Alex, Alissa, and Lulu Lulululu were together, Lulululululu— the tiny pixy of a 27 year old woman with hot neon pink hair so vibrant it looked like a single sheet of saturated color— riding on top of Alex’s soldiers with his sister pinned to his arm. The siblings both had blonde hair, but Alex’s had little strips and speckles of white in it while Alissa’s had black highlights. When they first came into the base Raethor had made them both shave their heads to get rid of the “unnatural” color, so when it grew back with the streaks still in place he almost had a fit. Only after they reminded him they had pleaded for him to let them keep it in the first place because it had been natural all along did he slightly calm down under the knowledge that no hair dye had entered his base in at least a decade. When Lulu came after them he almost fell over and convulsed, but by that point he had calmed down from leading a base with no superiors and had himself started to wear his characteristic insanities on the outside. Lulu therefore had no such requirement, which was quite fortunate as her hair was so long it could almost touch the floor. It also helped that she had been brought in as a specialist marksman that some said was an even better shot than Peter, though Anya had seen no such direct evidence for this herself. She tended to train in private and Raethor allowed this as it was one of the conditions of her assignment to his squadron. Why he had been surprised by her appearance despite knowing of her in advance was unclear, however.

These three were relatively close to Central Command, so they simply took the next right instead of left to head towards the alternative destination. The last four were by far the hardest to convince. It was always a special kind of torment to speak to Will, and perhaps worse that Jessica would be there to goad him on. The bitch had him wrapped around her finger and didn’t give anything but her momentary gratification a second thought. Their love to try and lick Raethor’s toes through the boot-leather gave them special status among the rank and file, and as such they hated taking orders from the others, even if they were dictated from above. Anya especially, being the longest-serving of them all, was known to be one of Ratheor’s special children he would delegate tasks through. Whenever this happened it reminded the four problem children that their natural-born place was not, in fact, with their tongues stapled to Raethor’s asshole ready to receive the glory of his ambition as he surely rose through the ranks over time. No, Anya had that position, and they didn’t.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Please report to block forty-six,” she half commanded, half pleaded, through teeth that felt like an amalgamation of sand and rocks.

“No.” Dio snapped back.

“You can’t give us orders!” Jessica added.

The pain of speaking through cracked teeth had tightened the muscles in Anya’s neck and started giving her a tension headache. The pain itself was muted through the stretched nerve lines, but it was yet another sensation to keep track of and ignore.

“Per guidance, Central is to be assum—”

“And yet you said to go to Central. Curious. Why the correction? Has your thick, primitive, female skull been compromised more than it already was?” There was Jesús’ trademark racism. Or, well, sexism in this case. Anya almost wanted to let them go to Central and die, but unfortunately if they did it would mean the base was as or more compromised than she and Raethor feared. It would also mean less hands on deck and less bodies they could throw at the problem in a pinch.

“Ignore previous guidance. Please report to block forty-six. This is a direct order from Commander Raethor.”

Dio stepped on one of her mouths that had unkindly opened on the floor. Her true hands snapped to the face out of habit, but the pain was less annoying than the gesture. The lines only had so much pain to transmit, but Dio’s actions could transmit intent just as well as if she were actually there. His tall, muscular frame made for an imposing figure, and the fact he wore his uniform a size too small made every movement of it ripple like a miniature version of Raethor. His, at least, was not exposing bare skin, but not for lack of will to strip. Anya was certain Dio would if Raethor would let him, but his uniform was already barely above standard. Making another exception would be a bridge too far, even for Raethor, and especially for a figure that, while imposing, made a mediocre shot. But Anya would make one more attempt to convince them.

“I was wrong, but are you really going to disobey the Commander? Here as our base is breached? Now as you have the chance to outshine me?”

They were silent, but she knew this meant success.