciers that flowed from the peak to its many surrounding compatriots. They would be mad, absolutely mad, to even consider climbing the beast – the surrounding hills would have been more than enough, being mountains in their own right and reaching high enough to trigger their associated hypoxia just thinking about it.

"There you go, Lieutenant," the Captain all but purred, offering the beaming man a grin of his own. "You've got seven minutes – go have an explore."

"With pleasure, Sir," Hendur responded with a broadening grin as his hands danced across his console in an enthusiastic flurry. Hardly a moment had passed before he'd shifted the hologram's focus outward, leaving the pale blues, violets, tangerines and glowing gold of the dying, purple-stained sunset and instead focusing on the climate of a location hundreds of kilometres away. "Hey, look; the orbit of this moon is so stable there are barely any seasons. These biomes look as though they've stayed fixed for centuries."

"Could have told you that," Suen murmured through a stony look, though he eventually conceded a softer smile. "Would have been nice to see it in the flesh. It's got bizarre long-term weather patterns compared to most of what we see due to its orbit around the Gas Giant, but the Giant's orbit around the star is circular enough that those bizarre patterns are historically pretty stable."

"You're right," Hendur murmured after another moment focused on his scans. He punctuated his thoughts by shifting to another biome again, flooding the Bridge with crashing waves, the water beneath the milky-white foam of their caps a vibrant teal. The land they pounded was glacial and icy, a thick blanket of snow enshrouding all but the tallest of native flora. "Seems it's just coming out of the shadow of the Giant; it's been winter for years, though the impending summer, so to speak, should blitz the majority of this ice."

"Surprised the whole lot wasn't frozen solid when we arrived," Shamar observed quietly.

"Atmosphere wouldn't allow it, Sir," the Lieutenant explained as his fingertips raced across his console. "There's also the constant radiation and gravitational pull from the Giant. The core appears to be significantly active, no doubt due to the Giant's gravity; it generates an impressive magnetosphere that keeps all but the heat of the radiation from reaching the ground, but it also seems to have caused some spectacular volcanic fissures throughout Syurga's history. Most of the carbon dioxide and associated muck is due to constant eruptions here and there – those mountains are the only relatively old range in this hemisphere."

"Yum," the Captain remarked, wrinkling his nose. "No marks for guessing why this has remained a military facility and little more for all these years."

"A beautiful one, mind," Suen quietly added. "Disregarding the obvious deathtrap status for a moment, imagine gazing up at that range above us each morning and evening. Always fascinating looking up at a Giant looming over you – and imagine the auroras during star-facing phases."

"You'd never sleep," the Captain grinned. "If you didn't get annihilated by constant earthquakes."

"This spot is good, though," Hendur remarked as he returned the holo display to their present valley, sandwiched between the purple-stained peaks and their opposing mitre-edged cliffs. "Probably one of the most stable places on the whole moon. Disregarding those monstrous mountains, there's very little tectonic activity. Great place for a military base."

"Speaking of which," Shamar interjected, reducing the halo of colour filling the Bridge to mere static with the tap of an index finger against his console, "Syurga will be hailing us in less than a minute. Lieutenants, perform your final checks of the cargo hold. Commander, get the rest of the ship on lockdown. I'll sort out comms here on the Bridge."

"Yes, Sir,"

Sixty minutes and counting.

Marching the length of the Starboard-side corridor toward the Bridge with more resignation than resolve, Suen found his mind straining at the leash he so often had firmly within his grasp, begging to meander, desperate to muse the mission that lay immediately before them, and resisting the demand to remain focused on the task of departure.

Drawing a breath, he pressed his eyes closed for a moment as he withdrew from the chaos in his mind with every ounce of deliberation and control he possessed; there was plenty of time for self-indulgent thinking once they were in hyperspace. Now was not the time.

Behind him came the tell-tale clomp-clomp of Asakku's rushed footfalls, apparently making haste having secured the contents of the cargo hold. It took little imagination to presume the Lieutenant's state of mind – though battle-hardened and enamoured by the machinations of violence, this would be his first interdiction mission. He was without question far more eager than Za'il himself to simply get going.

Neither Hendur nor Shamar himself had made it to the empty Bridge yet, apparently, though they weren't far away, judging by the commentary echoing down the Port-side corridor. It was a pattern they had long since fallen into, the procedure long since burned into their collective nerves and doled out by rote; orders, by this point, were merely ritual.

Pausing by the stasis unit closest to the Captain's console, the Commander turned toward the approaching Lieutenant with a nod. "Asakku, secure units B and C."

"Sir," the staunchly-built warrior acknowledged, stepping past the Commander as he crouched by the unit.

"And give Hendur a hand with unit D once you're done," he added with a casual wave, noting the other half of the skeleton crew making their way onto the Bridge.

"Sir," he acknowledged again, irritation creeping into his tone.

"You're early, Suen," came the Captain's somewhat amused voice; behind him, Hendur indulged a half-hearted smirk as the Captain simply gestured toward the remaining stasis units.

"As usual."

As Shamar made his way toward the Captain's chair, Suen noted a series of irritated grunts from the far end of the Bridge; apparently having come unstuck with the task assigned to him, Asakku appeared to consider employing his favoured method – brute force. The balled fist hovering above the uncooperative console left little to interpretation. Releasing a sigh, he made his way over to intervene before any lasting damage could be exacted.

"Lock's jammed," Asakku grunted through clenched teeth as he crouched in front of the malfunctioning stasis unit, having sensed Za'il's presence with nary a glance.

Pausing for thought, Suen crouched alongside the burly Lieutenant. Normally he would have preferred to pull it apart and inspect right there and then, but with the departure deadline looming there was little point in indulging compulsion in the name of thoroughness; the units weren't young, and it was likely to be resolved with routine maintenance anyway. "Fixable. Let's override for now – doubt we'll need them in the immediate future. I'll make a note to get the whole lot serviced at the next starbase."

"Sounds good to me," Aldamarak enthused, setting about pinning the override. "We'll sort the rest."

"Noted." Pressing himself to his feet, Suen cast a quick glance back at the Captain; hands caught in a flurry of activity, he thought better of interrupting his Commanding Officer's flow and instead crouched to double-check the first unit he'd attended to.

"What's going on with the units?" Without either looking up or pausing in what he was doing, Za'il had little doubt Shamar was addressing him.

"Had a lock-out on Unit C. Worth requesting a service at the next starbase – we're due a drydock overhaul soon anyway."

"I'll sort it. Thank you, Commander," Shamar acknowledged as Suen made his way toward the command console. "Status?"

"Stasis units A, B and C secured. Syurga station standing by." Crouching by the Captain's post, the Commander had noted the idle conversation beginning at the rear of the Bridge. Yes, shore leave was most certainly in order after this blasted mission. "Ready for navigation, Sir?"

"On it," the Captain nodded, engaging in a renewed flurry of activity. "Behind you."

By now Za'il's eyes were entirely immune to the sudden eruption of light from one end of the Bridge to the next, gaze already locked at the outer edges of the display as Hendur's fiddling brought him to the unit to the Captain's left. Aside from the piloting itself, the navigation process was easily his favourite part of the process; the galaxy was as familiar as an old friend, with only its furthest reaches outside his grasp.

"Emesh spur to your right, Suen," Shamar quietly instructed as he drew further detail; a plethora of planets burped into view around the periphery, and dare he say it, these were unfamiliar. "50-mark-223. Yellow G-type."

"All the way over there?" Scowling as he observed the galactic map reorient in a whirl the others often, perplexingly, described as dizzying, he let the mathematics roar through the back of his mind. "We're looking at a two-month voyage. That's quite a distance."

"Looks like we might need to look at those units once we're in orbit after all," Shamar scowled. "I'm not putting up with you three lunatics bouncing off the bulkheads for two months."

Refusing to take the bait, Suen chose to instead focus on the orbiting stars overhead; to the centre hung the star in question, of that much he was certain. A yellow G-type, plain and predictable, this had to be Utukka. Heavily laden with numerous planets, there were easily four candidates for the trouble planet amongst its children. "Which one, Sir?"

Shamar's hands lingered over the controls. "Really?"

Za'il shot his Commanding Officer a brief – albeit indignant – glare, before squinting at the circling orbs. He had to admit, it was a fair reaction; independent life often required the most habitable planets, and that almost exclusively required both abundant water and enough distance from the star to–

"Planet three."

"Very good," the Captain enthused. "Locking target."

It was a distinctive planet, the Commander realised as he observed it from the edge of the Bridge; its axial tilt was enough to induce seasons, its orbit hardly eccentric enough to be of note. Apparently the largest of the rocky planets in its system, its vast oceans appeared to dominate the southern hemisphere.

Blast his memory for these things. It would be a long time before he would scour the sight from his mind's eye. And after the warheads were dropped, there was little he would be able to do to expunge its appearance from his psyche. What colour were those oceans? Were they a predictable blue, a striking teal? Were they damn-near black like those of Sirara? Did the wildlife stain them purple like those of Edimmu?

What colour were Edimmu's dead oceans now?

A harsh, unnecessarily loud chirp ripped through the Bridge's atmosphere, echoing against the bulkheads. Reaching for the nearest wall console, Za'il dragged the message up, curious as to what could possibly be so important as to–

His face fell. "Captain. Priority One message from Syurga Station."

Hands once again momentarily freezing over his console, Shamar regarded his First Officer with a flash of irritated confusion before relenting; stabbing at the comms controls, he dismissed the star map, replacing it with the lone figure of Admiral Nusku, her ramrod-straight figure notably tense. Immediately it was apparent something was awry; the station's alarm klaxons echoed about the Juggernaut's halls over the comms.

"Captain Shamar. We are declaring a Code Red emergency station-wide, sub-code Omega. No one is to arrive, no one is to leave." There was, on closer inspection, a very real sense of panic that betrayed her hardened features, a oscillation in her cold voice, her quick words, that disavowed her rehearsed calm. A cold, sinking pit gripped at Za'il's stomach. "You are ordered to lock down your vessel, enter on-board stasis, and await recovery. Special Operations squadrons are enroute. Do not, under any circumstances, enter Syurga Station."

"Understood, Admiral," Shamar began after a moment's hesitation, "But–"

"You have your orders, Shamar," the Admiral barked. "Syurga out."

In a flash, the Bridge had faded to darkness. Whether or not it was his imagination, he was not sure, but Za'il could have sworn he'd overheard the crashing and banging of uncontained mayhem over the comms in the distance. Weapons fire, perhaps.

Springing to his feet, Shamar set about initiating lockdown procedures. "You heard the lady, you three. Into your pods."

As Hendur crouched by his unit, keying in the access code, he turned his attention toward the Captain. "What's sub-code Omega, Sir?"

"Loss of containment," he responded hastily, plugging in the last of his instructions before marching across the Bridge toward his stasis unit.

"Containment of what?"

"Rabizu," Suen interjected as he pulled the canopy of his unit free, "Judging by the tone of her voice, and the chaos in the backgrou–"

"No need for that, Commander," the Captain snapped as he clambered inside. "Just get in. We'll hold a debrief once Special Ops clears the place."

Even the promise of Special Ops and the promise of isolation within the Juggernaut were little comfort as the thought, barely a seed, quickly grew roots; as the canopy locked in place, as the mask fell and the conduits interfaced with his suit, the implications of Rabizu echoed louder and louder in his rapidly emptying mind, resisting the call of sleep as the cold, black tendrils of stasis dragged him under.

The very last thought in the encroaching abyss, that artificial night, resonated against its narrowing walls, all teeth and claws and mechanised horror.

A/N: Same shit, different bucket.

If you haven't read it, this story follows the events of Those Whom Fortunes Favours through different eyes. The sequel to both is The Redemption, and more will follow after that. You can access both via my profile/bio, or by desperately hunting through the Prometheus category and crossovers...

...speaking of crossovers, apologies to everyone that got that strange alert. This isn't a crossover, obviously, I'm just losing my darn marbles.