12. Krogoth

Chapter 12

Krogoth

Scythian Whore

B riegs gives us a knowing nod as we dash out of the Solarstorm bar, drawing curious glances from the other patrons. We push our way past them, determined to reach our destination as quickly as possible.

The alleys of the dismal station loom ahead, a maze of makeshift huts and broken people we must navigate. But I have my sights set on Javik's location, which Briegs revealed to me. The potential Elerium deal is too important to let slip away, and I can't afford to waste any time, knowing that our deal with Yaksai could turn sour at any moment.

As we hurry down the dimly lit alleys, I commend Xandor on his performance back in the bar. "Xandor, you really outdid yourself in there," I say, nodding my approval at my friend. Xandor lets out a hearty laugh in response.

"Thanks, Krogoth. That idiot's bug eyes practically popped off his head when he thought he'd get his hands on a warvisor."

I grin. "And your clever protests made the deal sound even more legitimate."

"Exactly! Although I can't help but wonder if we could have just shaken them down for the credits when they thought we were sent to assassinate them," Xandor muses.

"Perhaps, but they're probably the only gang with access to so much arcweave. And they'll do the repairs for us, too," I reply, scanning the chaotic alleys around us to make sure we aren't being followed.

"I'm sure it will thrill Astraxius to hear it."Xandor laughs, patting me on the back.

I press forward, leading my team down a shadowy alleyway filled with graffiti that depicts a four-bladed symbol of some kind. The thick stench of desperation and decay hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of just how far we are from anything resembling civilization.

As we venture deeper, I realize we have likely entered the territory of another gang. But on this station, a cesspool of crime and depravity, danger lurks around every corner. One wrong turn, one misplaced foot, could mean the end for any of us.

"Stay sharp, everyone," I bark at my warriors, my claws extending.

As if on cue, a hulking Tuskarian male emerges from a nearby building, his massive frame filling the alleyway. But he is just the beginning. From every direction, aliens of various types emerge, their shoddy armor scraps and green-colored clothes marked with the unmistakable four-bladed patch symbol.

They wear a menacing look in their eyes, some of them tapping crude clubs against their palms. I know they outnumber us. I take a deep breath and steel myself for whatever is to come.

The Tuskarian approaches us with an unhurried gait, his massive frame casting a looming shadow over the group. He stands taller than most of his kind, and his imposing presence makes even me feel average sized in comparison.

But it is his appearance that truly sets him apart. He is decked out in sheets of arcweave plating, held together by thick chains that seem almost too heavy for him to bear. The armor gleams ominously in the dim light of the alley, as if daring us to challenge him.

On his face, he wears a black eye patch emblazoned with the four-bladed symbol of his gang. His left tusk horn is crudely sliced off as if by some brutal weapon, leaving a jagged stump that only adds to his intimidating appearance. And in his meaty hands, he wields a cruelly serrated ax that glints menacingly in the dim light.

"I'm blessed by four lost little Klendathians stumbling into my Osiron den," he sneers, his snout flaring as he regards us with contempt.

"More a curse, large one. If you value your life, you'll turn these dregs around," I retort, my eyes blazing with an intensity that could ignite a fire.

"I had a life once," the large one says, his voice heavy with sorrow. "A life with my family, in a colony world in the Dominus System. But then, like a plague of insects, you Klendathian savages descended upon us, unleashing your destructive fury upon our homes.

"You slaughtered everyone without a thought or care. Even my beloved wife and daughter couldn't escape," he spits towards me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Your kind are a blight, nothing more than Scythian whores, too weak and cowardly to keep your own females."

Xandor steps forward confidently towards the hulking Tuskarian with a hint of arrogance. "I've been doing just fine with your females," he says, a sly smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

The Tuskarian's massive frame shakes with rage as he hears the insult. "They must be the lowest pond scum to lie with the likes of you." With a deafening bellow, the Tuskarian charges towards Xandor, his massive ax raised high, ready to strike.

Xandor's lithe body moves with incredible speed, dodging the massive chop of the Tuskarian's ax, dashing to the side. The ground shakes and erupts with the impact of the missed blow, sending a cloud of dust and broken debris scattering amongst the metal shacks.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Xandor retaliates with a precision strike, aiming his clawed hand at the hulking Tuskarian's neck. But the massive alien is too quick, shifting his shoulder just in time to cause Xandor's claws to screech and spark along his armored shoulder plate.

Before I can fully enjoy the spectacle, chaos erupts in the narrow, dark alleyway. I am suddenly thrown into my own fray as a horde of enemies rushes me with weapons raised.

With no desire to become trapped in a circle of death, I charge towards the closest enemy, a feeble-looking Argorian, my clawed hand glinting menacingly in the dim light. With a ferocious punch, I drive my hand straight through his shoddy armor and into his chest, relishing the sensation of his flesh tearing and blood spraying.

My victim's feet give out from under him as I twirl around, using his small body as a weapon to toss at the oncoming horde. The impact is explosive, knocking several of them back and giving me momentary breathing room.

The Rush builds within me, a surge of energy rising to a crescendo until my body is vibrating with power. A light purple mist escapes my eyes as I become hyper-focused. Time appears to slow as my muscles bulge. I'm invincible and no one can stand in my way. My opponents are nothing but mere rabble before the fury that burns within me.

As a Jungarian male swings a nailed club towards me from the side, I react with lightning-fast reflexes. Catching the haft of the weapon before it connects, I reverse its course and send it hurtling back towards my assailant's head, landing in a sickening crunch. The air is thick with the sound of clashing weapons and grunts of exertion as I fight on, feeling every muscle in my body working in perfect harmony.

Even as I focus on my fight, I am acutely aware of Logarn and Traxios fighting their own desperate battles against the horde of Osiron gang members. We are all in this together, fighting with everything we have.

A wave of fear and doubt washes over our assailants as they behold our brutal efficiency. I leap amongst two of them, delivering a fierce kick that sends one careening into a metal shack, collapsing it with a deafening crash. The other I attack with my razor-sharp claws, raking them across his midriff until he crumbles to the ground, screaming in agony.

The narrow alleyway is already slick with blood, Osiron blood. Even the very air is thick with the stench of death. But there is no stopping us, battle-hardened Klendathians with towering physiques and muscles honed for killing. Our opponents are no match for us, and they know it.

As we fight on, bodies pile up around us, a macabre testament to our deadly prowess. The sound of fighting and the screams of the dying fill the air, but we press on.

I survey the surrounding carnage, searching for my next opponents. I long for the thrill of a challenge, the desire to face a worthy opponent. Suddenly, a Glaseroid catches my attention, and I lock my gaze on him, my eyes glittering with a murderous gleam. But before I can make a move, the cowardly creature drops his weapon and flees in terror, his many spindly limbs a blur of motion.

Just as I am about to turn my attention elsewhere, a loud crash echoes beside me. To my shock, I see Xandor thrown heavily into a nearby shack. He slowly stumbles to his feet, blood leaking from his mouth.

"Kicks like a boracks," he mumbles, dazed and disoriented. Despite the surrounding chaos, I can't help but chuckle at his comment.

My eyes dart to the spot where Xandor was thrown from, and I see the hulking Tuskarian staring at me with a raw, burning hatred. He is panting heavily, and I see claw marks etched between the heavy joints of his armor. His clothes are blood soaked as puffs of vapor escape his snout nose with each rapid breath, making him look like a great wild beast ready to pounce at any moment. This will be a fight to the death, and I'm relieved Pebbles is on the ship, away from this bloody carnage.

I launch myself towards the Tuskarian with blinding speed. But to my surprise, he raises his great ax above his head and throws it towards me with all his might. The weapon spins towards me like a deadly whirlwind, and I have only a split second to react. I somehow dodge to the side, narrowly avoiding being skewered by its serrated edge.

The Tuskarian takes advantage of my momentary loss of balance and charges forward, delivering a powerful double chop with his massive hands. Anticipating his attack, I catch his hands with my own. Our fingers become entwined, and we lock eyes in a fierce battle of strength.

I feel the strain of his immense strength against mine, but I refuse to give in. My muscles bulge as I push back against him.

My body hums with primal energy. I can feel the familiar surge of adrenaline building within me. I will not fall here. Pebbles needs me! My eyes glow brighter, releasing more purple mist as the Rush builds inside me, reaching greater heights than ever before. His muscles protrude in great hunks of brutal strength in protest, but I am stronger. As his fingers bend backwards, he collapses to one knee in agony. "No! This is impossible!" he roars in defiance, desperate to summon any remaining strength. But it's all in vain. With a last surge of power, I snap his fingers into unnatural angles, causing him to cry out in pain. Even as he struggles to stand, I know victory is mine.

With a deep breath, I utter the words which will seal the Tuskarian's fate. "Die with honor, strong one," I say, my voice low and intense. My claws are crimson in the murky light, ready to deliver the final blow.

With his last breath, the Tuskarian summons all the defiance he can muster. "Void you, Klendathian," he spits out, his last words dripping with venom.

With a swift motion, I bring down my claws, piercing his side where there is no armor to protect him. The Tuskarian lets out a last gasp, and his body stills. I vow the Scythians will pay for what they've driven my people to become.

With a final nod of respect, I turn away from the Tuskarian's lifeless body, my heart racing as I try to catch my breath. I survey the surrounding carnage, taking in the devastation wrought by our fierce battle.

The Orison gang have either fallen to our claws or fled for their lives, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken bodies. I know that this is the price of survival in this Gods forsaken station.

My eyes meet Xandor's, and I see the disbelief and awe in his expression. He clutches his hand over his injured ribs, his body still shaking with the intensity of the fight.

As we catch our breath and take stock of our surroundings, I hear a soft, sickening smacking sound coming from behind me. Turning, I see both Logarn and Traxios still hacking away at the fallen bodies of our enemies, their claws dripping with blood and gore.

The sheer madness consumes my mind. "Stop!" I cry out, feeling the weight of dishonor bearing down upon us. With all my might, I grab Logarn and Traxios by the shoulders and pull them back. Logarn, his brown eyes ablaze with the fiery glow of Rush, lashes out at me with his sharp claws, but I manage to catch him by the wrist before he can strike me. "Enough, you two!" I bellow, my voice echoing through the blood-soaked battlefield.

The two young warriors stand before me, their bodies covered in a thick layer of gore which oozes from their claws like some grotesque nightmare made flesh. They grin at me maniacally for a moment, and I brace myself for another potential attack. But then, as if waking from a trance, their eyes lose their menacing glow, and they look around at the scene with blank expressions.

"Apologies, Chieftain," Traxios murmurs, his voice devoid of emotion despite the gravity of the situation.

"Gods, Krogoth, it's even worse than we thought,"Xandor murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he labors over to my side.

I let out a deep sigh. "They're little more than animals at this point," I mutter, my heart heavy with the realization. "I'll speak with Astraxius when we return to the ship." My mind is already racing to find potential solutions. Casting a sidelong glance at Xandor, I assess the damage to his midsection. "How's the ribs?" I ask, my concern palpable.

"Like a giant Tuskarian kicked them," Xandor replies, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But the smile quickly fades, replaced by a look of pain. "I can walk it off, though," he adds with a determined nod. "I'll be fine."

With a heavy heart, I lead the way out of the narrow alleyway, leaving behind a scene of blood and carnage. Before we make our way through the rubble-strewn streets, I notice a group of disheveled scavengers picking through the remains of the dead, snatching up anything of value they find. The sight fills me with disgust and despair - this station is beyond saving .

But there is no time to dwell on such bleakness. We must press on through the darkly lit alleys, our eyes continuously scanning the shadows for any signs of danger. I know we are getting close to Javik's place, if my memory serves me right.

As we walk, passersby take a wide berth from us, their eyes wide with fear and disgust. It is no wonder - we are four towering giants, our robes caked in rapidly drying blood. A terrifying spectacle.

At long last, we arrive at Javik's building, one of the few structures in this hellhole of a station that isn't a flimsy metal shack. Its imposing stone fa?ade is adorned with a massive metal relief of the Crimson Beast emblem, a clear sign we are in the right place.

But as I approach the stone steps leading up to the entrance, I am stopped in my tracks by a pair of guards that look like they've just laid eyes on a Mutalisk. Their eyes bulge in terror as they take in the grisly sight of our group, and I can practically smell the stench of fear emanating from their pores.

"You… you're the Klendathians with the Scythian battlebarge, right?" one of them stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded curtly, my patience wearing thin.

"Javik said to let you in," the guard continues, his relief tangible. He steps aside, allowing us to pass through the thick, solid door and into the relative safety of Javik's domain.

I march forward, my jaw set. There is no time for pleasantries - we have important business to attend to, and I am in no mood for small talk.

Inside, the guards make way as they point towards a large stone hallway, its walls lined with numerous entrenched positions bristling with heavy ballistic weapons. I feel the weight of their gaze upon us.

It is no surprise, really, given the constant warfare and chaos that grips this station. It is clear that Javik takes his security seriously. We continue our way deeper into the stronghold.

The décor is plain and functional, with simple stone pillars and columns interspersed with polished metal tables and chairs. This is a place of business, not pleasure.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the guard stops in front of a heavy door at the back of the hall.

As we enter the room, there is a sense of tension in the air, like the crackle of static electricity before a storm.

In the center of the room sits a massive Crongarian male, his feet up on a table, his attention focused intently on a console before him. But as he catches sight of us, he stumbles out of his chair in surprise.

With a bulky body covered in muscle, a bestial face brimming with razor-sharp teeth, and a savage horn protruding from the front of his skull, he is the very picture of his species' fearsome reputation.

His large figure, decked out in the Crimson Beast's clothes and armor, only enhances his already-intimidating presence. It's clear he is used to commanding respect and fear from those around him.

He seems taken aback by our appearance, his eyes widening at the sight of the dried blood that coats our robes.

"You're getting blood all over my carpets!" he exclaims in a panic. I couldn't care less about the absurdity of his concern.

I remain standing on his precious carpets and recount the attack by the Osiron gang and the death of their leader.

Javik's eyes light up at the news, and he claps his massive, clawed hands in joy. "Brilliant news, friend, brilliant. Old Sawface finally gone," he exclaims, clearly thrilled by the prospect of having a rival gang leader eliminated.

"You've just unknowingly done me a great favor, and for that, I'm going to be honest with you," Javik says, his tone conspiratorial. "I saw your ship scan, and I know the tough position you're in. But I can offer you two pounds of Elerium and a cool 50 thousand credits, more than enough to get your hull repaired if you help me with a little problem."

"The Psykes have already agreed to do the repairs," I interject.

Javik's face twists with disdain. "The Psykes! Oh, friend, you're playing with hot plasma there." He hisses between his sharp teeth. "But even still, you need the Elerium, and those credits could buy anything, even a whole new set of robes," he adds, nodding towards my group's ragged and blood-soaked attire.

"What's the job?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

"You're a male of few words," Javik observes with a wry smile. "But most importantly, you can definitely handle yourselves. It's clear to see."

Javik paces behind his desk, his expression thoughtful. "The Whores Orphans attacked a Nebian vessel some days ago. And somehow subdued them, if you can believe it. A Nebian ship! They looted the ship before it self-destructed and now have some of the most advanced tech in the entire universe."

Javik speaks in a rush, almost tripping over his own words. "And then, as if by divine providence, look who arrives at my station - none other than Klendathians. You and your masters have been at war with the Nebians for some time now, so who knows better than you about how to deal with their tech? I want you to retrieve whatever they have and bring it back here."

Nebian tech? To think that some Terminus Exile Station gang bangers took out a Nebian vessel is truly shocking. If they have recovered any working Nebian battlesuits, we'll be in deep trouble without our full war gear. But we don't have the luxury of time. We need that Elerium and we need it fast. I don't want to put Pebbles in any more danger by delaying here. I nod. There is no other choice. "We'll do it. But we'll need any intel you have on the Whores Orphans."

Javik grins, clearly pleased with himself. "Excellent. I'll have my people get you everything you need. Just remember, time is of the essence. The longer you wait, the more likely it is that the tech will be sold and lost to me."