Skritka looked sadly over Grak-Yurp’s broken form, which lay wrapped in bandages and and covered in IVs and sensors in the hospital wing of the Undercity. He had been dug up out of the rubble of his office, more of his bones broken than not. That he’d survived as long as he had was something of a miracle according to the doctors.

“Old friend,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Large, warty eyelids flickered open, revealing glossy golden eyes. “Skritka,” said Grak-Yurp, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Don’t be sorry. You were the best Prime Minister I could have worked with.”

“Grak, you’re awake!” said Skritka. “Sit back and be quiet, though. Save your strength.”

“For what?” laughed Grak-Yurp softly. “I am dying, Skritka.”

Skritka hung his head. “Who can I call for you?”

“No one,” said Grak-Yurp sadly. “I loved this Republic, and I gave everything to it. My family is all gone, and you are my closest friend. I hate to leave it and you now, on the eve of our greatest triumph.”

Skritka frowned. The poor creature was delusional now, but if these were his last moments, Skritka wouldn’t sully them by reminding him of their current predicament.

“Progenitor keep me,” said Grak-Yurp, his voice now as distant as his eyes. “And may he shine on you, old friend.” His eyes fluttered closed again and he sighed gently, his body going limp.

Skritka hung his head, sitting by him a few moments longer as medical machines beeped and doctors and nurses ran to and fro, hoping in vain to revive Grak-Yurp’s remains.

The days passed by slowly, but each one came with a little more clarity. It was clear to him that he was a prisoner, but that was better than scrambling over the rocks like the beast he used to be, dodging infantry patrols. The regular meals were one of the greatest benefits. He had jumbled memories of better food, but the humble plates that were slid into his cell three times a day were the best meals he'd had in years.

He was unable to reach out to the guards telepathically, evidently because his cell was designed to suppress psychic powers. Given that he did not know the language of his captors, he found himself entirely unable to communicate.

He was just finishing his breakfast when a group entered the small prison block he'd been locked away in.

Four heavily armored soldiers led the way, followed by three black-clad agents and a short administrator of some kind with a furry face and small, round spectacles. He recognized the first seven as the warriors who had drugged him and taken him captive. He shuddered in particular upon seeing the dour-faced one who had stuck a needle into his hand. They spoke to each other in their strange language as he nervously looked on. The bespectacled one nodded and something changed. A humming he had not noticed stopped suddenly.

Friend? inquired a strangely familiar voice.

He looked around and spotted the agent who’d first approached him, a stern-looking creature with sandy blonde hair and sharp green eyes. He seemed to be of the same race as the dour-faced agent.

Prisoner, he replied.

Name? asked the friendly one.

No know, he answered.

It was true. He didn’t know what his name was. He remembered a better time, a scary time, and a worse time. He remembered blood and battle and screaming, but it all felt foreign and fuzzy.

You name? he ventured.

“Darvik,” spoke the creature aloud.

“Darvik,” he repeated. He pointed at his plate. Food good.

Good, said Darvik with a smile. He turned back to his comrades, showing special deference to the bespectacled one.

Unable to make out what they were saying, the prisoner sat down on the bench at the back of his cell. After a moment, Darvik nodded to him in what appeared to be a friendly goodbye and walked out of the room with the others. The nearly imperceptible humming returned.

Farbin's new body floated out in the aether. He boarded a shuttle and flew to it, his heart racing for the last time. The sleek, serpentine vessel was nearly ten miles long, the head itself about half a mile long and a quarter mile wide. The segmented body that followed it, filled with all manner of drones and hibernating beast soldiers, would serve as Farbin’s supply depot, while the head would be the command center.

His shuttle landed in the main hangar, located where the serpent’s–his own–mouth was. He stepped down with his captains and Commander Cenfil. He did his best to suppress the smile that threatened to mar his freshly shaved face as a priestess greeted him in the hangar, nodding her greeting and leading him through the winding corridors to the main command center.

“Stand here,” she said, indicating a space in the middle of the floor. “The rest of you, stand witness, as the Council watches also. Today, Herald Farbin becomes Farbin, World Serpent of Griffonia.”

Something in Farbin’s heart told him to run as a machine came down from the high ceiling and approached the back of his head, but he crushed the impulse. A series of needles stabbed into his spine and skull. It was excruciating, but he clenched his fists and trembled, unwilling to scream out as his brain was linked physically to the ship. Next, the machine that had bitten onto his skull meticulously began severing his head from his body, splicing pipes and arteries together as it went. Finally, his body slumped to the floor and a trap door opened below it, a suction system pulling the refuse down into a series of grinders and centrifuges that would recycle the components. His newly-freed head rose away from it as the machine retracted into the wall, his head now part of it. A visor closed over his eyes, multiple screens showing him the feeds from his various cameras.

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“It is complete,” said the Priestess. “How do you feel, World Serpent?”

Farbin paused as he felt out his new body. He tried to stretch like he would in his old body, but the movement was unsatisfying. It was too mechanical, and brought no relief. He had not expected that. No matter, he was a world serpent now. He would grow used to his body.

“I feel excellent, Priestess,” he replied. “Leave me. I must guard my new world.”

Nodding once more, the Priestess left along with Farbin’s captains and commander.

Once they were gone, Farbin scrolled through his cameras, tested his thrusters, even fired his cannons off into the aether. All of it felt the same, as though he were using a machine rather than personally doing a thing. Perhaps that was typical, and it would fade with time. Or perhaps reality was not going to live up to the dream.

Skritka walked through the Undercity escorted by Grepk’s Marines, the RTS agents having split off to go back to their duties. He saw one of Jrenka’s pictures hanging on the wall, this a stylized portrait of the beast soldier, his oversized hands gripping prison bars. The poster read “CAPTURED! The Drakmundi are not as strong as they believe.”

Someone had taken a red marker and scrawled “kill the monster” over the face. Skritka shook his head. The creature–the person–he'd just visited certainly wasn't acting like a monster.

At first it seemed as though Creddik’s attack had lobotomized the creature somehow. But upon further study, the “beast” had developed manners of some kind, clearly savoring its meals, making eye contact with visitors, and attempting to communicate, as though brain damage actually resulted in a more sensible person. What they really needed was the ability to replicate the experiment. However, no one had left the Undercity since the hills had been bombed.

The bombs had killed a few civilians as well as the Executor, but most injuries were minor. The loss of Grak-Yurp was a blow to the Republic, but for the moment Skritka was simply glad it hadn't been worse. As he pondered their predicament, his comm buzzed in his breast pocket. He answered immediately, seeing it was from the Keep.

“Sir!” said the communications officer. “I'm patching Admiral Trich through, sir.”

“Standing by,” answered Skritka, his heart in his throat as he waited for the news.

“Prime Minister?” said Trich. “We sent them packing, sir. The cage shields work. We won.”

Skritka nearly collapsed with joy and relief. He had wanted to watch the battle from his office, but there was too much else to do, and a constant ripmed stream was a massive energy drain that they did not need at the moment.

Supplies were running lower than he cared to admit. The fungal gardens were being harvested too quickly, the vegetable gardens were struggling in the artificial light, and the nonperishable food was quickly running out. The situation in the other cities was just as dire. They needed this win.

“That's- that's wonderful news,” said Skritka. “Providence has shined on us this day. Gather your armada and make any and all repairs with all possible haste. It's time to liberate Griffonia.”

Vanbrook woke up lying partly upright on a thin but passable mattress, beeps, mechanical humming and the stringent smell of disinfectant all around him. He was all too familiar with the sensations of being in the Shepherd’s medbay, so he knew where he was even before his eyes fluttered open.

“Well, well, well, he’s awake,” said a groggy voice from the bed next to his.

He turned towards it and saw Raivyn, looking healthy but exhausted and eating a small cup of pudding. She smiled at him.

“What are you in for?” he asked, absently returning the smile.

“I overexerted myself psychically fighting the beast soldiers,” she explained. “Used too much energy in too short a time, and fired a T-bolt with a personal record for magnitude to finish. I asked to keep an eye on you, and Doc insisted I get some bed rest while I did.”

“You can do that?” asked Vanbrook. “Hurt yourself using your powers?”

Raivyn shrugged. “Only in a perfect storm of stress, overexertion, and prolonged usage. And I’ll be fine, I’m just exhausted. How about you? How’s your arm?”

He looked down to see his arm was laying across his torso in a soft cast or sling of some kind. “Uh… alright, I guess? I feel okay, but I’m probably pumped full of painkillers right now, right?”

“That is correct,” said Doc, entering the room. “But believe me, you could have done a lot worse. Your arm isn’t broken and should heal correctly with time.”

“Good to know,” said Vanbrook, studying his bandaged arm.

“Notice I said ‘should’ and ‘with time,’” insisted Doc. “You’re going to listen to me and spend whatever time we have between here and Griffonia on light duty and doing whatever physical therapy I tell you to.”

“When are we heading back to Griffonia?” asked Vanbrook.

“Glad to know what I said sunk in,” huffed Doc.

“As soon as the armada is in fighting shape,” said Reclan, walking into the room. “Which shouldn’t be too much longer. The Dagger was easily the most damaged in the battle. The Drakmundi were prepared to take their time and pick us off at their leisure, and their lack of offensive weapons really bit them when we were able to evade their stupid disruptors and then bypass their shields on top of it.”

“Will they beat us home, then?” asked Vanbrook.

“Probably,” said Reclan.

“That means they’ll all be in one place,” said D’Jarric, stepping into the room. “We can finish them off and then destroy that ring. Maybe that’ll be the last we see of them.”

“That sounds a little too optimistic,” said Raivyn. “And don’t forget, there’s an unknown number of beast soldiers on the surface of Griffonia.”

“Oh, don’t trouble us with facts, Rai,” said Vanbrook with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Well, I fear she may be right,” said D’Jarric with a shrug. He got a far-off look in his eyes again that Vanbrook found disquieting. “And it’s good to see you awake and well, Van.”

“Thanks, DJ,” replied Vanbrook, scooching down into his mattress and lying back. “I was pretty glad I woke up.”

“Alright, everybody, give my patient here some space,” said Doc. “That includes you, Raivyn,” he added pointedly. “You’re plenty healthy enough to get up and see if the Admiral could use you for anything.”

Crush came out of the final jump of her journey, the Amalgam appearing just outside of Kirakna’s orbit. She had been informed by Hacksaw via ripmed that the battle for Kirakna had already been won, but that they would soon be taking the fight to Griffonia. She hailed the Blue Griffon Fleet.

“Hello, Admiral Hunt,” she said when the young officer answered her call. “The Amalgam is reporting for duty.”

“That’s some ship you have there, Admiral,” said Hunt. “Or should I call you Guardian, now?”

“Admiral will do nicely, Admiral,” she said. She was starting to come to terms with her role as a Guardian, but she felt a bit strange claiming the title after leaving Cradle the way she had.

“Very well,” said Hunt. “We’re working on repairing the damage sustained in the battle and, hopefully, pushing the refugees on towards Hittania or towards the Cornucopia Cluster. I’m sure Captain Hacksaw will be able to catch you up more completely on the situation. For the time-being we are repairing and restocking. I suggest you take the time we have to do the same.”

“I will do that, Admiral Hunt,” she replied.

“Providence shine on you, Admiral Crush,” he said.

“On you as well,” answered Crush.

Ending the call, Crush reached out to Hacksaw. He gave her the coordinates for where he and the rest of the FRF fleet were located. She piloted the Amalgam to the coordinates, pleased with how the hybrid ship sailed through the aether. A strange shudder ran through her being, seeming to start in her core and radiate out to her extremities. She felt as though it was a premonition of evil. However, the feeling dissipated as quickly as it had come on, so she shook her head and continued on. The galaxy needed saving, so she was going to help save it.