Crossing Volari

Command Center 

The brains of the massive Sanctuary colony ship are found in this brightly-lit chamber atop the highest point of the upper curve of the orb. Steps lead down from a narrow observation platform into the command center proper. Beeps and hushed information are perpetually conveyed by the dozens of command staff present, protected by dozens of uniformed and armed Defense Force officers.

Directly forward lay three curved, two-story tall viewscreens, placed beside each other to form a panoramic display. Several smaller screens, those showing some esoteric information that bears significance to something, branch off from the information landscape. Embedded consoles with a plethora of flashing lights and dials curve around the lower section of the command center, some directly underneath the raised observation portion. These are complemented by free-standing terminals arranged in neatly rectangular form on the main floor.

Clop, clop, clop. The black armored Nall, Xar of Hatch Kavir, enters the command centre with his usual dignity and poise. His tail points out straight behind him, unmoving with a level of military discipline not easily obtained. The light shines off his heavily polished black combat armor, as well as the jewels on his scabbard. He is generally a sight to behold - but then again, so are most Clawed Fist Fleet warriors.

Latimer straightens and holds his glass up, "I give you the..." he pauses, obviously about to make the traditional Sivadian toast to the King, but then lowers his glass an inch, and says, "No, I suppose that wouldn't be appropriate." He then raises the glass again and says more tentaively, "The Vox?"

"Glory of Nalia," Volari echoes, raising his glass before drinking deeply. "Now Latimer, I want you to put your drink on the table there and have a seat. I need to decide if you're going to prove valuable to the Parallax," clearing his throat he juts a thumb up toward Xarkavir, "Or if my good friend and honored Huth will have to puncture your throat and strap you up near Cottington. Which, by the way, would be a tremendous amount of work that neither I nor Xarkavir wants to spend the energy completing." He smiles delicately, pointing at the chair. "Sit."

Apparently, the Huth entered the command centre at just the right moment. His jaw lolls in amusement for a few seconds as he waits for Volari to complete his business with the human. In Nialese, he says, "I am here of no pressing concern, Grand Inquisitor. Please continue."

Latimer finishes drinking the toast, then puts the drink down and takes the offered seat, sitting down. He pales a bit, but then says, "Allright, Inquisitor."

"Grand Inquisitor," Volari corrects, shooting a sideways glance toward the Nall at the top of the command stairwell. "What is it you actually do, Latimer, other than a Sivadian accent so poor that if you attempted it on stage you'd be wearing tomato paste for the next three weeks?"

Xarkavir's tongue flicks out into the cool recycled air, the small red-ish piece of flesh almost immediatly returning to its safe haven in the Nall's mouth. His jaw continues to loll in its place - He obviously finds the nervousness of the human and the antics of the Grand Inquisitor to be quite amusing.

"Grand Inquisitor." Latimer repeats with a nod. "Very well. I was Attorney General of this station. The chief prosecutor. I was also a member of the Internal Affairs committee." With a grim smile he admits, "What I do now is obviously up to you."

"Internal affairs?" Volari nearly chokes on the smoke wafting up from his cigarette. "Let me tell you something about internal affairs, you paradise-dwelling, specialist-crafting, tea-drinking imbicile." Volari snorts, continuing, "We have a group of rebels consisting of some of the most dangerous - and beautiful, I might add, very beautiful in nearly every case - women running about on the internal sectors of this craft. Those are the internal affairs." His lips curling he glances toward Xarkavir, "Just what, Mr. Latimer, do you intend to do about that?"

Latimer pales for only a second, before his features harden a bit, "What do I intend to do, Grand Inquisitor? If you kill me, I won't do anything. I will be dead." He smiles grimly, "Otherwise, I would have engineering check for drops in power, water, and air such that some might be getting siphoned off, and track them to wherever they are."

"This boy has a point," Volari says toward Xarkavir, smiling. "I guess that's why you're in charge of internal affairs. Law school teach you to think critically like that or is it an innate talent?" He waves his fingers, "Get off the chair, finish your drink. Cigarette?" He points toward the pack near the navigation console.

Latimer stands, as requested, and picks up his drink, but declines the cigarette, "No, thank you, I don't smoke." He sighs, "I wasn't in charge of internal affairs, I was just a member of the committee. It was all the department heads. And as a matter of fact, no, they don't teach that in law school." He kills the drink in a single gulp, then puts the glass down on the table.

Xarkavir remains quite silent during the little sarcastic conversation going on beetween stupid Sivadian Softskin and the Grand Vollistan Softskin. He doesn't really try to answer the Grand Inquisitor, except for maybe blinking the Nall way once. However, his amusement soon fades as the conversation grows more serious. Now, his tail begins to swoosh to and fro.

"Well that's a damn shame, my friend, because I'm putting you in charge of mobilizing your suggestion." Volari smirks, taking a curt sip from his drink and setting it near the navigation console. "You have twenty four hours to assemble engineers, begin a search and report back to me. If you are successful in this matter, we will see about giving you certain priorities aboard this ship." He looks toward Xarkavir, "And what will happen, most honored Huth, if he is not successful in this matter?"

"Impossible." Latimer answers, "This station is the size of a moon, we wouldn't be able to find them so quickly." He frowns. "And, other than staying alive, why should I help you? Chances are if I find them, you'll kill me anyway."

Xarkavir's jaw drops down once more, the tail stopping now that something exciting may be happening once more. In his version of Terran, he intones, "I will ssssssshow him Nalia'ssssss mersssssssy for thosssssse who fail to do what isssss told of them." The jaw remains dropped to accent his suggestion.

Volari shrugs, "Very well. We'll kill you now." He glances toward Xarkavir and curls his fingers, "He's all yours Huth. But do it quickly, Two Tails One Heart premieres on channel seven in twenty minutes and I'd rather not have to smell the gore while I enjoy it." Smirking, he tosses his cigarette against the viewscreen and lights another.

Xarkavir opens his mouth to say something, but ends up not coming through with that. It seems he'll leave the debate to his mind, as his jaw continues to loll there in amusement. He glances at one of his claws, and then at his sword. He seems to decide on the former, leaving the metal weapon of death clean. He slowly begins to approach Julius Latimer, perhaps to build suspense and terror as his tail begins to swoosh around once more.

Latimer turns very, very pale, his eyes widening as they take in the Nall. He takes a deep breath, his hands trembling, and opens his mouth, as if to say something. He gets out the first syllable, "Wai..." but then snaps his mouth shut and tugs on his waistcoat. "M-m-m-make it quick, then." he says, mustering what dignity he can, even though he sways uneasily on his feet.

Now, in front of Latimer, the Nall gets ready to pounce. Just as he looks like he's winding up for the jump onto Latimer's head, he pulls out his sword and slashes at Latimer's neckline, aiming for decapitation.

"Hold Xarkavir," Volari commands, stepping forward toward the man. "You see Latimer, I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anyone for that matter, but there are certain things that are neccessary for the Glory of Nalia, Vox Ockvril to be pleased. And abolishing this rebel force is one of them." He quirks an eyebrow, "I'm not asking you for results tomorrow - I'm asking you for a report. And a report the day after, and the day after that, until we've found them. It's a better option then my friend Xarkavir offers, wouldn't you say?"

Xarkavir almost reaches the throat and the soft flesh of the man, almost, but he stops an instant before it begins its slide, quickly pulls it back and sheaths it, jaw still lolling in amusement. He must find this to be quite funny.

Latimer had shut his eyes as the Nall approached, and clenched his jaw. He now opens one eye curiously, then sighs and opens the other. Then, his entire body seems to shake.

Xar's mouth emits the Nall equivalent of a laugh, which is some loud hissing, apparently. He slowly backs off, farther and farther from the man until he is a few feet away from Volari. There, he pauses, tapping one of his claws against the hilt of his sword, his eyes still glued to Latimer's face.

"What do you say, Mr. Latimer?" Volari asks simply, "Wouldn't you like another drink?"

Latimer licks his lips and swallows, "No." He says, dryly, and then after another swallow in a more normal voice, "No, I'm not thristy, thank you." He takes several more deep breaths, the pallor slowly returning to his cheeks.

"You piss yourself, Sivadian?" Volari asks starkly.

"No, Grand Inquisitor, I did not." Latimer replies frankly.

If a Nall could arch an eyebrow, then now would definately be the time that Xar of Hatch Kavir would do so. As is, he looks towards the Vollistan with a rather confused look on his face - namely, his nostrils are flared for a moment.

Volari laughs, taking a long drag from the cigarette. "So what do you say, baby? Helping the Parallax achieve a simple goal like this sounds pretty good, wouldn't you say?" The aura surrounding him darkens a hue in color.

Latimer glances at the cigarette, "Those will kill you, you know." he remarks, then, "But I imagine you won't live long enough for it to matter." His own laugh is dark, "The Parallax... Well, I suppose there's something to be said for dying later rather than now."

Volari withdraws a long piece of cyllindrical steel from the cloak that is draped over his shoulders. Hoisting the lead pipe tightly in his hands, he moves toward Latimer. "I'm sorry, Sivadian. I don't think I heard you correctly. Were you predicting my life span?" The dilated pupils fixate intently upon Latimer's.

Xarkavir gives an angry hiss in the direction of Latimer, bearing his talon for the man to see. However, he does not apparently intend to use it for the moment. Or maybe he is. He begins to move towards the man once more.

Latimer doesn't blink at Volari's gaze, "Why, Grand Inquisitor... Have I in some way offended you..." He shakes his head and then says, "I was merely concerned about your health. Unfortunately for me, I'm not mystic, I don't predict anything." He laughs again, but this time the tinge is different, perhaps madness, and his hands shake a bit more.

Also unfortunately for Latimer, Xarkavir unsheathes his sword once more. However, he doesn't go for the head or anything 'vital' like that. His sword is slashing at the man's shaking hand, right at the wrist. No hand, no shaking, no madness.

Sarcasm leaks into the saliva that is expectorated onto Latimer's forehead as Volari moves closer. "I believe I understand." Smirking, he continues, "You see, when you predicted my life would end soon, I thought it was a threat of some sort or an assumption that this feeble resistance would win against the might of the Parallax's talons." Laughing sardonically, the Light Singer shakes his head. "But actually it was a concern for my health? Let me tell you something you feeble-minded whore, I don't need your concern. Nor your treacherous insolence. Allow me to demonstrate the strength of a Nialese talon." He looks toward Xarkavir, "Hold him in the chair, most honored Huth. If your nails pierce his muscles, I won't hold much regret."

Latimer seems almost calm as his hand dissapears, bright, thick drops of blood falling to the floor. Or at least, he seems calm for a moment, before a single, muffled scream, and his undamaged right hand goes to the stump, the blood running through his fingers and over his expensive shirt and suit. Perhaps it did manage to restore his sanity, though, as he looks up at Volari and says, "I'm not your whore, though, Volari. I doubt you're man enough anyway. Sod off."

Xarkavir's eye slits narrow as his bloody sword completes its arc and the man's hand falls onto the floor. He doesn't bother to clean the blood on the blade for the moment, gripping the small sword with one talon and pointing the other one accusingly at Julius. "You will do what the Grand Inquisssssssitor sssssaysssss, Ssssssoftsssssskin, unlesssss you wisssssh to loosssssse your arm."

"I don't think you understand, you specialist-f***ing Enajian." Volari chortles as he closes in his approach toward the man, tossing the lead pipe a few inches into the air and catching it, as if preparing to shoot free throws. "You and that egomaniacal coward David Porter seem to think that the Parallax is full of lies and insolence. But you're wrong - dead wrong." He quirks a stiletto-thin eyebrow, "I make simple requests based on the will of Vox Ockvril, Glory of Nalia. All I ask is that you follow them with a smile." He shakes his head, "I invite you to my personal quarters, I give you fine La Terren scotch, I offer you a seat and an occupation." He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "And you take it in, eat it up and spit it back in my face. Are you really that dense? Hasn't Haskins created a drug to eliminate idiots like you in the first trimester?"

"Not y-y-yet." Latimer offers through gritted teeth, his vision fogged with the pain of the amputated hand, the blood still running from the stump, "W-w-what you want is impos-im-impossible. Station's too big. Too many places to hide." He grimaces again, swaying on his feet.

Xarkavir seems to grow more and more impatient at Latimer's "softskin incompetence". He walks right up to the man, sword still gripped in one talon. "You sssssoftssssskin fool! He did not asssssk for you to clean thessssssse rebelssssss out of the ssssssstation. He assssssssked for a report!"

"And if I told you a week ago that the Parallax would conquer three planets and the largest vessel ever creation in an hour, you'd call that impossible as well." Volari says in flat monotone, his eyes never parting ways with Latimer's face. "Cottington did - and look where that got him." Turning from the Sivadian, he begins to pace, "You see Mr. Latimer, there's an old poem that I like to recite before I kill someone. It's Shakespeare, fitting words to slip from this existance." Clearing his throat, he taps the end of the lead pipe in his free palm, "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day." He paces back toward the man, "To the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death." Rearing back, he swings the lead pipe but stops it an inch before the man's nose. "Out, out brief," pausing, the Light Singer frowns. "Brief? Brief what?" Turning he walks away from the man, his brow tersed in thought. "Brief lantern? No, no that's not it. Brief?" Wrinkling his nose, he curses softly, "Dammit." Turning back with a smile he watches Latimer. "I haven't killed anyone in a very long time, you see. My memory has rusted like the superstructure of this ship." Turning toward Xarkavir, he nods his head, "Take him to the Hades, my new vessel and chain him to a utility crate within the hull. When we arrive on Val Shohob, we'll take a pound of his flesh each day and feed it to the captured Mystics." Snorting, he smiles fiercly at the Sivadian. "You've bought yourself some time my friend." He settles into the command chair, lighting a cigarette. "And Xarkavir? Find a bandage for the wound - the Parallax does not believe in inhumane treatment."

Xarkavir sticks his sword out, wiping the bloody part of it with the navy trousers that Latimer has on. He hisses in delight, now sheathing the tool of sentient butchery, and lets his jaw drop down once more, again, in amusement at the Softskin's plight. His head turns towards Volari. In Nialese, he says, "Of course, Grand Inquisitor. Would you like him chained or /nailed/ to the crate?"

"Chained. No need in giving the Mystics tetnus." Volari replies simply.

Latimer grips his wound tightly, and now stares at the Vollistan with open hostility, "I al-almost said yes." he mutters, then looks at the Nall as he speaks, perhaps sensing a bit of the hostility, but straightens his posture as much as he can, "Good bye, Volari. It hasn't..." he grits his teeth, staggering from pain and loss of blood, "...b-b-been a pleasure."

"And it's the almosts that will do you in when it's all said and done, I fear." Volari says through a cloud of exhaled smoke.

"Stiff upper lip, wot wot?" Volari jokes to himself, flipping on the holoviewer by pressing a button on the command console. What appears to be a Grimladhi action history set on Mars plays. Changing the channel, the Light Singer intones, "This is much to violent."

Nall warriors are the resourceful type, apparently. Out of a pouch on his armor, Xar pulls out a roll of bandage, strips a piece off and hands it to Latimer. "Clean yoursssssself up, Sssssoftssssskin." He hands a few extra pieces to the man, most likely out of spite. To Volari, in Nialese, "Then it shall be so, Grand Inquisitor." And now to Latimer, in Terran. "Come now, Terran. We sssssshall have you accomodated."

[Loudspeaker] Sanctuary janitorial staff to the command center, please. Seems I need a hand. Cleaned up.

Volari flips off the intercom and laughs, reaching over to top off his glass with the remaining scotch.

Latimer seals his wounds as best he can, the clotting having already begun, his stump sticky with drying blood. He cradles the ruin of his arm to his chest. "Of course." he remarks resignedly, then shoots a glance to Volari, "At least I haven't betrayed my race, Inquisitor. When the Parallax are done with you, we'll see which of us was more the fool."

Again, the Nall feels obliged to use physical force. However, this time it is not with the sharp end of the blade, but the hilt. Xar removes the sword, clasps the sharp end on the blunt side with his claws and smash it into Latimer's ribs.

Latimer doubles over and falls to the deck, hard. He reaches out to catch himself, but the hand is no longer there, and his head smashes into the hard steel with a sickening thunk. He falls to the deck, blinks once, and falls blissfully unconscious.

Xarkavir sheathes the blade once more and decides to finish the job that Latimer started by bandaging his stump. In Nialese, he remarks, "His hand is not even a worthy trophy because he is such a dishonourable coward." He begins to lift Latimer to his shoulders to bring him to the ship.