SOCL

Kyrtos, very well put. I think one major difference between Australia and the USA is that the USA was founded on the concept of complete and utter independence, and it hinged entirely on the people having firearms and using them against the government over them--essentially, it's too ingrained in the culture to be changed or even weathered, excluding, of course, years and years, decades and decades (maybe even with a few centuries thrown in). I know this might anger a few people, but I think the comparison is legitimate: look at the flag of Mozambique. It has an AK-47 on it, but why? Because it was the AK-47 being used by the common people against the government over them that gave the people of Mozambique their liberty. I'm hardly saying that the American flag has or should have a firearm on it, but the culture-of-gun is very, very similar in that respect. People in Mozambique view AK-47s rather the same way people in the States, and especially the more rural areas, view shotguns and rifles. It's a cultural symbol, and one that will not easily be erased. In the same way, the machete in Puerto Rico (where I'm from) is very cultural because when the Puerto Ricans rose against the Spanish colonists, they had no other weapons but the humble machetes they owned for harvesting bananas, plantains, and sugar-cane. By the way, Kyrtos, something else that seems to be a recent cultural phenomena in the States is a complete and utter distrust of news agencies, all of them dismissed as being "biased" towards a certain view (note I didn't say "biased to a certain extent"). In most cases, those with a more liberal leaning cite FOX News and most NewsCorps networks as being favorable towards the political-right, while those being conservative leaning believe it is a just and unbiased perspective, and the same applies to CNN, but from the opposite point-of-view. Here in the States, most debates and discussions, unfortunately, end with one side simply dismissing the other based on their source of information, thus ending any true debate of an issue. Hell, it's the reason I watch the BBC and listen to NPR for most of my news--and yet there are those, displeased by a few things either or both of those says, that say that both or either are liberal. After a while, I stopped believing them, and especially the conservative view, because it seemed no one except their favored venue (in the conservative case, FOX News) could be considered objective...whatever objective means--after all, how can you actually measure the concept of "objective"? But I digress...

I don't see a reason for anyone needing and thus owning a gun. I do not believe that people need a firearm to protect themselves in case someone breaks into the house, especially since the odds of one being able to get to the firearm and using it against a robber are so low because the intruder already has the advantage of surprise. In any event, I personally do not believe firearms are necessary and rather like the way Australia handles it--if I understand correctly, the public can't own weapons. Living in Washington, DC where gun crimes are so prevalent where we lost six kids two days ago to a gun-related crime, I believe that firearms are unnecessary and utterly dangerous in the hands of the public. As for the law, the "right to bear arms" was written in a different time when the idea of arming the people and rising up against the government is a prevalent one. I find it interesting that in many discussions about this topic, conservatives say they may one day need firearms to rise against our government when they are the most pro-USA-government in the nation... Sorry, perhaps that's irrelevant, but this "right to bear arms" is, in my opinion, obsolete in the modern day, and a law should be made to amend this. That being said, I really don't want to see what happens when the ATF, assisted by the FBI and local law enforcement, has to go door-to-door and take firearms from people's houses...or, worse, their cold, dead hands (or however the saying goes). I can, unfortunately, see many of these gun-toting individuals using their firearms against legally-sanctioned law enforcement officers carrying out the law (in the particular hypothetical situation I mentioned). It's not a particular prospect I'd like to see. Still, I believe that fewer firearms will result in fewer firearm-related crimes. And, please, let's not go into this nonsense about needing firearms to protect yourself against people with firearms, because there are going to be guns anyway. The logic to that simply is: "Since there are going to be guns anyway, I need more guns to protect myself against guns." The threat/promise of mutual extermination is, I believe, negative and should not exist (in fact, I think we discussed this before after the Virginia Tech shootings). Granted, the vacuum a lack of guns will create in crimes will likely be filled with knives and bats, but let's be realistic--you are more likely to survive a knife wound or attack with a baseball bat than you are a gunshot. And, if we want to reduce ourselves to the idea of someone using a katana, then let's remember one thing: you have to option to run, something a gun does not afford you. In the end, though, I'm a practical person: realistically, in a country whose founding hinged on the basis of the people arming themselves against the government, firearms are embedded in the culture and are not going away. That being said, they are not necessarily safe, even in the hands of trained individuals and law-abiding citizens, and should, therefore, be regulated and registered, if only to reduce the odds of their getting into the hands of the irresponsible and criminal. If, as people say, law-abiding citizens shouldn't have to give up their guns, then law-abiding citizens shouldn't have anything to worry about by telling the government they own a gun. No one is asking them to say anything more private than the information one gives for the census, after all.

It's been about a week since my last post, so... Has anyone noticed that Jon Stewart's show is called A Daily Show with Jon Stewart instead of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart? Yep, the Writer's Guild owns the name of the show. I'm reading The Fellowship of the Ring right now, but it's moving significantly slower than The Hobbit; however, the Black Riders are likely the creepiest things in literature, at least in the way Tolkien describes them. I'm also reading The Catcher in the Rye, but I'm bored as hell with it. I probably should have read it in high-school because I would probably identify with it better, but now I'm having a hard time dealing with the character's teen-angst.

My vote is for LaForge's panicked ninja.

Sorry, E. I didn't think that in that particular context it would be considered a cuss-word.

OOC: I'm not sure. It wasn't meant offensively or as a curse at anyone--just a statement from a character, so I'm not sure... If he says something, I'll come up with something a bit more...mannered(?). I'm having a hard time with my story because I'm trying to develop something that seems difficult to fit. Basically, my mindset going into the story is different from what it is presently, so we'll see how that works to thrust my boys in odd directions. I'm trying to stay away from doing too much of this wandering nonsense, but without going into too much action (although at this point, I may need to throw in some). We'll see... IC: Despite recent events throughout the Galaxy relating to the Intergalactic Invaders, it is the Council's policy that this conflict does not and should not concern the Empire. Whatever the actions taken in the past, the Moff Council remains concerned with the domestic matters at hand and is not prepared to involve this government in a war between other states. --Press Secretary for the Moff Council, concerning recent concerns of war, Bastion It had come all too suddenly and as much as they'd tried to evade it, there was nowhere to go now. They had two options: keep moving south until they ran into the enemy and fight there, or set up an ambush. The Team couldn't handle it, not in their present condition. Maybe if the three teams weren't so kriffing far apart, then maybe--just maybe--he'd be able to slaughter the enemy where they stood. The most important concept, the one things you ladies need to remember, is that we're not just commandos, we're Special Forces. The capitals were obvious by the way the Major had said it. That means one thing, and one thing alone, and if you leave here with a shattered wrist, a destroyed spine, or actually make it through the course, you'd damn well better remember what it is: force-multiplier. Twelve men, a company! One hundred men, an army! Every man a soldier. Every man a general. It had been drilled, drilled, and drilled into his head, first in Stormcommando training, then at in officer training. Take the locals, train them, make them your own, and teach them to kill the enemy. At least they were accomplishing that part of their mission. In the trees, in the mud, behind embankments and rocks, something approaching thirty sentients were scattered, each armed and armored in whatever was available. Interspersed among them, distinctive in either their matte-black armor or the camouflage swamp fatigues were the men of Team 3--the remaining thirteen. It was a textbook example of what special forces did best. He'd decided against the armor in favor of the more diplomatic cloth fatigues, a sign of respect and trust to the locals in taking the risk of showing his face. What they didn't know was that he still wore the armor breastplate and greaves--no point in taking that many risks. Let Killian be the hard-ass sergeant everyone feared, anonymous behind that black helmet--officers had an entirely different role to play in situations like this, and if it meant taking a larger risk, then it meant taking that particular risk. Eating their food and giving the resistance leader at least the appearance of command and control was part of that, as frustrating as it might be. In this case, at least, the man had made the right decision. ...if calling him a man was appropriate. A lot of Imperials, and especially the generation from the High Empire, utterly hated non-humans with a bigotry which rivaled that on Corellia. Special forces operators couldn't be fools and had to see past skin, anatomy--everything--to the being's mind. A sentient was just another weapon. In this case, that weapon came with fangs and a disturbing lust for blood. The Trandoshan--Gressh--snarled in what was either glee or serious consideration. "The enemy is very near and know nothing of our ambush." "Good," Veriol said, doing his best to understand the Trandoshan's heavily accented basic. "We will have to pull out of this area as quickly as we can." "Indeeeeed," Gressh snarled. "The Peace Brigade has many ships in this area. They will descend on us like carrion flies at a fresh kill." An image of Pestin's body lying somewhere in the swamp, being torn apart by insects and rats leaped into his mind. They'd never had a chance to go back into the Valley--the mist had never dissipated--and with the pollution scrubbers all but dead now, there was no hope likely ever returning... "He could be a prisoner," Saith had said, uninvited. "No." Veriol had shook his head. "Commandos aren't taken prisoner." He tried not to think of Pestin making use of the suicide tooth... "They are here," Gressh said, smacking his lips with a ravenous delight. "Contact," Killian's voice came over the comm, soft in the way of someone keeping themselves hidden. More reports came down the line. The formation was set up in a large semi-circle overlooking a small depression, Veriol and Gressh, along with a few of the resistance fighters, sat far in front of the enemy. The depression was the most obvious pass through this part of the swamp, which made it the ideal location for the ambush. Ur'Ylee cursed. "Sir, some of these guys are ex-Stormtroopers. They have old armor, just painted over." Gressh narrowed his eyes. "They are traitors all the same." He turned to face Veriol. "Will your men fight their own?" Veriol nodded, though it didn't make him feel good about it. "They will," he said, making sure it went over the comm. "They chose their side in this war and its against us. Let them die like scarheads." There were more than a few grunts of approval over the comm, but the silence from a few of the older commandos spoke greater volumes. Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 94, Section 8: Mutiny; capital offense punishable by death without due process or court-martial. "Steady, boys," he said into the comm, bringing the carbine to his shoulder and lining up the sights--rather, the scope. Down the scope, he could see the gray figures moving in eerily well-drilled military formation, coming directly towards them. It was true, a few had Stormtrooper armor--which didn't necessarily make them Stormtroopers, though too many of their own had joined the Brigade--but most just wore blaster resistant breastplates with night-vision goggles... "Maybe they don't know how to use them properly..." he mumbled to himself. "Perhaps." Gressh growled deeply. "Now, we begin the slaughter." Veriol resisted the urge to role his eyes. Why did all amateur and wannabe soldiers have to say some dramatic line before starting. Gressh lined up his rifle, an enormous sniper slug-thrower than made Veriol cringe, and in the seconds that followed, Veriol could have sworn an artillery round had gone of directly next to him as the damn thing fired. Far, far, far ahead, not yet aware of the shot, the torso on one of the traitors exploded, leaving nothing by legs and a bloody splattering. It was a sight Veriol could have done without. "Hard contact!" The call came from a dozen places at once and suddenly the area lit with the blaze of red and blue bolts, sizzling through the swamp and the daytime jungle. Veriol fired once--just once. There was no point in attracting attention to their position when the rest of the fighters on their side had a much better vantage point. Better a spotter in this case. "Seven-seven-four. Next to a tree." The head on the designated target exploded. "Eight-six-nine. Prone." Dead. "Four-three-seven." Dead. Dead. Dead. And almost as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Over the din, he could hear a few of the commandos--the sergeants--shouting to cease fire. The resistance fighters complied, if grudgingly. "Come, human," Gressh said, licking his teeth. "Let us see what remains." Veriol nodded and came to a kneeling position. "Good work, personnel. Hold position and do not fire--we're going in--" Gressh took off ahead of him. "Gressh!" he called after the Trandoshan, who was quickly followed by the rest of the resistance fighters around him. "Kriffing--commandos, cover out advance." He stood and made after the locals. "Gressh, halt! We can't be sure how safe the position is!" "They are all dead," the Trandoshan called back, kicking at a body. "Well, maybe not all." Like some beastly bird, the Trandoshan snapped his head forward and came back up, mouth dripping with blood with a ragged meat in his mouth. Blood seemed to spout at his feet, and as he approached, Veriol saw that the Trandoshan had bitten the throat out of one of the enemy. "This is war, Captain," Gressh said. "For us, it is not like you, who go home to easy living again and good house and food. On Nal Hutta, we must do what can be done to survive." Veriol didn't bother responding. Not far away, the sound of a pellet-slug thrower sounded, another one of the resistance fighters finishing off the enemy. "How's it look, sir?" Killian asked. Veriol just shook his head, certain the Master Sergeant was watching him. He walked further ahead and found one of the Stromtrooper-armored enemies. He rolled the man over on his back and even though the face was anonymous, just that same mechanical frown, he felt a pang of guilt on his gut. At least it looked like one of theirs. He knelt beside the fellow and removed the helmet. The face behind it was just as anonymous as the helmet and the armor--an aged, rugged face with a well-set jaw. An example of soldiering, no doubt, and still he could have been anyone--Stormtrooper armor was plentiful and easy to find on the black market. He started getting back up--and then he caught sight of something black just visible above the neck line. He probed it with his fingers, but it didn't ooze like a wound or react like a bruise. Flexing his right hand, he unsheathed the knuckle-blade on his right hand and delicately cut away at the black body suit, peeling away-- 9 COMMANDO He reacted as though he'd been stung, and he might as well have, and fell back on his haunches. He stared at the face, the features, and then the tattoo. 9 Commando. As in 9 Commando Battalion, the "Misery of the Living." They were the original ones, the ones who'd hunted down the Rebels Skywalker and Organa, long, long ago. He's a traitor. He chose to fight against you, for the scarheads. "What are you doing here?" he whispered so softly he had trouble knowing whether he'd actually said it or thought it. "Why did you have to come in front of us?" The body didn't answer--it couldn't and never would. Why--under what terms, under what threat...? Was it for profit, for thrill, for death...? How could...? It was just... What had driven him to be here, to fight against his own people? Would he have come if he'd known that other Imperials were here, too? Did he even realize he was fighting for the Enemy? A thousand questions rushed through his mind and he willed the dead ex-commando to come to life and answer them, answer all of them. Answer them yourself! The thought screamed in his head and he couldn't be sure whether he'd thought it or someone else had said it. How could he answer for this dead man?... "Captain, the enemy is starting to move." That was Killian. "If we're going to make a break out, we need to do it now." Veriol tore his gaze from the body--that's all that it was, a body. There was nothing else to it. No allegiance. No honor. It was a casualty of war. "Gressh," he said, turning towards the Trandoshan, "we should be away." The Trandoshan studied him a long moment with a single unmoving reptilian eye. "Yes, you are right," he said at last. "Let us leave this place an example to the rest of the Peace Brigade." The order went out across the comm, but Veriol didn't register it--no consciously, at least. His legs moved, yes, and his body moved in time. He was aware that he'd marched along and then found his place in the column, but somehow that didn't matter. He couldn't help but think of Pestin in that moment, dead on this forsaken place. Was the dead soldier all that different from him? Is he all that different than me?

I agree wholeheartedly. Indeed, all of the shows who have gone back on without their writers have concentrated far too much on the strike, especially bashing it.

Actually, Stewart and Colbert still have no writers, at least ones that belong to the Guild. Like Leno, Jimmy Kimmel, and Conan O'Brian, they're winging it on their own...and it's really not very good. I didn't bother watching Colbert Monday, but as far as I understand, the character of Steven Colbert (i.e. the "ultra-conservative") belongs to the Writer's Guild... I finished True Colors; here's my review of the novel as posted on Facebook:

The fact of the matter is, the regular forces are under the leadership of the Supreme Commander, but administered by their respective Sector Chiefs, thus making the Moff Council a check on the powers of the Supreme Commander as commander-in-chief. This does not account for Special Operations Command, which is under the direct authority of High Command and therefore the Supreme Commander, thus creating a loophole in which I was able to provide threatened worlds with assistance while the political situation on Bastion was settled. I have no regrets of making the decision to assist the New Republic in such a clandestine way, which was unknown even to them, but the wisdom of time has shown me that a better administration of that power would have been preferable. --memoirs of Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon on the war against the Yuuzhan Vong Buckets on, you Gungans! NBC doesn't stand for Nuts, Breasts, and Cunts! Nuclear, Biological, Chemical! Get it through your thick skulls! It was funny the strange things that came back to you in times of crisis. They said that in combat, a soldier's brains become liquid and flow out their ears, leaving on training behind. When he'd been a recruit and then in Stormtrooper School, he'd suspected it was all a bunch of rubbish the drill instructors were taught to spout at every recruit they could get their hands on. It wasn't until training kicked in without you realizing that it became apparent that old Sarge knew a thing or two. It was probably was saved them. All but one. Pestin. He was the thirtieth--Mister Even Thirty, Killian called him--dead or missing in the company. Whatever was in the air, it was eating away at the foliage and the wildlife. From the ridge they'd taken for their new base of operations, he could see the valley below, all of it covered in that same what fog--the hissing mist from the resistance village. It was, by what he could see, quite literally consuming everything around it. "Sergeant Ur'Ylee says it can't be spores," Irikani said quietly, sitting next to him on the rocky outcropping. "He says it's got to be some sort of predatory virus or bacteria." They were the only words that had come out of the Sergeant since they'd made the hasty retreat from the cave. Ur'Ylee and Pestin had been in the same company for longer than Veriol had been in the battalion, section chief and commando. The hardest deaths weren't those in combat, but the ones that came suddenly and you were helpless to do a thing. It was all Veriol could do to keep himself from going down there and trying to find the body, if anything remained. It just wasn't right to leave a man behind like that, not on this forsaken rock. What about the other twenty-nine? Some of their remains still existed, somewhere in the swamps. He'd left those for the wildlife to feast on, only taking their individualized armor serial code tab and their identity tags with him, stored in a pocket on his jumpsuit, directly underneath his right armpit. A pocket on the arm or leg would have been easier, but he didn't want to risk losing an ID if he lost a limb. The only way he'd lose the tags were if he was killed--it was the least he could do for them. And yet, he didn't have Pestin's. Somewhere in the mist and shadow lay a dead Stormtrooper, a loyal soldier of the Empire, and nothing of him would remain but memories. It was a fate worst than disintegration during orbital drop, a fate that had befallen far too many of Delta Company's commandos, because in those cases quite literally nothing remained. Here, a body remained, and yet there was no one but the carrion creatures to look after it. Did he have any family? Most men in the special forces line of work didn't. Pestin, though... Perhaps, perhaps not. The next of kin would get a regret-to-inform-you-letter from High Command with a copy of the Supreme Commander's signature at the bottom. It'd probably say something about Pestin being an exemplary soldier who had served his nation loyally and honorably, and then make up some reason for his death in peacetime: a training accident, a vehicle crash. Someone from SOCOM would call him and tell him what had happened, in case anyone asked the "awkward questions" and that would be it. Corporal Jorgallus Pestin (Stormtrooper Commando). Delta Company, 2 Battalion, 25 Special Operations Group. Just another anonymous star on the wall in SOCOM headquarters. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and felt like he going to throw up. He fought against it--throwing up in your helmet was worse than losing a leg, they said, from the years of embarrassment-- What was he saying?! One of his men was dead, and he was worried about being embarrassed? It was a wonder how he'd got himself into that Promotion Board nonsense and earned an appointment to the rank of Major... "Captain?" Veriol snapped back to reality and his eyes focused again. Irikani was gazing at him, helmet off, to dry the sweat from his forehead. "You alright, sir? For a moment, it seems you zoned out..." How Irikani could tell what was happening behind the helmet was only something one learned with years of experience around anonymous troopers. It wasn't something easily learned. "I should be getting back to the camp," he said and startled himself at just how strained and ill his voice sounded. Irikani cocked his head fractionally, hardly noticeable, confused, but nodded all the same. "I'll report in if I see anything worth sharing." He replaced his helmet and resumed the vigil. Veriol sat a moment longer, studying the younger man just a moment, and then, crawling and finally standing and walking, started back towards the new camp. The foliage here was as dark and uninviting as the valley had been since their first day groundside. Here the swamp was alive with creatures and in the creeping dawn, the faint flicker of beady eyes watched him from the darkness, large rats in shades fluorescent green with his night-vision. There hadn't been any of those in the valley. They weren't much larger than poultry birds, but they were an unknown variable in a world of unknowns. The fact they watched him instead of running said they didn't fear him, which wasn't exactly a positive sign. At least in the valley the animals had been large and loud, content to sit in their mud holes and wait for their prey to come to them... The area they'd chosen for their new camp wasn't nearly as well camouflaged as the previous locale, which very likely meant they would be moving again. Despite the rocky outcroppings, there were no caves to hide in here and very few places to burrow without a great deal of explosives. It was hardly the situation they wanted to be in while keeping a low profile. No fires. It would be local daytime soon, which meant the environmental scrubbers would be out. With any luck, the scarheads would destroy that bit of technology, too, rendering their living vehicles unusable. The problem wasn't them, though, it was the humans, the traitors...the Peace Brigade. Killian looked up from his datapad, helmetless, alert as always. "Any sign of Pestin?" he asked softly. Veriol dropped down next to him, sitting on the ground and then lay all the way back, right hand still on the carbine. "Nothing." Killian nodded sagely. "Good man, he was." Veriol didn't respond--what could he say? Killian scratched noisily at the stubble on his cheek. "That Mandalorian is becoming quite the pain." Veriol frowned, something no one else would have seen behind the black helmet. It was the first time Killian had given an opinion about Saith. "Do you believe he'll still be useful to as a bargaining chip?" That hadn't crossed his mind in some time. It was the sole reason they still kept Saith alive, much less with them, but with the resistance cell destroyed... "Because he's no use to us as dead weight," Killian said in that way he did when he had an opinion. Veriol cocked an eyebrow. He didn't want to keep playing this game. "Out with it." Even from where Veriol lay, he could see Killian smile. "If a Mandalorian is good to us as a stripped prisoner, how much better might he be with the armor on?" "You want to give him back his armor?" "Another pair of eyes, another pair of legs, and another pair of hands to shoot a blaster." Killian shrugged. "They breed those boys to fight from day one, exposing the defective ones to the elements and all that, just to keep the gene pool clean and all that, or so the stories go." "Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear." And for the first time since he'd met the Master Sergeant, Killian stopped abruptly and seemed genuinely taken aback. Veriol cocked his head to one side. "With all due respect, I find it hard to believe you would be defending the Mandalorians after the way you treat our prisoner." "I was hardly defending the Mandalorians--" "And something else," Killian cut in. "I did a background check on you, and there's no record of you having been taught Mando'a in the Academy or anywhere else. Hell, the only place in Imperial space that teaches Mando'a is the the University of Sartinaynian, and your records show you never worked as a liaison or exchange with New Rep forces." "Sergeant, does your file show everything you've done in your career?" "With all due respect, Captain, I'm not kriffing idiot." He peered across the camp to were Perron and Cris sat chatting with the Mandalorian. "I'm not fond of mercs myself, sir, but those Mando boys fight, and fight hard. If we don't need him anymore, why not just shoot the kriffer and be done with it?" Veriol felt something drop to the pit of his stomach and sat up to avoid heaving. With care, he unfastened the seals on the helmet and took it off, setting it down next to him. A stream of cool air hit him immediately, though it stank of rot and decay. He wiped his forehead clean of sweat he hadn't realized was there before. "He's dangerous," he at last managed. "All Mandalorians are. They're just neks on leashes, but the moment you give them their freedom, they'll tear you apart." Veriol narrowed his gaze on Saith. "He's docile without his armor, but have no doubt he'll turn on us and kill us for chance he gets." Killian looked back across the camp at Saith for a long while, then faced Veriol again. "If he's a nek, then his mangy mutt and ought be put down." Deep within him, Veriol felt a drive to agree with Killian, to take out his anger and frustrations on the Mandalorian. Twenty-seven years of exile, his father's life--it all came down to one Mandalorian, and here he was, ripe for the kill. The man was unarmed and defenseless. It would only take a second and twenty-seven years of injustice would at last be avenged. And then Saith laughed. Everything seemed to shatter at once. This wasn't just some animal or even a droid--he was a human being. The laugh was all it took. Veriol sighed heavily and dropped his gaze to the ground in front of him What would dad say? "You said you checked up on me..." he said into the silence after a long while. Killian nodded. "Yes, sir." "Then you'll know I came from an orphanage on Muunilinst." "Yes." Twenty-seven years. Twenty-two since... "I don't remember my real parents," he said. "They were killed when I was very young, but it had to do with my father being unwanted where we lived. Mandalorians killed my father and my mother." Killian opened his mouth and sighed, sounding relieved. "Ah, I see--" "No, you don't." Veriol clenched his jaw hard. "It's not as simple as that. I had no knowledge of that event until I was older. I hold no grudge against the Mandalorians for the death of my blood-parents--they are complete strangers to me." Killian fell to silence. "Captain," a small, tinny voice came from the comm on his helmet. He pulled the helmet on. "Go ahead." "Sir"--it was Moriartil, a sergeant--"you said to remind you when local day time was one hour out." Damn it. "Any sign of the scrubbers?" "Not as many as yesterday or as many as the day before, but they're starting to come out." There was a pause. "Most of them are headed towards our old home." Beyond the HUD, Veriol could see Cris and Perron listening intently to something Saith was telling them, their eyes wide in the way small children enjoyed listening to stories. "Any sign of the scarheads or Peace Brigade?" "Nothing, sir." Moriartil stopped for a second in that distracted way of someone reading something. "Local net is acting funny. I get the feeling the scarheads are taking out some pent-up aggression on more tech. Even the Peace Brigade channels are out of whack." Veriol frowned. On a place where the upper atmosphere was as polluted as Nal Hutta, the Vong needed the Peace Brigade's services since their own craft couldn't handle the pollution. If they were both destroying the droid scrubbers and taking out the net... All the better. Let the shebse shoot themselves in the foot. Less problems for us to deal with. "Bad news, sir..." Moriartil prompted. "You have some?" "No, I mean, is it bad news?" "No. The scarheads are doing themselves harm, no one else. Maybe if they soften themselves up some, we'll be able to move in and for easy pickings." "Think they might have Pestin?" Veriol felt that same wrenching pain again, this time in his chest. "I hope so."

OOC: This is actually a part of the last scene I posted, so it's shorter than usual. If you know what the Vong did to Nal Hutta, you'll know what's going on. IC: The walk through the swamp wasn't as difficult in the creeping days of dawn than it was in pitch-black darkness. Still it was a pain not be able to see everything, and he cursed himself for not having had the foresight to wear the tactical armor instead of cloth fatigues. Cris and the Mandalorian seemed less concerned. Cris was tall and lanky, which made it easy for him to step over the smaller obstacles, and the Mandalorian seemed to have a sixth sense about these sorts of place--no doubt the childhood brain-washing and indoctrination to be super-solders since birth. For his part, Veriol had been trained to specialize in mountainous terrain, but when General Phennir had taken over as Director of Special Operations Command, he'd phased out the specialized units and made sure all personnel were crossed-trained in every environment. It wasn't so much a bad move as it was one of bad timing--Veriol hadn't yet finished Jungle Ops School when they'd been deployed. Just his luck Delta Company got Y'Toub and not some place like Helska 4 or Gyndine--though both of those seem to be lost for good. Why High Command had decided on casting their lot with the Hutts, he wasn't sure, but it was probably a way of ingratiating systems to the Empire and manipulate them to join. Politics. He looked around the swamp. He could swear something was happening to the swamp--it almost seemed to be dying. Swamps were certainly a place of death and decay, but there was something remarkably peculiar about the place, as if the planet life were all wilting away. Additionally, they started noticing that the wildlife was getting slower in its movements and much of it seemed to be sick... He put it out of mind. The camp lay ahead, not far--the trail was a well-worn game trail for some large predator. Whatever predator it had been, though, it was gone now. Maybe the Hutts still used it, if there were any Hutts left on the planet. He had, in fact, not seen a single Hutt since arriving, but had he really expected to see a Hutt amidst the resistance? A Hutt carrying a blaster and doing work for himself? Never in a thousand years did he expect to see that. It was why people like Saith existed. Mercenaries, hired to do other people's bidding-- If not because he looked in time, he would have plowed directly into Cris from behind, just managing to dodge a collision. "Damn it, Cris, why the hell are we stopping?" Cris's tanned face had gone a ghostly pale and his eyes were wide, the same sort of expression Veriol had seen on other's faces when they saw their buddies die. "Wha--?" And then he caught sight of it. Just a little further ahead, through the surprisingly sparse tree line, lay the resistance camp--or rather, what remained of it. From a dozen places, plumes of smoke rose and all over the camp lay a fine gray mist, like fog. "Fierfek..." Saith mumbled. "I--I guess that's why we haven't got any food from them," Cris said, his voice quiet and squeaky. "The scarheads must have found them." Veriol narrowed his eyes and again wished he had his helmet and all the systems built into it. "We should check for survivors..." Saith said, though it sounded more like question, and he was looking at Veriol. Veriol didn't bother answering. He started down the trail, carbine held ready--and stopped. From within the base came a hissing sound like gas escaping a pressurized cabin, but it was constant. The sound oscillated and for a moment he swore the mist was oscillating with the sound, becoming bright and then soft. "Captain, maybe we should call the rest of the squad." Veriol nodded and activated his comm. "Pestin, you there?" No response. Veriol swallowed hard and backed away from the camp, back towards Cris and Saith. "This is Delta Six, anyone read me?" "Roger, Delta Six," Killian's voice came back over the comm. "I'm not getting a response from Pestin either." "Can you check his readings?" Veriol said, noticing that he'd started inching further and further from the camp, more or less pulling the other two with him. "Negative, Six," Killian replied. "He's not wearing his armor." "Do you at least have a lock on his position?" Killian was quite a moment. "Negative, Six." He sounded confused in that quiet sort of way he handled everything. "What's going on?" Veriol could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Reports had come in from intelligence of the scarheads using biological weapons against their enemy without discrimination. If that was the case-- The hissing from the camp grew suddenly louder and seemed to be getting closer. "Back," he croaked tensely. "Back." Cris didn't bother asking what was wrong and started back down the trail towards the cave, Saith in tow. "Ah, what the hell?" Saith protested. "Shut it," Veriol growled, moving alongside the Mandalorian. "Delta, get your armor back on." "What about Pestin?" Ur'Ylee commed. Veriol shook his head. Who knew what had happened to the poor lad. "Get your armor on, then we'll figure it out. Prepare to bug out." That was all the prompting the other needed. The comm was suddenly filled with the hard breathing of men moving quickly and the hushed tones of controlled panic. "Sir, what's going on?" Killian said with the tone of a father questioning a less than candid child. The fact of the matter was, Veriol didn't know what was actually the matter. In fact, he only had one word in mind, and he couldn't be sure it was the right reason... Spores.

I think the fact Lumiya is dead and Jacen is losing control of the situation are fueling him to be increasingly more evil. I agree, though, Zekk should have died in the asteroid, or something, but it seems clear now Zekk is out of the picture concerning the relationship between him and Jaina. Alema Rar, though, was indeed an annoying character and it was about time she died. I'm just glad she died under Allston's authority and the way she died, unlike Lumiya's sudden and utterly insignificant death at the end of Sacrifice.

Actually, Lee had the bigger beard. Grant's was shorter and well-trimmed, while Lee's was longer and much bushier...

I feel the same way about both the show and the book. I think the majority of it is now just randomness and stupidity and lost much of its intellectual humor--it's the reason I watch The Daily Show and then shut off the TV.

Based on the report submitted by the Orvic, it is my express opinion that our operations in the Y'Toub system are no longer tenable. It is imperative that our operators be extracted without delay. --General Turr Phennir, Director of Imperial Special Operations Command, in a confidential message to Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, Supreme Commander How can I get back to the beginning? They were the same words he'd been waking to every morning since the drop, those moments he actually slept, and even then he never slept well. Guilt. It was really the only thing that could be causing the pit in his stomach, that feeling of wanting to retch and scream at once and not being able to do a damned thing about it. Twenty-nine men under his command were dead, the botched orbital drop leaving few bodies but those who'd made it to ground and been ambushed by the Vong. Frantic comm calls, requests for backup, and the horrifying sound of his men being torn to pieces by living, breathing weapons. And then there was that nightmare... Journeyman Protectors in armor, anonymous behind their helmets, outside the small farm house. They'd spoken their words and made it clear: There would be no other way. The boy is to be raised by Lord Mandalore himself. You have no choice in the matter. And then his father, unarmored, curved vibrosword in both hands held at the ready, standing between the Protectors and the house, slightly hunched to one side from a wound to his side. Beside him, a dead Protector, his torso sliced cleanly in two, lay in a puddle of blood and dirt. Nothing for miles beyond but gold grain, ripe for harvesting, and the pair speeder bikes, painted black--the color of justice. You will not take my son! He awoke so quickly and so suddenly, gasping for breath, he felt as though he'd been underwater for ages. Instinctively his hand dropped to the blaster pistol at his side. If they had planned-- But there was nothing, just the strange blue hue of the Nal Hutta swamps. How had he not realized it was just that same dream again--but he had, hadn't he?... Killian's tall form walked into the cave mouth, in armor except for his helmet, rubbing at his eyes irritably. He stopped short and fixed his gaze on him. "Captain, are you alright? You look pale." Veriol took his hand from the pistol and rubbed his face, running his fingers through the stubble of a few days without shaving. Pollution was sickening here and all it did was infect the skin, so he'd been sure to make it clear shaving was optional. The biggest problem was it interfered with the helmet's seal. Perron was already sporting a good growth of hair and every day looked more like the street thug he'd been on Borgo Prime than the professional soldier he was now. "Captain...?" Veriol shook his head, then stopped midway and nodded. "Yes, I'm fine," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "What news of the outside world?" Killian was silent a moment, which meant he was studying Veriol, but after a moment kept walking to his gear and hunched over it, rifling through it. "Cris had an encounter this morning with some species of amphibian." "Did you tell him he can't keep it?" "I made sure I was clear that on the restriction of keeping animals that try to eat their captors." "Ah, yes, General Order 53." Killian snorted, which for anyone else would have been mild amusement, but to the old Master Sergeant was nothing short of outright laughter. "He killed it, but Ur'Ylee says it wasn't edible." Veriol stood and pulled on the camouflage fatigues they'd started wearing. It was made a material that made it resistant to blaster fire, a step down from the proofed armor, but much more comfortable. The fact Killian wore his armor all the time said less about the fatigues and more about the Master Sergeant's convictions. "Quite a shame, too, since I would have very much enjoyed some fresh food." Veriol felt his eyebrow twitch. Killian wasn't like some senior NCOs he'd worked with who'd come right out and say what needed to be said--he had more tact than that, which often made it all the more intimidating. "Something wrong with the food we're getting from the locals?" Killian turned his face upward and squeezed the small bottle of liquid into his eyes, blinking rapidly as fluid ran down his cheeks. "No," he said, turning back to his equipment and looking for all the world like some sort of sobbing children's holovid, "we just haven't received anything recently." Veriol frowned, strapping on his pistol and holster. "No presents from them again?" "None." Killian sat down and carefully worked stiff muscles in his neck, popping the vertebrae and sighing with relief. "I get the feeling something has gone wrong." Damn. He took the assault carbine and strapped it on, holding it against his chest, and finally dawned the floppy-rimmed cap that helped break up the contours so typical of a humanoid. "Do you think we should go have a chat with them?" Killian shrugged. In any other unit of the Army, it would have been a sign of weakness for an officer to so blatantly ask for advice from one of his NCOs, but in Special Operations, it was a different matter entirely--not asking would have been a sign of weakness in the form of overconfidence. It wasn't a democracy, but it was as close as one got in the Imperial Military. "Maybe we should wave our pet Mandalorian in their face and see what we get." Veriol felt his face go from a simple frown to bitter anger. "We are Imperial Stormtrooper commandos. We don't need that sort of scum for persuasion." Killian kept his gaze firm, but it was apparent he disapproved. So did Veriol. From the second the words left his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. Stormtroopers were hardly the intimidating force they used to be, not in a galaxy invaded by super-creatures capable of killing Jedi and leveling entire worlds without the aide of a Death Star. Those were the old days, the words he'd actually heard from his own training sergeant the first day of training in the Corps, back when it'd still been its own contingent of the military and not yet part of the structure of the Imperial Army. Some people called those the good old days--those were the ones out of touch with reality, and he'd just spouted that same nonsense. "Excuse me, Sergeant," he said with a shake of the head. "Perhaps the very presence of a Mandalorian will be enough to shake the locals into remembering our deal." Killian shrugged. "Your choice, sir." Veriol nodded and started away, out of the cave and into the clearing they'd come to use as their temporary base. Lying in the leaves and dirt was Cris, eyes closed and rifle still slung across his chest. He, too, was wearing the camouflage fatigues. "Catch anything to eat, Cris?" Cris opened an eye, focused on him, then closed it again. "Leave it to Master Sergeant Killian to run his mouth," he said, as though he were speaking to himself. "Nope, Captain. Nothing worth noting." Veriol looked around the clearing, but the only other two commandos visible were Ur'Ylee and Perron cleaning their carbines, cleaning kit between them. "Morning, Captain," Ur'Ylee called over--both were wearing the fatigues. "Or rather, whatever morning is here." It was still dark outside, but only for a day or so, and it wasn't really even planetary day-time, so "morning" was something a little more anachronistic than in normal places. Veriol nodded a greeting to the two of them. The rest of the commandos had to be either deeper in the cave, or out in the swamp where he couldn't see them. He clicked the back of his teeth together, activating the tiny headset comm he wore on his right ear. "Who's closest to the vill?" The used code, simple as it might be, in case Peace Brigade was intercepting their messages. "I am, sir," Pestin's voice came back over the comm. "There's some activity, but nothing out of the unusual. I take it they decided against feeding us this morning?" "We'll find out." He walked over to Cris and shoved him with the tip of his boot. "Cris, on your feet. You're coming with me." Cris grunted. "C'mon, Captain. Just five more minutes." Veriol rolled his eyes. Damn commandos. "On your feet. And get our guest, we're bringing him along." That got Cris's attention. "The Mandolorian?" He came to his feet, standing a good head taller than Veriol. "Why?" "Just get him," Veriol said, not in the mood to joke around. Cris shrugged and walked back into the cave and back to the makeshift detention cell they'd made out of a recess in the rear part of the cave. "What's the plan, sir?" Pestin said. "Thinking about going Vader on them?" There was an assorted round of chuckles over the comm. "Not yet," Veriol replied. "We have to stay on good terms with these people." "Doesn't it bother you, though, sir, that the people we're training today are going to be the people we'll probably be fighting the next time around?" That was Trenswel, a sergeant. "It's what happened on Orinda." "That's the nature of special forces," Veriol said. "Besides, we don't teach them all the tricks. And if things go wrong, we can always call in the Starfleet to level the place." Another small chorus of approving chuckles and snorts filled the comm. But Trenswel wasn't satisfied. "If that's the case, sir, then where's the fleet now?" The comm went dead silent and out of the corner of his eye, Veriol saw Ur'Ylee and Perron both stop in the middle of their cleaning. If they were anything to gauge by, the entire team had that distant, forlorn look they got when something suddenly seemed genuinely hopeless. He hated to admit it, and he never would where a Navy boy could hear it, but the sight of one of those ships always made him feel better. They were the big guns, the save-all for the special ops--and they were nowhere to be found. Dangerous situation. The officer in him kicked in. "They'll be here," he said. "Admiral Pellaeon won't let us down." "The way the Moffs are holding the leash since Ithor, it's hard to see the old man coming through," Perron said. "Perron, I've been under Admiral Pellaeon since before you robbed your first speeder," Veriol said, turning to face the younger man. "He has never let us down, and I don't see him starting now." "Right," Brechet, one of the more senior sergeants in the team, said. "Back when I was with 19 SOG, it was Admiral Pellaeon who personally extracted us at Gravlex Med when our original way out had been destroyed." "Personally?" Cris called, his voice echoing with the tell-tale sounds of a cave. "I didn't think the old man had it in him to run around in armor--" "Shut it, kark," Brechet cut in bitterly. "Admiral Pellaeon brought the Chimaera, fresh from recapture, explicitly to extract us when he could just as easily left us behind, which was what we expected. I'm with the Captain: if Admiral Pellaeon or General Phennir haven't sent someone to retrieve us yet, then there's a damn good reason why." "Politics," someone grumbled too low to be deciphered. The rest of the team, Veriol included, grumbled their own annoyance. It was then that Cris emerged from the cave with the Mandalorian walking in front of him, wrists bound behind his back. He immediately locked gazes with Veriol and his expression went from just plan displeasure to fury. "Firefek, you look exactly like a kriffing Mando." Since the meds had worn off, the Mandalorian, Saith, had started getting less concerned for his own life and more with harassing Veriol. Cris took note and whacked him in the back of the head with the butt of his carbine. "Play nice, now, dear Mando, or you won't live to see your precious armor." The Mandalorian's eyes widened. It was the one thing they'd been able to use against him--the armor, or rather, what was left of it. The device they'd detonated hadn't left much of the Vong barracks, so the fact the helmet and the breast and back plates still existed was a testament to the durability of Mandalorian armor--beskar'gam. But the mercenary didn't need to know all that, he just needed to know they had his armor and he wouldn't get it back until they decided he'd been cooperative enough to suit their needs. Veriol almost wanted to grin, but couldn't bring himself to delight in the other's agony, strange as it might. "Gents, we're going to pay our neighbors a visit and see if can't get this mealplan issue resolved," Veriol said into the comm. "We're taking the Mandalorian for a walk with us." "Hey, Captain, see if they have any of that drink they gave us the other night," Irikani said. "Good stuff, that." "Chocolate?" "Yeah, that's it." Veriol rolled his eyes--the stuff was decent, but nothing worth getting excited over. "Anyone else need something from the store?" "`Fresher paper," Killian said, always the practical one. "Lots and lots of `fresher paper." Again, Veriol couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Come on, get a move on it," he said, shoving the Mandalorian out in front. "If any of those giant frogs gets hungry, I want to make sure he gets you." "What, no brotherly love for a fellow Mando?" Saith said, starting into the swamp. "What's the matter, ner vod, does--" "Mando, shut your kriffing trap or I'll chop you up and make you fish bait for our dinner," Cris said. "Don't worry, I'll use my knuckle blade to make sure you get the full experience." That might have shut the Mandalorian up, but Veriol wanted to make sure. "One, word, Mandalorian, and I take your armor and give it to the Hutts a a gift. Then I let my boys chop you up and make some use of your hide." Saith tensed noticeably, but he kept walking. What would his father say? About taking a Mandalorian prisoner and using him this way? Veriol shook his head. It didn't matter. What mattered now was staying alive. OOC: I'll continue this scene later.

Thank you, Elvis! Someone understands what I'm saying!

OOC: Good stuff, Tofu. I'm, unfortunately, having a hard time visualizing the situations, but that might have to do with me more than anything else--action scenes are not my forte. Still, I'm glad to see Micus finally in the situation. I'm drafting a scene now and will try to post it within the next twenty-four hours.

Eck, that first line should have read "Sorry, Tofu." I went back and did minimal corrections. Ironic and utterly interesting. It'll be a nice way to celebrate your birthday, at least--I'll be sure to remember that as I drool through the back, despite what Mandalorian subplot Traviss might shove down my throat. It's not that I dislike the Mandalorian subplot, I just think it's out of place here. Unless Traviss finds a way to truly weave that story back in with the rest of the overall plot (and I don't think the way it was done in Bloodlines cut it), then I'm going to be disappointed--in the story, but, I hate to say this, that LucasFilm for once didn't keep an author on a tighter leash. No matter what, though, this series is not going to end happily--no matter what. Too much has been lost and sacrificed, so even if good does prosper over evil, it will still be at best a bittersweet, Pyhrric victory, not the fanfare at the end of A New Hope or the special edition of Return of the Jedi. The Galaxy is spinning out of control, now, and it can't be fixed in two novels. I know a lot of fans don't like it because it's a little darker than their accustomed to from Star Wars, but I think it's about time. The sad-then-suddenly-happy plots of the earlier EU material simply didn't work out, not even in the "dark" NJO, which still followed the standard pattern of crisis-then-everything-is-fine. Or maybe it's just because I'm a fatalist. On another note, I'd really like to see LucasFilm cave in and give Traviss her own Mandalorian book trilogy, just to shut her up. Okay, actually because I'd like to see what she does with it. All things considered, her stories are great, it's just... Well, you know...

Read on Tofu. And have you seen the cover to Invincible?...

I have a substantial beard already, and that gives me enough trouble at work. Besides, I need to shave my neck and the top of my cheeks to keep up my sex-appeal. I'll participate as far as I can, but if nothing else prevents me, I'll likely have a beard for the whole year one way or another anyway.

This isn't supposed to sound sarcastic, but you do know there is a fourth book in the process correct? I'm reading this book, also, but I have increasing issue with Traviss. I feel like she lets too many of her own likes/dislikes into her novels, veering the plots further and further from their originally intended purpose. Hard Contact was, in my opinion, right on the mark as far as this series should have been. The arrival of Kal Skirata, Walon Vau, and the Mandalorain obsession in Triple Zero made that story just awkward since it really didn't fit with the scheme of the series as a whole. True Colors seems to be more of the same, if not worse: the plot has stop being about the commandos (indeed, Omega and Delta squads are doing their own bit which hardly has to do with the apparent main story arc) and increasingly about Skirata and the Mandalorians. Personally, I love Mandalorians, but can't stand the way Traviss says "This is the way they are, end of story" and will use any venue she's given to scream that point from a bullhorn. Hell, the Null ARC troopers become more of main characters than the commandos! Niner, who was my favorite character in Hard Contact, is now a background character with now POV scenes like he had in that first novel! It utterly annoys me that Traviss would diverge so far from the story of the commandos to tell the story of "what happens to the commandos based on what Skirata and the Mandalorians decide."

Sorry Tofu if I did indeed lash out before about the homosexuality and the fall of the Roman Empire bit. I had something a bone to pick about that and you happened to wander into my sights. I should have handled that a little more...professionally. I agree, but I still think that Traviss is trying to lodge a square peg in a round hole with the Mandalorian/Fett subplot. It drives me nuts because it feels like she is using the series as her stump and not giving as much effort to the rest of the story. I can see, though, how you might say each author has their own cycle within the series...and yet, Allston didn't overdo it with Wedge and Tycho the way Traviss does with Fett, nor did Denning shove Alema Rar and Tenel Ka down our throats--the latter two are very relevant to the story, and former two were hardly main characters in their own right. In any event, all of those characters interacted with the story based on the events happening to the main story and not on their own, in no way interacting with the rest of the story, as the Mandalorian/Fett subplot does, especially in Sacrifice. I still think Traviss should have shoved it and requested as concurrent trilogy for her Mandalorian fetish--it's good, but doesn't belong in Legacy. On a similar topic, Traviss does something similar with the Republic Commando series by starting out with a Republic Commando-centered storyline and then twisting it to be a Mandalorian/Null ARC plot. Eck...

I'd forgotten that once you were a Roman enthusiast, it means you have to be pro-homosexual marriage. Your "logic" never fails to amuse me, Tofu.

You have a point, Jahled. I don't even know why I bothered posting something like that... I honestly used to follow some of that nonsense as though it were some sort of holy scripture, but in time and with the passing of a few years, I've come to realize that over analysis and this concept LucasFilm has of explaining every detail of Star Wars is ruining the franchise--indeed, there remains nearly no mystique to any facet of Star Wars, to include THE FORCE! Eck.

Very nice images, but most of the Star Destroyers are just resized Imperial-class. For instances, the "Allegiance-class" wouldn't have a large ventral hangar like the two Imperial classes... Just being BEAKing.