Daxxon K'Varnyir cleared his throat softly, his hands gently caressing the surface of a black silken handkerchief. He brought himself down low, and laid the silk on the cold, grey concrete floor. He straightened it out meticulously then, tugging at its corners until it formed a perfect rectangle. He was dressed in a sharp black suit with red highlights, with a matching shirt, trousers and shoes, all impeccably ironed and well-kept.
Finally happy with his makeshift mat, Daxxon knelt and clasped his hands together tightly on his knees. His eyes landed on a nameplate before him, that he had personally ordered be placed; every single one. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if in prayer. His ears twitched as a gentle bubbling noise teased their corners, along with the occasional, distant echoing footstep.
"Gianna Ripley. I'm sorry. This is not right. But it will be made right. And you will be made whole again. On my life, on the future of everyone and everything we hold dear, I sincerely promise you this. You will be honoured, your name forever carved into history. I will carry your legacy with all the weight and sincerity a burden of this size deserves."
His eyes flickered open and landed on the containment tank in front of him. A czarite was suspended in a clear fluid, which was bubbling away gently around her. Her otherwise naked clay-blue body was censored with silken red strips across her breasts and pelvis. A mask was fixed to her face, with tubes connected to the silver machinery to the tank's left, exiting the tank's glass through small rounded ports. She also had a series of small pads placed on her wrists, thighs, stomach and neck, wired up to the same machinery. Monitors and panels were neatly splayed around a workstation connected directly to the machinery, currently unmanned. A stern frown furrowed his brow when he noticed the marks on her forearms, and small cuts on her knees.
Unacceptable treatment. I will reprimand our shadows for this.
As carefully as he had kneeled, Daxxon stood and retrieved his handkerchief from the floor, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. Pangs of sadness, mixed with hope, formed an uncomfortable fizzle deep in his stomach.
Another done.
He turned and strode right paces to his left, landing straight in front of an identical tank, with the same screens, same machinery, but different occupant. This one held a dainty elf-like girl, her pale skin glistening with glass-like shimmers. Her body was censored in the same way the czarite was, red silk against milky white skin.
Daxxon repeated the ritual again, laying out his handkerchief carefully and resting his knees on it once satisfied. He glanced up briefly at the metal name-plate at the base on the tank before bowing his head again.
"Chalia Nieghorn. I'm sorry. This is not right. But it will be made right. And you will be made whole again. On my life, on the future of everyone and everything we hold dear, I sincerely promise you this. You will be honoured, your name forever carved into history. I will carry your legacy with all the weight and sincerity a burden of this size deserves."
He rose to his feet once again, retrieving the handkerchief from the floor and flapping it out. He turned to his left and counted the tanks still to come. Forty-eight were still left in this row. A brief glance in the opposite direction revealed a group of draconic engineers waiting patiently at the start of the row. Each of them were dressed sharply, in a similar black and red theme to Daxxon, equipped appropriately for their role.
It takes as long as it takes. I won't have our foundations built on disrespect and hatred. Daxxon thought to himself, his shoes clacking against the concrete foundations as he walked on to the next tank. This one contained a smaller, critter-sized male. His species was weasel-like, aside from the sharp mandibles that curved around his jaw. He had several intricate tattoos across his torso, and the same red silken band across his pelvis.
Daxxon placed his cloth down, kneeled and read the nameplate at the base of the tank.
"Reginald Giff. I'm sorry..."
*
Sunlight poured in through the expansive breaches in the cave's ceiling, connecting the underground system to the patchy, hole-ridden upper surface of the planet. Golden rays illuminated lagoon green rock pools and glittering, mist-spewing waterfalls. Swirling patterns of malachite mixed with the dusty limestone, forming the bedrock of the intensive, almost unending caves, as tall as they were cavernous. But these sub-terrain wildernesses were not untamed.
Impressive and imposing fortress-like concrete paths lined the floors, cutting harshly through the natural terrain rather than moving with it, whilst simultaneously taking care to avoid disturbing the most glorious of natural features within the caves. Some sections of the underground retreat were more typical, carved into the rock directly and far more traditionally brutalist in their architecture. But many of the larger rooms were set straight in the middle of these expansive sub-terrain languishes, using the natural backdrop as their decoration, and only setting the minimum amount of foundations necessary to complete the function.
There was, however, a concealed intent to leaving the caves as untouched as possible. The main guard posts were obvious. Heaving bulwarks of concrete and meta-steel, complete with binding spotlights and retracting gates, able to eat artillery fire and shelter those inside from all but the most penetrative of assaults. What wasn't obvious was the concealed network of sniper-dens, grenade chutes and ambush spots that ran deep into the limestone. Many of these required wriggling on one's belly to reach or squeezing through rock faces so tight that only critters or skinny roamers would ever stand a chance of passing through.
These passages, as unnerving as they were to many, were meticulously plotted and well known to the local garrison. In the unlikely event of an attack, they would be utilised to repeatedly shank and stab at enemy forces within the cave network, draining them of momentum long before they could breach the primary bulkheads, in theory.
In spite of all its physical defenses, the facility was practically impossible to detect from the muddled, fractured surface above. Ships would simply disappear into one of the many crevices and holes that made up the planet's cracked shell.
With both safety and obscurity, those who called this place their home had plenty of reason to relax. But yet, a dense anxiety permeated the facility.
Within one of the more impressive amphitheatre-like caves, a triangular table upon a raised concrete platform sat at its centre. Hewn from finely polished stone, its expansive surface was positioned at the top of a slightly raised concrete platform. An array of fresh food sat at each corner, ready to be picked at by the two occupants sitting at their respective sides, waiting eagerly for the third. The platform was only slightly sheltered from the cave via massive crimson tapestries, bolted into a concrete ceiling that also held spotlights for the table below. Much of the cave's landscape, including its several cascading waterfalls were still perfectly visible between the ample spacing of the hundred-foot long fabric, lined with gold.
At the first chair, a brilliant emerald dragon sat with an air of boredom about him, his curling claws plucking at his chin. He had vibrant, splaying scales that almost looked like a feathered plumage at a distance. The shades of green varied across these scales, from tropical to gem-like, but his deep plum wine eyes had a scathing intellect on full display, constantly flittering around the room in deep, constant analysis. He was dressed similarly to others in the facility, in luxurious black robes, however rather than a red trim, long silver lines ran the length of his garb instead.
To his side, a soft white dragoness sat, idly flicking through a magazine. She was an immaculate doll of a dragoness, with curling ram-like horns and a pair of soft long ears that hung low, more like a pair of rabbit ears than a dragon's. Her large, glassy eyes were a warm honey colour, a splash of colour amongst her milk-like palette and feathery, long hair. Her fingers plucked at each page with a deliberate, methodical movement, scanning through the text quickly. She was dressed a little differently, her robe being a cool grey colour, and modest on her person.
The pair sat in silence, occasionally picking at the food closest to them until finally, a pair of footsteps echoed through the cave.
The emerald dragon turned his head to see Daxxon approaching from a concrete walkway behind him, whilst the milk-dragoness only briefly raised her head to acknowledge him. The pair continued to wait in silence however, as Daxxon's perfectly timed footsteps approached. Eventually, he reached the table and took the third, empty seat, pulling the chair out with the same precision he seemingly used for every action, and taking his time to settle himself comfortably.
"Apologies for my late appearance. There were... more than I anticipated." Daxxon explained, straightening himself out. The other two sighed quietly under their breath and pulled their seats in closer as Daxxon got comfortable. "Shall we begin?"
"We shall." The emerald dragon replied smoothly, his bored gaze focused on his flexing claws. He was softly spoken, with just a slither of malice to his voice. "I'm sure you've seen the news, I think we should start there."
"Hmm. I suppose we should." Daxxon nodded, glancing towards the milky dragoness. She merely shrugged her shoulders in response. "So, it appears I was absolutely correct in my judgement of the coralith komodo. He's been granted a full pardon for all crimes against the empire by Commander Koa."
The emerald dragon scowled at Daxxon as he pulled out a paper folder from under the table and flicked out several photos of Diego across the table. One of which was him and Oxyi at the landing pad all those months ago, taken from a rooftop some distance away.
"I still believe we made the right choice in trying to capture him." He replied stubbornly, his tail flicking from side to side.
"After everything that's happened, Valisk? We should have left the coralith alone." Daxxon stated confidently. "He only became a problem because we went after him. He was quite content to roam nomad space to the beat of his own drum. Additionally, the clean up you both tried to arrange will likely result in our moles in the Seraphim being found. Beyond that, as if that isn't enough, the botched clean up our data teams did to hide his original profile was the entire reason we lost a wing of valuable agents within the RMD. How many more times do I need to be right before you both finally listen to me?"
The green dragon, Valisk, writhed uncomfortably in his seat, tapping his claws against the table's thick stone. "I did listen. There's a reason I waited until he was supposed to be out of DA territory before sending the shadows in. There was no way of predicting he was going to forfeit his escape." He hissed. "Nor that his presence on the nomad belt would coincide with the new corruption that's ravaging the area."
"What did the Seraphim pod hold instead? If he wasn't on it?" The dragoness asked with a slight tilt of her head.
