Day 164, Year 988, 41st Millennium
Hive Kathion
Upper Hive
_This is bad_ Eric thought to himself as he collapsed onto the floor once again. His body was drenched in sweat, his shirt and trousers clinging to his skin like a second layer. After taking a heavy fist to the chest, his knees had given out, sending him sprawling in a single blow. The sharp pain flared for a moment before fading into a dull, lingering ache.
Today marked the seventh day of his combat training, and he still hadn't managed to best the Colonel. He hadn't even managed to make the man take the fight seriously.
After a week of returning home battered and bruised, Eric had become almost numb to the pain. He felt only a slight throb where the blows landed before the sensation vanished. Over these seven days, he had gained more than just useful combat skills; he had learned unarmed defense against gunmen, close-quarters grappling, and even how to snap a neck or choke an opponent into unconsciousness. The training grew more grueling by the day. While his endurance had improved significantly, it was still not enough to overcome a Colonel with decades of battlefield experience.
If that wasn't enough, he spent his nights dodging the Arbites patrolling the streets during curfew. His four-hour post-work training sessions meant he had to play a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse with those brutal lawmen every night. Luckily, he had managed to slip back to his quarters undetected for the past week.
"Get up... is that all you've got?" Colonel Drago stood over Eric, looking irritated. He seemed displeased that the "young woman" before him wasn't progressing as fast as he expected, making him feel like he was wasting his valuable time on someone incompetent.
"Yes, Colonel," Eric gritted his teeth, pushing himself off the floor slowly and unsteadily. His arms trembled, but he didn't feel much pain. He knew only one thing: he had to keep going until the session ended so he could finally go home.
In Eric's mind, Colonel Drago was an elite combatant, many times stronger than himself. He was a good teacher, despite his short temper when Eric failed to meet his expectations. Besides, the Colonel's personality was certainly better than Vann's.
"Come at me again... and try to actually win this time," the Colonel said with a bored, impatient sigh, dropping into a relaxed but impenetrable stance.
Eric frowned slightly. He had grown used to the Colonel's daily provocations. He had learned that falling for an enemy's taunts was a fool's errand; in the past, his anger had only led to more defeats.
Eric lunged, closing the distance rapidly. He utilized his smaller frame and superior agility to strike. Having lost so many times, he had analyzed his flaws, his weaknesses, and exactly what needed to be corrected.
This time, the Colonel struck first. His fist shot out with blinding speed. Eric managed to slip the punch—a feat he had never achieved before—and decided to test a new tactic. He grabbed the Colonel's wrist and forearm with both hands, twisting them violently in the same direction.
His goal wasn't to break the arm—he knew he lacked the raw strength for that—but to force his opponent off-balance. Colonel Drago had to pivot his body to go with the twist to avoid injury. For a split second, surprise registered on the veteran's face before morphing into a smirk.
Eric retreated two or three steps, panting. His chest heaved with each breath. His blue eyes locked onto Drago, who was casually rolling his shoulder, appearing satisfied with the move.
"Better... though that's more suited for an opponent with a knife. Still, it'll do," Drago critiqued, raising his guard again. "Come on!"
Eric charged again, this time with a plan.
Drago swung a heavy right hook, aiming for Eric's ribs. Eric ducked at the perfect moment, the fist whistling inches above his hair. Drago was visibly startled by Eric's sudden burst of speed. Being behind the Colonel while the man was overextended, Eric seized the opening. He swung his right leg with everything he had into the back of the Colonel's knee.
The Colonel's leg buckled, dropping him to one knee. Eric didn't waste a second. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the chance to end this grueling cycle. Eric drove his combat boot into the center of the Colonel's back. The force sent the much larger man face-first onto the floor.
Eric stood there, gasping for air, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. "I win this time, right, Colonel?"
Drago rolled over and stood up, slightly unsteady from the blow to his knee. He looked shocked, as if he hadn't expected Eric to use such a "dirty" tactic.
"Yeah, you won... but your form is still crap," Drago grunted, sounding almost disappointed by the lack of "honor" in the move. Eric's smile faltered; he feared the Colonel would find an excuse to keep the training going.
"But then again, nothing in this world is fair. Rules of engagement are for fools on a real battlefield. Fine, congratulations. You're done here. I'll tell General Vann you passed the test." Drago spoke plainly, offering a rare, genuine smile.
Eric felt like jumping for joy. He immediately forgot the agony of the last seven days. No more four-hour beatdowns. No more dodging Arbites. He felt like a prisoner who had served fifty years and was finally tasting freedom.
"Thank you! Thank you so much, Colonel!" he chirped, his voice sounding more sincere and "feminine" than he intended in his excitement. Drago, busy pulling on his tunic, looked annoyed by the display.
"Don't get all sappy on me. Just get back to your quarters before the Arbites catch you."
"Understood!" Eric ran to the corner to grab his coat. He threw it over his sweat-soaked white t-shirt, which had become uncomfortably translucent. He hurriedly buttoned the coat to the neck, both to hide his "improper" state and to mask his feminine figure, though the rising heat inside the coat made him grimace.
He checked his bag, ensured his belongings were there, and walked out of the training hall in high spirits.
Finally... no more training, and tonight is the last time I have to sneak around those Arbites, Eric thought. As he walked down the corridor, he passed a group of three PDF soldiers. He tried to ignore them, his mind already drifting to tomorrow—maybe he'd buy a couple of hobby magazines or try that new food stall.
But as he passed, he heard something foul.
"Look at her. Coming out of the Colonel's room every night looking like that. Drenched and exhausted. What do you think they're actually doing in there?" a tall, burly PDF soldier whispered to his friends, eyeing Eric with blatant disrespect.
"Who knows? But she always comes out looking like she can barely walk. The Colonel's got decent taste, I'll give him that," another soldier added.
A third man, an officer from Logistics, tried to hush them. "Shut up, she'll hear you."
Too late. Eric stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw tightened and his brows knit together. He felt a searing mix of rage and humiliation. He was used to uncomfortable stares, but no one had ever dared say something so disgusting to his face.
He turned back, glaring at them. He tried to stay calm; a brawl would be trouble, and he didn't want to ruin his or the Colonel's reputation. He decided to clarify the situation, even if it felt beneath him.
"Excuse me, it's not what you think," Eric said, trying to keep his voice level and hide the tremors of fury. The tall soldier just shrugged, a greasy, mocking grin on his face.
"Oh? Nothing to explain, sweetheart. We're just wondering what kind of 'training' the Colonel gives a pretty face like yours every night. How many 'positions' have you mastered by now?" The soldier leaned down, bringing his face level with Eric's, chuckling.
"I was just practicing combat," Eric explained, hoping this would end it.
"Is that right? Strange how we never heard about the Colonel taking on students. I wonder... if you're as good at 'handling' the General as you are the Colonel?" The soldier's grin widened.
"That's enough, man," the Logistics officer urged.
"Enough? Look at her. Look at that smile she wears coming out of there. We all know what she's trading." The tall soldier lowered his voice, his tone turning venomous. "You know, industrial ports get loose if you plug into them too hard without maintenance. I hope you aren't getting 'loose' from all that heavy usage."
The vulgar metaphor shattered Eric's restraint. His male soul felt trampled. The shyness he usually felt in this body was incinerated by a cold, decisive rage.
"What did you just say? I'll give you one chance to take that back," Eric said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, neutral tone.
"Take it back? I'm saying you're just soft meat for the high-ranking brass to blow off steam. Don't act like you're—CRACK!"
Before the soldier could finish, Eric's right fist smashed into the bridge of the man's nose. The soldier staggered back, blood spurting.
"You little...!" The soldier roared, lunging forward with a clenched fist.
Eric felt a surge of adrenaline. He ducked the clumsy swing, stepped in, and buried a punch deep into the soldier's solar plexus. He had learned well—the diaphragm was a universal weak point. The soldier gasped, doubling over. Eric followed up with a sharp uppercut to the chin, sending the man stumbling.
The other soldiers were stunned. They hadn't expected the "pretty girl" to fight like a street brawler. A crowd of PDF personnel and hive workers began to gather.
In the chaos, Eric took a hit to the stomach and a clip to the side of his head. Blood trickled from his lip. Normally, such a blow would have doubled him over in pain, but after a week with Drago, it felt like nothing more than a nuisance.
Eric kicked the man's ribs, then swept his leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Eric didn't hesitate; he straddled the man and began raining down punches on his face until the soldier was nearly senseless.
"STOP IT!" Colonel Drago's voice boomed.
Eric's fist froze in mid-air. He looked up as the Colonel approached. The crowd went silent. Eric took a deep breath, bracing for the disciplinary consequences.
"Colonel, she started it!" Lieutenant Gray—the soldier on the floor—tried to protest through a broken nose.
"He was insulting me, Colonel!" Eric countered.
"Get off him," Drago commanded. Eric stood up, straightening his coat, expecting a lecture. Instead, Drago looked at the crowd with an amused glint in his eye. "Back off! Now, stand up and finish this properly. I want to see a winner."
Eric was baffled. Drago wasn't calling the Enforcers. He was turning this into a spectacle. The surrounding soldiers started cheering; some even began taking bets on their data-slates.
"I'm betting on the girl!"
"My credits are on Gray!"
"I'll put my money on her too," Drago said, folding his arms.
Lieutenant Gray scrambled up, spitting blood. "You're dead, bitch."
Eric adjusted his coat, his expression turning mocking. "Go ahead. I want to see how you feel when you have to crawl and apologize to the 'pretty face' you insulted."
"BEGIN!" Drago barked.
They collided. This time, Gray was ready. He blocked several of Eric's strikes and landed a few of his own. Eric used his agility, slipping a punch and driving an elbow into Gray's midsection, targeting the same bruised spot from earlier.
Gray snarled, catching Eric with a heavy blow to the temple that sent him reeling. Gray surged forward, aiming a haymaker at Eric's chest, hoping to end the fight. But he miscalculated. Eric didn't flinch. He leaned into the strike, caught Gray's arm, and brought his elbow down onto the Lieutenant's forearm with bone-snapping force.
CRACK!
The sound echoed through the hall. Gray's face contorted in agony as he collapsed, clutching his shattered arm and howling. The crowd went dead silent. The mockery was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp respect for the woman standing over the fallen officer.
"Get Lieutenant Gray to the infirmary!" Drago ordered. Four soldiers scrambled to carry the whimpering man away. Eric felt a twinge of regret that he didn't get to make the man apologize on his knees.
"As for you... well done, Erica. Now, get back to your quarters. Good luck with the Arbites," Drago said, looking at Eric's disheveled state. Eric's hair was a mess, and blood stained his lip, but his eyes were bright with a satisfaction he couldn't describe.
"Thank you, Colonel," Eric nodded. He gingerly touched his lip. He felt the bruises forming, but the thrill of having defended his honor—and snapping the arm of a bully—outweighed the ache.
Then, he looked down at his grey coat. A splash of Gray's blood had ruined the lapel. He had no idea how to clean blood out of fabric.
_Great... how am I supposed to wash this out?_ Eric thought, his annoyance at the laundry task finally replacing the rush of the fight.
________________________________
The command center was a hive of activity, filled with tactical maps, electronic devices, glowing displays, and various communication arrays. Numerous officers sat at their stations, diligently performing their assigned duties. At a central table, Omega sat across from a man who commanded an undeniable presence.
Oliver Kegamon, Commander of the House Guard for House Kegamon, was a middle-aged man clad in elegantly decorated purple Void Armour. He wore a mantle of expensive fur, and at his belt hung a finely crafted Power Sword alongside a Bolt Pistol. Oliver was a commander renowned for his discipline, strategic brilliance, and foresight—traits that Omega desperately needed to align with for the upcoming conflict.
Predicting the next move of the Orks was a grueling task. At times, the Orks abandoned logic and reason entirely, launching attacks at points no sane mind would expect, resulting in utter catastrophe.
"Commander Oliver, it is an honor to meet and speak with you," Omega introduced himself in a polite tone, bowing slightly as a gesture of respect toward his counterpart.
"The pleasure is mine, Commander Omega. I have been eager to speak with you ever since I witnessed how 'courageously' you insulted those nobles—indirectly, of course—in the meeting hall. I suspect many of them would like your head on a platter," Oliver remarked jokingly, letting out a soft chuckle as he recalled the scene.
"I simply did what was necessary, Commander Oliver. My only concern is ensuring this world does not fall to Xenos scum like the Orks," Omega replied truthfully. In reality, he didn't consider himself brave; he simply didn't care for the nobles' feelings. His priority was maintaining his master's power and ensuring his safety.
"You are far too humble, Commander Omega. And please, from now on, just call me Oliver. There is no need for such formalities today. We are here to plan our defense and discuss how we might build a strong alliance," Oliver said as he took a data-slate from a servant and began inputting information.
"Thank you, Oliver. Let us move to the primary matter of our discussion. Have the areas surrounding the Hive City under your jurisdiction reported any Ork activity?" Omega asked. He sought data on Ork dispersal or the establishment of new encampments. Such intel was invaluable; if caught early, fledgling Ork bases could be easily destroyed to slow their rapid multiplication. However, Omega knew that in an environment plagued by constant sandstorms, standard aerial reconnaissance and basic scanners were often useless without high-powered Auspex arrays.
"I have dispatched patrols and ordered scans with high-capacity Auspex. There are no reports of Orks or any traces of them in those sectors," Oliver explained calmly. Omega picked up a pencil and marked an 'X' over that Hive City and the surrounding area on the paper map, confirming they were clear. This stood in stark contrast to the vicinity of Hive Kathion, where sightings of the green-skinned Xenos were reported periodically, while other regions remained untouched.
"Thank you for the data. Based on the information gathered, the infestation has not spread elsewhere. For now, they are concentrated solely near Hive Kathion," Omega sighed, pointing to various sectors on the map. Oliver nodded understandingly before posing a question.
"Is it possible... that this is someone's orchestrated plan?" Oliver asked. It was a bold suggestion, implying a conspiracy. Yet, given the circumstances, it was the most logical conclusion. This planet had never seen Orks before; their sudden appearance was highly irregular, especially being localized near a single Hive City.
"It is possible, but who would do it? Smuggling Xenos onto this planet would surely have been detected. There are no records or reports from the customs officials responsible for inspecting incoming cargo," Omega mused, trying to rationalize the uncertainty.
"Then it must have been a clandestine operation... Your own documents state that Ork biology allows them to spread spores that can grow into more Orks, even if the original organism wasn't a fully grown Ork. Perhaps it was Squigs. Someone definitely smuggled Squigs onto this world," Oliver stated with conviction. Omega chose not to dwell on who brought them here; finding a culprit for punishment could wait. He was here to forge a bond between their forces and find a way to eradicate the threat, not to engage in a protracted debate.
"A plausible hypothesis, Commander Oliver. However, while justice is important, our immediate priority is finding a way to deal with these greenskins," Omega said, steering the conversation back to the point. Oliver let out a small sigh before responding.
"Is the situation truly that dire? According to the reports I've seen, the local PDF and your own House Guard have handled them quite effectively so far. Do you really require my assistance?" Oliver asked, his tone inquisitive. Omega's brow twitched slightly. He had hoped this commander would be more reliable. Oliver's kinsman, Lord Duke Tras Kegamon—a man hungry for war—had just been appointed Planetary Governor. Being denied help now was a complication he hadn't anticipated. While Omega currently had the situation under control, if even one variable shifted, it could spiral beyond their command.
"I truly need your support. My forces alone cannot maintain a comprehensive patrol. While we are only facing small warbands now, I need additional manpower to secure the perimeter," Omega requested. Despite the plea, his tone remained stoic and composed, a stark contrast to his words that made Oliver frown in confusion.
"And what reason do I have to help you?" Oliver asked, eyeing Omega as if searching for a hidden benefit or a personal gain for himself.
"So that the planet we are standing on isn't destroyed? If I weren't concerned about that, I wouldn't have bothered insulting those nobles in the council chambers," Omega explained calmly. He struggled to understand why a simple cooperation to prevent a massive Xenos outbreak was such a difficult decision for them—and why they still demanded a price for survival.
"No... I require something specific in exchange for my cooperation," Oliver said with a cunning smile, as if he were finally naming a prize he had long desired.
"And what is it that you want, Commander Oliver?" Omega asked, his voice lowering. Oliver chuckled softly before answering.
"In exchange for my support, I want an official marriage to Istria Korvax. Can you facilitate this for me?" Oliver stated his price. Omega briefly recalled the young woman he had met. While Oliver's request wasn't impossible, it irritated Omega that Oliver was asking him instead of speaking directly to Lord Valen Korvax.
"I will take it into consideration," Omega replied. "Now, will you consider providing the assistance I requested?"
"I shall consider it," Oliver answered.