[i]I am a Dreg. The lowliest of my kind. Stripped of my arms and rank. I once was something greater, a Vandal. I was afraid and scared, with nowhere of my own, but it was better than this wretched state. Back then I had all my arms. I'm starting to doubt I'll ever get them back.[/i] Ezkor's Journal, Entry CCLXXIV ——————————————————— There's an old story they tell us Dregs. A legend the Kells and Archons have let persist. It tells of a Starcatcher, mighty and powerful, who rose from the ranks of the common Dreg to walk amongst the stars themselves. It drives my fellow dregs, pushes them to a fanaticism I myself lack. They claw and bite and tear at each other for the chance to 'prove' themselves to the Captain. They remember what being a Vandal was like, much like myself. I think the difference between us is our motivation to rise up. They desperately need it, need the extra ether, the respect, the status, their arms. They crave what they've lost as if having it will make them content. I know that's a lie. I know the Starcatcher is only a dream. Dregs are doomed to be thrown at our enemies like water on a fire. Throw enough of us at a problem, and it will go away. Doesn't matter how much steam you make. To die is our purpose. I accepted that a long time ago. I accepted that when I lost my arms to the Docking Caps. I think now I will get to fulfill my purpose. I have served the House of Devils my whole life, I think this is where I die for it. ——————————————————— The Skiff roared through the atmosphere, engines deafeningly loud. It was uncomfortable in the hold of the craft, hot and cramped. The drop bars folded up, we sat against the walls and on the floor, the vibrations of the engines running through every inch of us, the craft itself rattling like a poorly made tin can. The Captain was up front. Dremos was his name. He wasn't influential, few were, but he was our Captain, and we had no choice but to respect him. He controlled our Servitor, Sepiks-89, and therefore our ether supply. He was the line between us and starvation, so he got the respect and authority. The Vandals leaned against the walls, arms folded, watching all of us and each other intently, holding on to their possessions with a well-earned paranoia. Theft was common amongst our ranks, you held on to what you had and tried to take everyone else's. That was how it worked. Me and the rest of the dregs sat on the floor, between the drop hatches. We had even less than the vandals, but held on even tighter to it. Shock pistol, shock knife, and a grenade. Those were our possessions, and we guarded them like jewels. The others muttered to themselves. Quietly, murmuring about the glory of the coming battle, about how this would be the one to redeem them. I didn't say anything. We all would die and be massacred, or we would win and the credit would go to Dremos and perhaps a few Vandals in favor with Dremos. We would never receive any of the glory for this battle. But that didn't matter much. I'd resigned myself to the inevitability of my death. If not this battle than another, or another still. There was no winning in this cruel game. The best I could wish for would be dying gloriously, giving my life so my House could win. That would satisfy me. Dremos's voice crackled over the comms from the cockpit. "Approaching drop zone, get ready to disembark." The Vandals shouldered their weapons as me and the other dregs got to our crouched feet. Guns clicked and whirred, shock daggers buzzed, grenades were clipped into belts. The skiff slowed to a stop, coming to rest twenty feet from the ground below. Dremos emerged from the cockpit as the drop bars engaged, and we crawled out into the harsh sunlight and dropped. The landscape was barren. Dry yellow grass and dirt, mountains all around us. Open plains, no cover, no hiding. In the center, a lone building, decaying and rusted, mostly concrete and steel, but a telltale sign of a tech bunker. Inside would be valuable weapons or computers, and machines to be dismantled or used. It was a wonderful discovery. We were here to secure it for our house. I looked up around me, as hundreds of other Skiffs dropped their crews and Captains, engines bleeding together to a uniform roar. The captains quickly confirmed with each other, making sure everyone was on the same page. But it doesn't take a hundred skiffs to secure an abandoned bunker. That's a fact. But we knew what did take a hundred skiffs to defeat. A Ketch, descending from orbit, golden yellow banners waving as it cane down. A huge craft, capable of housing hundreds of skiffs and thousands of Eliksni. It was defiantly bold, coming down to float above the other end of the plains, right where we could shoot at it. Not that we would, it wouldn't take a scratch from anything but a stationary artillery cannon. Even miles away it was a huge thing, the House of Kings logo painted on it everywhere, making sure everyone knew who this Ketch belonged to. The bay doors on it opened, and the enemy skiffs poured out of it, a swarm to rival our own, intent on capturing this bunker. We were not sent to secure a bunker. We had been sent to keep it from the Kings. I gripped my pistol and knife, the dull thought that I was going to die here in the back of my mind, as it was in every battle. I didn't want to win for myself, there was no winning for myself. For the House then. I would fight and die for them, so they could live. That sounded about right. Dremos crackled on over the comms. He barked an order. Attack. So we did, and as we charged the whole line surged forwards with us, crews running together in loose formation, running towards our deaths. The skiffs rushed with us, the sounds of their engines bleeding with the stampede of feet. Soon a third sound joined the cacophony. Gunfire. Shrapnel launchers and wire rifles, shock pistols and grenades, all blending in with the screams of those who got hit. What a lovely chorus to die to.