Songs of Sirens...New Chapter 17 as of 1/27/12

[Jay the Arbiter]

Just gotten through Chapter 14:

When the dust seems to come to a settle, something else stirs the grass to startle the snake

That just sounds really cool.

Can't say I've ever heard of Puddle of Mudd before.

I had to look up what a Proctoscopy was, though when I read what it was, I remembered "Proctologist", specifically, that scene from the South Park episode "Cancelled."

Baird could instantly tell that she was a bonofide squidy

Was that Squidgy? As in Soft and Squidgy?

[Jonesybites]

Squidy is an rhetorical Marine term for navymen...or as a Marine elaborated to me. I forgot what he said those in the army were called.

Hopefully you won't have to worry about getting a Proctosopy any time soon, (which is also used to check for prostrate cancer) unless you get hemmeroids frequently.

"Stirring the grass to startle the snake" is an old euphanism...I can't say I made that up.

[Jay the Arbiter]

Just finished Chapter 15, all caught up now!

No, there is something else…something that scared them so much, they would rather face the expression of scrutiny from their betrayed countrymen, rather than remain at sea, as they have done for the latter eight years.

I think I can guess what spooked them out there, but I could be wrong...

These people had their limbs melted away, and I'm talking about fingers and toes, I'm referring to an entire leg, sometimes both, with partial torso

Was that meant to say "I'm not talking about fingers and toes..." or am I missing things again?

Lastly, I can't really imagine Hoffman saying "Piss" or "Lad", I guess because I'm hearing him with an American Accent.

Though overall? Story has been pretty badass!

[Jonesybites]

Thanks for pointing that out; I'll get to fixing that...and thanks for reading. I know it's not your usual forte since there's no Locusts involved. I probably should write something about the Locusts, but it needs to be something a bit more original and not similar of the calibur as Soul Killers.

...and what you guess may be on the mark.

[Jay the Arbiter]

Hey, if you do, no harm in a crossover.

I think it's an interesting scenario, while I do have to look up the odd word or two, it doesn't stop me wanting to read on and learn more.

[Jonesybites]

Yea, sorry about the occasional unconventional (non conforming)word usage, but sometimes there’s just not a better way to express a more, exacting emotion or description that better fits the context in which I’m trying to articulate...that and I hate repeating the same word to express a similar theme or meaning, which I have on occasion caught myself doing when I go back to edit.

Anyway, I'm going a new direction with this story so I was curious if readers can get an understanding of the overall drive in the plot, or at least find it interesting.

[Jay the Arbiter]

Repeating the same word, is that similar to avoiding using "said" over and over again?

Anyway, should be interesting to see how it goes on!

[Jonesybites]

Hoffman tries to narrow down his list of suspects, starting with the defected UIR crew of the "Poseidon's Spear."

Chapter 16:The Usual Suspects

Out on the front line, don't worry I'll be fine; the story is just beginning.

I say goodbye to my weakness, so long to the regret,

…and now I see the world through diamond eyes.

Shinedown



"Call meh insane if ya wish, but I would never grovel to the COG over something as trivial as a sea monster…"

…the Commanding officer of the Poseidon's Spear, Anita Sokolov articulated in her obscured Tyran, erect and coherent as she glared at a bemused Colonel Hoffman from her metal chair. She sat in an interrogation room that was made up of a four, eight by ten space with bland gray walls and an elongated window that faced the security office through some tattered, black metal blinds. The woman glared at the disbelieving Colonel Hoffman with a tired but fierce gaze, but her "story" had not changed from the first time they reviewed her.

On the other side of the north wall was a deliberation room with the same drab colored walls as the interrogation room, with the exception of some wall décor that looked several decades long out of style. Watching through monitor that was feeding video from the camera in the corner of the interrogation room was Sergeant Fenix, observing the exchange comfortably from his chair while sipping on his only cup of coffee that day. This was the third time they sat and deliberated with this woman after interrogating the rest of her twenty-four man crew, one at a time. Standing behind him was a ragtag of a few experienced men he was able to somewhat handpick, with Dom being first and foremost, while the others were just random veterans whom have at least been active since Operation Hollow. Among the group was Corporal Jace Stratton, Specialist Josephine Marrow, and an often irritable Private Rodney Brussels

Dom stood behind him, his arms crossed as he spent the latter twenty minutes watching the Colonel deliberate with Commander Sokolov, just waiting for the Commander to make something of a mistake in her statement, but the woman was vigilant and just as shrewd, if not more so. From behind, he could hear Josephine Marrow smacking some bubblegum he managed to dish out of a gumball machine at the security office entrance, leaning against the wall while a tired but functioning Jace Stratton was sipping on a styrofoam cup of coffee after switching shifts the night before. Of all the things that they were limited on, coffee certainly was not one of them, unless their field medic, Grimes was around, in which case, the man drunk coffee as if it was water, leaving a sad remnant at the bottom of the coffee pot.

Standing impatiently next to Stratton was Brussels, his arms folded and his expression rigid.

"Do ya really believe dat I came all da way here, to surrender my ship, my crew, to da likes of you, just to tell ya some absurd fish tail, Colonel?" Sokolov could be heard through the static coming from the speaker.

"You and your men have been out a sea for over eight years Commander. A campaign that long can do a lot of things to a sailor, especially in a submarine!" Hoffman rebutted the elusive Sokolov before she snapped right back at him,

"…and den bother to alert to you the impendin' danger? Tell me, Gear, why would I give a damn about da COG? You're people have killed meh mate an children, destroyed meh home, and left meh no place to lay meh head but on dat very ship that is sittin' in yer dock?"

On the other side of the glass, Marcus sat with head resting on his hand that was propped up on the table while his other held his cup of coffee, letting out a grumbling sigh as the Commanders' words filtered through the intercom that was feeding from the monitor speaker.

Dom on the other hand was watching the interrogation attentively, her movements, the way she directed her gaze to the Colonel, and admittedly, she was not easy to read...or was she?

"Hey Marcus, you think she's telling the truth?" Dom mumbled quietly, keeping his voice low amongst the immediate group.

"Hmmm," Marcus grunted, not the least sure as to what the Commanders' true intentions were. Although he had his suspicions at first, after the third interview, he had little room to base his doubts.

"Da chere' may be delusional…perhaps from livin' out at sea fer too long, but she's not lying," Josephine added before smacking the gum in his mouth.

"Oh c'mon Josie, why wouldn't she have anything to cover up?" Dom rebutted, "…she's two steps from being handed to Commander Trescu, and you know he's going to skewer them alive the moment we release them to his custody…"

"So why surrender, with their ship in decent condition, they're fuel reserves stable, knowing they're going to have to answer for treason…s***, the only reason I can think of is that they've run out of folks to steal from…" Brussels started to ramble.

"…but we know dat not ta be true," Josephine added, smacking his gum shortly afterwards.

"Yea, well, call me biased Marrow, but I don't think they would have stood a chance against the Gorasni sub, Zypher," Brussels added, "…there's no reason for them to come here!"

"…then again, apparently there's plenty of kelp trawlers to ransack," Jace subtly added, keeping a low profile despite the impact of his statement. Dom turned around to face Jace.

"So, you're implying that they may have been responsible for Falstaff?" Dom asked.

"Pfft, I doubt that. From what Spades said, that b**** blew up from the inside…" Brussels abruptly responded out of turn.

"Ok, maybe they didn't take out that trawler, but there was other fishing boats that were targeted," Jace restated.

"What I believe Stratton is trying to imply, is that Poseidon's Spear is in every condition to take pretty much whatever she wanted, but instead, she comes to dock here with a white flag…" Marcus glumly explained, his eyes still fixated to the monitor, taking another sip of his coffee, "…nah. Somethin' scared the s*** out of them…so much they're willing to face the scrutiny of their own enemy and possibly suffer at the hands of treason than face whatever it was they found…"

"So…you do believe her?" Dom asked in curiosity, not the least bit skeptical with Marcus' reasoning, but at the same time, curious to Marcus' logic. But before Marcus could satisfy Dom with an answer, a flustered Captain Miller barged into the room while other mingling Gears moved out of the Captain's way.

"Oh yay…this day's just gotten better," Brussels sneered rhetorically before Miller was able to meander through the crowd and over to their position.

"Sergeant Fenix…you and your men are to report to the quarantine station, ASAP" Miller panted before catching a glance at the styrofoam cup in Marcus' hand, "…but before you're dismissed, will you please tell me where in the hell did you got that cup of coffee?"

"Out of Grimes' ass…" Brussels grumbled as laughter from the other men was short to follow. Miller's brow drooped before catching a glance of Marcus' demeanor of amusement at the field medic's expense; but then again, the Private may be onto something.

"I'm serious, man…just hold a cup next to his prick when he lets it drip," Brussels rhetorically suggested, "…that bastard drunk up all the s*** at the officers' station…hell if I know a better place to find anymore f***ing coffee."

"Officers' lounge," Marcus said, pointing to a door clear on the other side of the staff room, "…right over there."

"Thank God…oh, and you're dismissed…except for you, Rod since you have nothing better to do with your time other than be a f***ing smartass! Come with me!"

"Goddamnit…" Brussels groaned. Dom and Josephine chuckled in amusement at the anal retentive Private's dilemma before he got up to go with Miller, lifting his hand to give the two the finger, which only made them laugh even harder.

"Hurry up Private, before they run out of coffee too," Miller pressed the annoyed Private.

"The f*** you need me for?" Brussels retorted.

"I'm promoting you to be my personal cup holder…now c'mon Specialist, let's go!"

"F***…" Brussels moaned.

Within that same moment, Miller turned right back around to retreat to the lounge in hopes to ravage whatever coffee that may be left in the ten-cup capacity pot, all the while a frumpy Brussels followed orders and trailed right behind the dashing Captain. A bemused Jace and Marcus exchanged shrugs while Dom was too busy still trying to compose himself, but Josephine continued to muse,

"I guess da Doc drank up all da coffee at da barrack's station's too."

Entering into the quarantine station felt like walking into a jam-packed saloon, filled with the clammy stench and sounds of a diversity of people that had been enclosed in a humid quarters for too long, exchanging petty quarrels, low profile conversations, or lively laughter, all nit tight into the confines of the drab gray walls that wasn't too dissimilar to the walls back at the deliberation quarters.

Marcus was the first to enter, already feeling the sweat accumulate onto his brow that was covered by his tattered bandana. It wasn't so much that the room was not air conditioned, but the amount of bodies that were festering inside the cramped quarters kept the spaces in between warm and balmy, despite the cool air pushing hard through the vents above.

Dom followed closely behind, only to hit a warm wall of air the moment he passed the doorframe.

"Damn, it's going to get hot as hell here real quick man," he mumbled. Marcus responded with a grunt, seconding Dom's observation before pausing for a moment, reassessing the crowd of people already gathered in the room.

Amongst the assembly were Gear officers, including Major Reid, Master Sergeant Jacquin, and Commander Michealson. Members of the Feral Council of Matriarchs were also present, along with their praetorians, branding the typical Feral battle fatigues and cutlery, mostly swords, sabbas, the Feral term for a "short sword,", and hunting knives. Although only two members of the Gorasni council were present, they did keep a well, intimidating company of personal body guards close by. Needless to say, the crowd of opposing forces trying to speak in the better interest of their peoples was pretty boisterous if not short of unruly.

Coming in closely after Marcus and Dom were Jace and Josephine, trying to cram themselves past the doorframe. It wasn't long before Captain Miller and his personal "cup holder," Rodney Brussels, was attempting to come in the same way. Pushing through as best he could with the Captain's scorching cup of coffee, held tightly in his gloved hand, Brussels was already openly expressing his estimation of the situation,

"C'mon, really? Are we just going to conjugate at the door and pick our asses while everybody else is getting situated?" Brussels sneered.

"With Feral in the room, Rod? Not with that attitude you're not, trust me on this one," Miller rebutted. Looking past the men, Miller got a better look of the masses assembled in the room.

"Oh f*** me…" Miller could only muster with just a brief glance of the company he was going to have to entertain. It was bad enough that the Feral were openly present for the deliberations, but having both the Gorasni and council members from the small town of Retreat was even more depreciating since neither side was a great combination to have in the same room right now, mostly because the two were currently bickering over trade caps, regulations, and the latest in accusations of harboring "terrorists."

The Gorasni councilmen were apparently exchanging heated words with both the Gear officers and a Retreat councilman, but no one as of yet, dared to go beyond those very words. It was apparent that Master Sergeant Lucius Jacquin made sure of that by keeping his presence between the opposing bodies. Although he was supposed to still be in recovery, the authoritive Sergeant, branding his armor and fatigues, was still able to set a precedence amongst the festering atmosphere in the room. His presence alone was enough to keep everyone, including the Feral, hostility in check.

The Feral on the other hand were chatting amongst themselves, not the least interested in bickering with the men, probably most likely because of the language barrier, but their presence didn't make the atmosphere any less adverse. The intimidation in their appearance alone was enough to instill concern among the others. Even Lucius kept a wary eye on the women, knowing full well that if the women were to "act," it would be quick and swift, and with all due respect to the Gorasni councilmen's body guards, these women were trained just as diligently, if not moreso, to be fast and accurate. He would know; he'd seen them on the reservation out on the court yard, practicing their "kata's" for two hours every morning.

Among the Feral was Babel, whom was the least intimidating of the group in appearance, mostly because she didn't brand any war paint on her face and her long brown hair was pulled back into a simple pony-tail, rather than the ornate hairstyle of the more war-hardened Feral, which was either cropped into a boy-like cut or shaved along the sides, leaving long strands on the crown. Next to the "Feral Consulate," Raven, Babel was better versed in the Tyran language and was therefore the better translator, while the other Feral praetorians were just there to maintain presence.

Amongst them was also Teirre,' the tallest Feral of the clan at a strong six foot four, and had the kind of build that could break balls with just a glance. She was by no means scantily clad or suggestive in her attire, but was just as flirtatiously engaging as any harlot worth a man's while. She could be seen smiling from across the room, charming to anyone whom had the balls to stare at her long enough for her to stare back. If it wasn't for her pretty, white toothed smile and her almond-shaped blue eyes, the men would probably piss themselves the moment they saw her long blonde Mohawk, pulled back into a horsetail and her exposed, bulging biceps, crossed tightly across her chest. Her thighs alone would instill fear in any man whom would ever think about nestling in between them.

Miller could already sense the diplomatic noose tighten as he exchanged a glance with Marcus, whom was also already on the edge of a similar precipice, staring down into a whatever abyss they were about to jump into. For once, the men shared the same lack of enthusiasm concerning the meeting that would be taking place.

Suddenly, a booming voice could be heard from behind as Marcus felt a nudge coming from Dom,

"Make way men," an annoyed Colonel Hoffman could be heard, trying to meander through the tight spaces towards the front of the room. Following close behind was Lieutenant Anya Stroud with a notepad and pen in hand, keeping her distance not too far from the Colonel's.

The volume in the room was still the same, despite the Colonel's entrance wasn't necessarily short in lacking authority. The masses of people did allow the Colonel to make way without further prodding.

Amongst the crowding spaces and constant exchange of voices, the overwhelmed Lieutenant was still able to exchange glances with first, the striking and generous Captain Miller, and then to the war-hardened Sergeant Fenix; both in which one could say was rather a bit too intimate than it should have been, but then again, who was say otherwise without coming across as hypocritical. These days, when humanity is hanging delicately on the threads of extinction, especially after entertaining martial law in a somewhat lawless land, who could say what is appropriate and what is not?

Although Dom had long known about Anya's infatuation with the glum Fenix, the only person to catch on to the subtle exchange was Josephine. Despite the antagonistic tone already hovering heavily in the air, being a former convict himself, Josephine could instinctively read the intuitions of almost everyone in his immediate sight, including the nearly transparent Lieutenant. He could also tell that the Colonel was short of troubled, keeping his usual ball-busting demeanor in the forefront of his aged and jaded facial expression, but Josephine had long known it was the Colonel's unique way to mask his concerns. The Captain's poise was even more translucent to whatever **** was going to hit the fan; somethin's gonna happen, and da Colonel's not too happy bout' it.

********

Vectus Hospital waiting room…

Baird sat in one of the many plush chairs that accommodated the massive waiting room, sophisticatedly designed to provide an atmosphere of eloquence and class. The décor alone was awe inspiring with a fountain just outside the entrance surrounded by lush crape myrtles, massive shrubs that would bloom in the hotter months of the year, filling their foliage with bright pink, white, or purple blooms of soft florets that would flutter in the air in the salty sea breeze.

Decked in cobblestone, Romanesque pillars and ornate patterns on the textured wallpaper that wrapped the walls of the room was enough to make even the most sophisticated person feel sullied, much less a grimy mechanic whom was reduced to taking showers once a week because the plumbing on base was short of inadequate for the volume of people that was dependent on it. In fact, it wasn't uncommon for Baird to make a trip to the local hardware store just to use their bathroom because the toilets on base were either out of service or in use; another reason for me not to use the sh*tter at the barracks. That asshole Merks keeps backing it up with his crap!

He leaned his head over the backrest of his plush chair, feeling his weight sink into what felt like air; damn, this chair's comfortable…and it was most certainly comfortable, compared to his newly, renovated office, which was nothing more than a gutted lavoratory with only the toilet and stall wall to support his equipment. As he looked up, it took only a moment to realize that he was going to have to yank himself from his state of bliss as he noticed someone approaching him from the hallway entrance into the waiting room.

Raven was staggering rather than walking, one step at a time as if she was in a daze, if not any less than just confused. Her newly refurbished attire, which consisted of a black, red poka-dot dress was freshly ironed and her black heeled shoes polished. A newly compartmented tool bag hung snugly on her shoulder by the elongated, adjustable strap, strung by the most durable nylon one could find on Sera. Judging by her overall demeanor, she didn't appear any happier, but she wasn't pissed off either.

She meandered over to Baird with a limp in her stride. Coming closer, it didn't take long for Baird to count the scratches and abrasions that now littered her left side on both her arm and leg. Although most have healed or were in the process of healing, he could still make out where she recently had some stitches removed. As bold as he would often spit out what was foremost on his mind, he wasn't going to say out loud that she looked like hell, especially since he wasn't exactly a basket of roses either.

Her face was sunken in as if she hadn't slept or eaten in a few days, which Baird could attest since the hospital food tasted like crap and the meds they shoved into you only made it to where you couldn't keep anything down if you tried. s***, what did they put her on now?

He had expected a good scathing from her since she was nearly put in harm's way, but she made no such reprimand, nor acted as if she intended to do any scathing of the sort to anyone. Instead, she remained mute and disoriented, slowly removing the strap from her should and carefully placing the bag onto the floor. She only let out an exasperating sigh before closing her tired eyes, trying to muster something of a conversation, but she choked on the first few words before getting out whatever she intended to tell him.

"I…um, I…can we…g, go to the com center first?" she sputtered.

The ambience between the two was strangely awkward. Baird had never seen her spaced-out like this before, and if it didn't give him any cause for concern, he was certainly on the alert. Well this day's going to be interesting.

"Uh, sure, I guess…" Baird began until Raven interrupted him.

"Good. I…need some…security access to the main terminal."

"Hoffman already gave me a security access…"

"Did he…give you the, the codes to the…back-up drives?"

"Sigh…no, he didn't. I didn't think we would need to access the back-up terminal…"

"Then let's go," she said abruptly without giving Baird a chance to finish his sentence.

Although Baird wasn't one to take any crap from anyone, much less Feral, but after all they had been through in recent days, Baird just wanted to get the job done and over with, so instead, he just dropped his hands on the arm of his chair and gradually began to pull himself up. He too was still sore from their recent encounter, although his stitches were not as irritating as they were the day before. Gathering the keys to the Brahma, he stretched out an arm towards the waiting room exit.

"This way, Madame Feral." he gestured with a sarcastic pitch in his tone.

[SKORGE]

^You know what sucks?

The fact that I don't remember where I left off on ANY story let alone this one. What happened, Jonesy?

I need some free time so I can push writing as the forefront of this section again...

[Jonesybites]

I so slept since then SKORGE, I couldn't tell you where you left off...but the chapters do have a brief recap at the top so maybe that'll help. As of right now without spoiling too much, some UIR pirates/defects have surrendered to the COG. Why you ask? Well, that's my little suprise...ok, it may be a complete suprise, but, they are one of Hoffman's prime suspects for the recent destruction of fishing vessels.

[Jay the Arbiter]

^You know what sucks?

The fact that I don't remember where I left off on ANY story let alone this one. What happened, Jonesy?

I need some free time so I can push writing as the forefront of this section again...

I disagree, the fact that the "Anya is Hot" thread taking priority is an annoyance. >.>

Anyway, I'll be sure to get round to reading this, once I get my head screwed back on after doing a "Professional" presentation at Uni. ^^;

[Jay the Arbiter]

Double post, but I did get to reading, as promised!

I'm trying to pin down what kind of accent Sokolov has, but for some reason Russian just isn't agreeing with me. Then again, every tells me Trescu is supposed to be the Seran version of a Russian, but I thought he sounded more Japanese. (Then again then again, I'm wrong most of the time)

I suppose I thought of the Gorasni as Japanese because of their Naval Warfare, which reminds of the Pacific campaign in WW2. That's my obscure take on it though.

Also, Josephine sounds like a Woman's name, did I miss something or need to go back and re-read a chapter? I have the exact same problem with a Character from Dan Abnett's Gaunt's Ghosts novels.

[Jonesybites]

I disagree, the fact that the "Anya is Hot" thread taking priority is an annoyance. >.>

Lol, among others that I won't give the time of my day to mention...but then again we had long desired more activity here in the S&C section. Beggers can't be choosers I suppose.

Ibased much of the UIR on what Karen had written with the Gorasni, and what jack has updated in the Gearspedia, but I just went with a Russian name with Sokolov, but it doesn't necessarily mean that she is based on a Russian persona, so you can substitute with whatever you want, while with Josephine (I suppose it's primarily a girls name, but can you imagin what this guy went through in prison with a name like that?), I intently went with Cajun and with intent, was trying to use that deep, southern Louisiana accent, and I spent several weeks researching Cajun dialect, which is very interesting because it’s a hodgepodge of primarily French and southern English, but there’s also some Spanish influence, African (from the slaves at the time), and Native Americans. I probably need to watch a few episodes of “Swamp People” to really get a feel for the culture.

I'm not familier with Dan Abnett's Gaunt's Ghosts novels so I can't help you there.

[Jay the Arbiter]

Me and Rak believe if we all get posting again, we'll spring life back into this place.

Don't worry about Gaunt's Ghosts, I was just using the character as an example when it comes to me and names.

[Jonesybites]

Another day, another inquiry for another pending investigation as the mortician reveals another disturbing revelation.

Chapter Seventeen: Decoding The Family Skeleton

The snake behind me hisses
What my damage could have been.
My blood before me begs me
Open up my heart again.

And I feel this coming over like a storm again.

I am too connected to you
To slip away, fade away.
Days away I still feel you,
Touching me, changing me.

~Tool~



Twelve years before E-day, at an undisclosed residence in Eypheria…

The boy stood in the hallway of his parents' home, watching the whole drama occur before him. He stood there, not moving an inch as he watched in reverence, his eyes fixated on the knife in his mothers' hand, stabbing his father over, and over, and again…

The shouting, the screaming, so deafening that even the neighbors could hear the confrontation from the comforts of their living rooms, but for him, it was the family opus. His icy cold glare coming from his blue gaze was transfixed on the confrontation, even so when somebody managed to finally bust down the front door.

Police frantically entered the house after several calls to dispatch alerting them of the domestic dispute at the home, which would normally have led to assault with a deadly weapon. Running past the boy still standing in awe in the hallway, looking into his parents' bedroom where his mother dropped a lamp over his fathers' head, and then proceeded to stab him repeatedly with a kitchen knife, the police managed to restrain her, pulling the mad woman off her screaming, bleeding husband.

It was an image that was forever burned into his head; the blood that would cling to the cold stainless steel blade that was thrusted it into his fathers' flesh, and the wild look in her eyes when she finally snapped. It was only a matter of time after so many years of abuse and rape that she would just crack. It was long before this incident that the dissidence would hover over their home like a black cloud, just waiting to crack like a booming thunder within in a brief flash of lightning. It was a long time in the waiting, only for the boy to finally witness his mother retaliate.

It didn't take long for the house to be swarmed with police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances, all trying to reassess a messy situation that was anything but typical. Although it would seem like just some archetypal domestic violence, it wasn't.

A little later, it was two o'clock later that night when Major Hoffman would get a phone call from the district judge, whom was standing over slashed up, Major Quade Haley lying in a gurney in the trauma ward of a local hospital, fighting for his life at the hands of his belligerent wife.

"Major…" the Judge was careful to articulate as he always did with delicate situations such as these, "…this is Judge Veldez from Reimer district…the reason I am calling you is because you're presence at Mercy Hospital is required at once sir."

A brief pause took resonance as the judge kept the receiver to his ear with his shoulder, still wearing his raincoat he put on earlier that evening from the drizzle earlier that day and continued through the night.

"I'm afraid this cannot wait, Major. We have a mess on our hands that only you can sign off on sir…one of your fellow officers' just got stabbed with multiple lacerations by his spouse…Protective Child Services just picked up the boy, and I'm not too sure what you want us to do with the mother. According to their transcripts, they're under COG diplomatic immunity and therefore I have no jurisdiction over their welfare."

Judge Veldez paused again, turning his gaze to the hospital entrance, only to find other patrons coming and going, shaking the water from their umbrellas.

"Thank you, Major…I'll bring you up to speed upon your arrival."

********

The present in the officers' dressing room on Vectus Naval Base…

Feeling the texture of the scars that ran along the side of his abdomen was a ritual Major Haley had learned to execute with a distinct precision. Carefully grazing the tips of his fingers over the ridges to where the stitches melded him together from one incident or another gave him a sense of satisfaction, proof that he was more than just a survivor; he was a despicable but ornery son of a b**** with enough gray hairs littering his once black strands displaying his years of experience to back it up. The scars were merely an emblem of all that Major Haley was, and he probably wouldn't have it any way, with one exception; the one thing he had blamed Colonel Hoffman for years

He sat on the bench, holding his white tank-top over his pectorals to gaze along his back from the mirror opposite of where he was sitting. Marks and scar lines were so patchy, it was if a child scribbled a marker all over his back, but the texture alone made it real. Where the skin was once taut and firm, age has come to renovate him into another bitter old man with enough grudges for three lifetimes, much less one.

Glancing at the clock that hung on the wall above the lockers, he lowered his shirt and leaned down to pull up his old Gear rig, which too was littered in abrasions, scraped paint, and mild deformity. Glaring at the old piece of equipment, Haley couldn't help but to chuckle to himself, reminiscing the days of his youth, and all its lore entailed. He knew exactly what he was and he made no excuses for anything or anyone. To him, it was just cold and calculating, hard logic, and again, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Staring down at his rig, he grazed the palm of his hand down the chest pate to feel the armor's old but sturdy plates as he mumbled to himself,

"Well old friend, it's into hell we go…"

…and then he strapped it on.

********

After almost day wandering the surface, Dr. Ramses was soon humbled to the confines of the Vectus mortuary, finding solace in its brick walls once again. The cold crisp air and the after- stench of bleach and formaldehyde had once again welcomed him home. He had long figured that it was his lot in life; his calling to be the keeper of the dead, but to feel the warmth under the Bloom sun was still a treat.

Meandering around the stainless-steel embalming table, Ramses made his way to the freezer vault to roll out the only corpse that had been sitting idle for nearly three months. Opening the steel door as the cold air rushed out, Ramses reached the handle to pull out the body of the late Sergeant Morose, or at least that's what his COG tags indicated.

Truth be told, Morose had an exemplary record of military service before the COG unleashed the Hammer of Dawn, and that he and his men, along with countless civilians and COG medical personnel, were subjected to its scorching rays. It was a day Ramses could remember vividly. So many men, women, and children, he thought to himself, remembering that he had run out of body bags within the first day. After a week, he stopped counting the number of dead.

Glaring blankly at a corpse he had thoroughly inspected three times too many, Ramses followed the post-mortem scars on the late Sergeant. He knew them intimately by now, some he had long known were from his childhood, others from the war…and the patches of first, second degree, burn marks, well…

Ramses had already written a story on the man whom had spent nearly his entire life on the edge of a scandal; one that would have had the people scream in outrage. He could read Millardo's feet and hands like an open book, judging by the calluses on the palms, the pitting in the fingernails, to the calcium build up on the knuckles and the splinters on the carpal bones, and the wearing of the nerve endings. The man was built like a machine which was normally typical of any Gear, but he was conditioned purposely to take abuse, which alluded to the doctor of the late Sergeants' sadomasochistic tendencies.

Perhaps you were right to condemn the council…but it was too late for him. Any justice Morose had hoped to deliver to those whom were responsible was either dead, or misplaced from the Locust attack. In any case, the rage that the late Sergeant had built up over the years was for nothing; save those whom lived to tell about it.

Following the stitched incisions along his neck, Ramses glared at the face of wrath. Milliardo's face was pale against the long, strands of black hair that was unevenly sheared when Ramses stitched his severed head to the rest of his body. He knew the cut was post-mortem so he didn't badger the Colonel about it.

Pulling out his recorder, he began to log his analysis once again.

"Dr. Peter Ramses, M.D, date third of Brune…I am…again, reevaluating the body of Sergeant Milliardo Leviticus Morose. As I have listed in my previous inquiries, the man of age, mid-thirties, six foot four with blue eyes, black hair…a massive tattoo of what appears to be an "incubus" of sorts on his back, died from severe hemorrhaging due to blood loss from disembowelment. His, organs were recovered at the scene in which he was found, hung upside down with his genitals dismembered, possibly while he was still living, and found stuffed in his oral cavity."

He stood mute for a moment to recollect his thoughts, going over the same analysis he had arraigned weeks earlier, only to revisit the body once again after reassessing the STR alleles he was able to access from what little blood he was able to retrieve from Milliardo's body; a reverse paternity test at the request from Hoffman earlier that week. Although the results were not terribly surprising, another similar set of alleles was also found in what was left of the Jacinto archive. It was this information that Ramses found to be of interest, and knowing that Hoffman would be just as susceptible to shock at the doctor's findings, he destroyed the remaining hard copies with the exception of one he had given to Lieutenant Stroud, in return to give to Hoffman. It was the only for sure way to avoid any more diplomatic kinks than the COG already had after recent events; this one was sure to set a fire if it fell into suspecting hands.

Ramses resumed his analysis,

"The…the left arm has pre-mortem cuts by a sharp object, most likely a knife which indicates to me self-mutilation. If I had to guess, I would say the Sergeant had ritualistically cut himself as a means of conditioning to constantly expose his body to his endorphins, which again, as stated in his psychological file, suggests a masochistic lifestyle…this would be a tell-tale sign of such tendencies as displayed in most sado-masochists in previous psychiatric studies. However, after thoroughly examining the relation between his pituitary gland and the chemical content in his bloodstream, there is an abnormality in his natural pain inhibiters, which suggests that he may have developed a, dare I say, addiction to his own abnormal secretion of his own endorphins."

Letting out a brief sigh after pausing for a moment, the doctor resumed,

"After reviewing the results of a code search in the old Jacinto archive, I…while I was confirming the alleles of that to his late, enlisted father, I made a rather interesting discovery that I cannot disclose into record as of yet. If my hypothesis is correct, then the late Sergeant Milliardo Morose has a half sibling."

Shortly after, Ramses heard the cellar door open and then close from the stairwell just outside the freezer rooms. It was the main entrance to the mortuary, a door so heavy it made a rather obnoxious sound every time someone would open it, as if the thick metal hinges were curling, for which it would pry the insulation barrier from the doorframe. It was designed for temperature control to keep the freezers cool and functioning as it housed the remnants of the dead, keeping the rest of the "catacombs" rather cooler than the rest of the hospital.

Walking down the flight of stairs, a bustled but calm Dr. Hayman meandered around the corner with patient files in hand. Placing the recorder on the dissecting tray, Ramses then wiped his hands on his apron before taking off his black-rimmed glasses to get a better look at the Chief Medical Physician entering his "domain."

"Doctor…" Ramses greeted the ornery woman with a smug that was almost if not condescending.

"That's Chief Physician to you, Sergeant," the woman articulated before placing the pile of manila folders she had carried into the morgue onto a clear stainless steel table. Shortly after placing them on what resembled a patient tray, Hayman leaned back up to stretch her back from carrying the load down the stairs. The cold only made it worse as she pulled her bleached white lab coat close to her chest to stay warm.

"So I take it those are client files that I am to soon be embalming?"

"Sigh, and then some," she replied, wiping sweat from her brow before it turned into frost. Glancing at the cadaver Ramses had pulled out from the freezer, Hayman growled,

"Is Hoffman still brooding over that son of a b****?" she said, recalling the headaches she had to go through to keep the body on ice when they transferred it from Fort Block to Vectus Hospital. It was bad enough they struggled to transport the patients from Port Farrall to Vectus Island by ship, the most least sanitized place one could ever place a patient on, and here they were ordered to preserve and transport a corpse? Hoffman knew it would irk Hayman, but Ramses took care of it so the Chief Physician could tend to other matters other than babysit a dead person, especially a dead person that had increased the number of wounded in Hayman's ward in the first place.

Ramses shrugged, putting his recorder back into his pocket.

"I had my orders…and I kept him out of your way," he replied.

"Yes, that you did," she returned the same.

"So forgive me doctor, but I was not able to get any more Salmon for sandwiches…I've had to rely on the turkey for the past week," Ramses mentioned as he began to place his tools into the sanitation jar.

"I already ate, Peter," she replied.

"Oh…so…" Ramses began before Hayman pulled out her cheroots from her coat pocket.

"Now Doctor, I was under the understanding that it is prohibited to smoke in the mortuary…" Ramses began before Hayman interrupted him,

"In the morgue, Peter…not in your personal quarters."

It was finally clear to Ramses what the old hag came for, and he wasn't one to pass up Hayman's subtle suggestion.

Lifting herself up after leaning over the table, she put her pen on top of the files she had just placed on his table.

"Ramses could you meet me in your office please," the doctor asked, pulling the loosened, white hairs behind her ears after removing her glasses.

Shortly after her request, she walked past the plastic curtain and into the hallway that lead to Ramses' solitary office in the bowels of the mortuary. Entering into his office, Hayman caught a glimpse of the late Sergeant's collection of oddities, including several small mammals placed in specimen jars, some of which included human body parts such as the brain, heart and lungs, a human skull with the cranium severe for a better view of the sinus cavity, and a human femur, placed in a shadow box that had a bone tumor at the ball-socket joint. The man was a true artist of his profession, a rarity that Hayman had admittedly admired about the late field medic.

She began to carefully remove her lab coat and then put on the free standing coat rack nearby, making sure it hung securely to avoid it falling on the floor; she a reputation after all to keep. Ramses entered shortly wearing just his scrubs since apparently he removed his apron at the embalming room. He could see Hayman standing at the edge of his desk that in turn was surrounded by metal shelving containing files and more of his pet-projects, which in this sense was literal.

Although he had a few dogs in his lifetime, his pet of choice were cats since they were more compatible in the mortuary than any dog ever would. With each passing animal, he would preserve them to update on his taxidermy skills, which was his fathers' profession while Ramses sought such means on the human scale.

"I only have an hour left on my lunch break, doctor," Hayman informed him while she started to unstrap her shoes.

"Only an hour?" Ramses mused as he too, pulled his scrub shirt off, revealing a white undershirt underneath with his COG and medical tags hung around on a chain around his neck.

"Oh c'mon Pete, you're better than that, and it's been three weeks…" Hayman reminded him, followed with a somewhat devious smile.

Ramses lifted a brow to the senior doctor's proposition.

"With everything going on in the world, I'd figure you'd want to pop a few sleepers and take a nap," he chuckled as he removed his undershirt, revealing an icily pale slender but sculpted frame. Although he hadn't worked out on the field in over ten years that so much of his mass has since then diminished, but he still continued to go out and run almost every evening, and then finish it off with upright push-ups against the morgue walls, keeping something of a physique. But the lack of sun, the constant stench of formaldehyde, plus an overabundance of coffee was adding to his age. He constantly took vitamin supplements, including vitamin C tablets to avoid getting scurvy, and drunk green tea as much as he drunk water.

"Is that a complaint I hear, doctor?" she nagged playfully, watching Ramses fold his shirt and place it on his desk.

"No ma'am…after you," Ramses cooed, extending his arm towards his makeshift living quarters in the next small room, which was more like a prison cell, consisting of four concrete walls, a bed, and a dresser.

Hayman wasted no time, walking over to Ramses living quarters while unbuttoning her shirt to save time for the more pleasant activities the two were going to delve into. Although the woman was twelve years his senior, Ramses found Hayman's "company" intriguing and had since then followed up on their "meetings" with the same vigor as that of the Chief Medical Physician.

Hayman seldom had time for relationships, and infrequently tolerated anything that would interfere with her work, so she never married and more than often found the company of men to be tedious.

But Ramses was rare find, whom also never married and habitually always found something constructive with his time, whether it be writing memoirs or delving into his hobbies with whatever equipment he had at his disposal.

But it was Ramses who managed to convince the doctor to share a lunch with him in the mortuary when her personal desk was overflowing with paperwork and she didn't have any space to eat a lunch in peace. Although at first Hayman found the idea to be vile, eating in a space right next to the freezers where the hospital kept dead people, but it turned out to be a pleasant experience communing with the mortician and since then, she would schedule regular lunches with Ramses.

As Ramses entered his room, Hayman had already removed her blouse and started to peel the stockings from her legs.

"Are you needing the shower?" he asked while removing his pants.

"Not now…I have a surgery scheduled later and I'll wash up before then," she replied.

"Well, then I won't keep you waiting," he said with a smug before removing his underwear and placing it on the dresser. Hayman then removed the clip that held her white hair in the tight confines of her makeshift bun, and let it down before Ramses finally shut the door behind them.

********

Rummaging through the supply room brought back memories for Raven, recalling the countless hours she invested ransacking old COG storage houses that had somewhat been abandoned, until a Stranded came across it. It was then a battle of who gets what and depending on the Stranded, Raven was usually the victor when it came to computer components.

Baird on the other hand was stuffing his tool bag with a hand solder, several precision screwdrivers and three different types of needle-nose pliers.

"S***, I hate getting stuff from this place," Baird was ranting, annoyed that nothing was organized.

"And why's that?" Raven had to ask for the sake of breaking up continuity.

"This place is about as organized as a box of f***ing popcorn. I would spend an hour looking for a Phillips-head screwdriver…nobody puts anything back in the right place!"

"What were you expecting?" Raven said in a matter-of-fact tone while looking through the box of USB ports and wiring.

"Yea, well I guess it's too much to ask to place the screwdrivers in the cabinet by size in sequential order…and I guess everybody's just too retarded to put all the hammers in one drawer. Nah, that's just too hard of a concept for people to handle."

On and on, Damon did what he did best and Raven did what she usually does by letting it go through one ear and out the other. Although she could only tolerate Baird's excessive ranting for so long before she finally had to tell him to shut the hole in his face, and then they would have a quarrel on their hands, but today, Damon's bad habits didn't seem to peeve her at the slightest. She continued to rummage through the boxes without delay, pulling out whatever components she needed and placed them in her newly, compartmented tool bag. It was to the point that Raven appeared to be so serene, even Baird had to stop and wonder why she wasn't chewing his balls off.

The atmosphere was starting to bother him before he finally had to ask her,

"Ok, I'm going to have to ask since, technically, I'm your ward…what meds did they put you on?" he asked.

It took a few moments for the question to sink in like a delayed reaction before Raven stopped rummaging in the box to look up at him and respond.

"Uh…" she stopped to think, rerouting her focus on remembering what the doctor said he was going to put her on, "…Refilin, I think."

"Refilin?" Baird paused working for a moment, "…that's an anxiety medication, isn't it?"

"Uh, yea," she replied and then resumed working without further comment. No snooty comment or sarcastic banter, just silence.

Baird couldn't help but to notice the contortions of her sculpted biceps, working diligently as she placed one box up so she could pull out another. It was more than obvious by now that she hadn't been eating much lately, judging by the lack of fat on her body. The medicine may have also added to her lack of appetite, another cause for further concern, not to mention a radical change in her mood and personality. Damn, she was more fun when she was a nagging b****, Baird had to admit.

After finally pulling out the last thing she needed, she slid the box back onto the shelf and loaded up her tool bag on a chair sitting next to hers.

"I got what I need, what about you?" she quickly asked.

"Uh, yea," Baird replied as he stood up with the strap to his bag already hung over his shoulder.

"Well, let's get this over with I guess," she replied softly, a contrast from her normal demeanor, which usually would involve a scathing scowl.

Without warning, the door to the supply room suddenly creaked open before an awake and ready Augustus Cole peeked past the door frame.

"Hehe, Hoffman sent me here to look for y'all," Cole beamed, happy to see the two alive and somewhat well, especially Raven.

"Morning Cole…" Raven replied, and then loaded the strap of her bag onto her shoulder.

"Morning baby…I take it Baird gave you the lowdown? Cole gleefully asked.

"Sigh, and then some," Raven replied before walking past Cole and exiting the door. Puzzled by Raven's lenient poise, Cole turned to Baird,

"Ok, how long has she been like that?" Cole subtly asked a bemused Baird.

Letting out a sigh, Baird replied,

"Since they sedated her because she was cussing like a sailor in the trauma ward…and now they got her on some anti-anxiety meds so now we have to work with doped up Feral."

"Well, I guess this day's gonna prove interesting," Cole chuckled before Baird walked over to the door and slapped Cole on the shoulder as he responded,

"Tell me about it. Let's just get this thing started before they wear off, shall we?"

[Jay the Arbiter]

I feel kind of bad, I should have read this ages ago. I kind of got caught up with the wonder that is University workload! I haven't given up on reading though, so here's one I owe you!

The death of one Morose was indeed a gruesome one! I'm trying to imagine Ramses trying to explain the cause of his death to another doctor. They've probably seen some bad stuff but... maybe not that bad.

[Jonesybites]

Lol, I didn't realize people were still reading this; but I do need to get back on the horn with updates.

Yea, morticians have a unique perspective on life….but why they would keep a corpse on ice for additional testing and analysis suggests other alternatives to foul play. Hoffman knows something that everyone else doesn’t; mostly because anyone else who did or would know, are dead.

[Jay the Arbiter]

Well, I owed you a read. I remember you posting that chapter and thinking to myself "I better get around to that", but I got sideswiped with work. I owe a few other people reads of their stuff as well.

Heh, yeah updating. I'm still alive, but I don't think I can share what I've done here.