Space Dragons in Space - No SV, you are the Miniboss

[X]As Empire Wills It

"Signal all vessels" You reply resolutely. "Prepare for attack run."

There's a nary a sound on the bridge, but you can see the officers and enlisted look at each, tense and unsure. You speak out again, a hint of steel ringing in your voice. "You are all Imperial sailors, are you not? Here because you wish you to prove that you have what it takes to be a Reyan, do you not? Then now is the time to act like it!" You snap. "A Reyan does not retreat. There is only victory or death. If in hour of need you cannot follow on this, then you will never reach your goal. Now, to battle stations!"

"Battle stations! Signal all vessels to prepare for attack run!" Taras finally finds his voice and nods resolutely. At his bellowing, the crew finally comes alive, morale turning. For now at least, they obey you. "What are your orders, Captain?"

You quickly scan the battlespace. You have to not just reach the enemy assault carriers, but give the capital ships a window of opportunity to punch through. If you go in a too-wide a formation, you will be overwhelmed and massacred by weight of the enemy alone. Too concentrated however, and your own squadron may be wiped out by a single lucky Comet cannon strike or a concentrated curtain of fire...

After some consideration, you give precise orders to put your fleet in a three-pronged formation, broadly resembling sleek spearheads, with just enough space between the individual ships to give some room to maneuver. It would also hopefully ensure that at least some of your vessels would reach their destination. It is not much, it will have to be enough, for time was against you.

"All ships! Begin attack!"


Like a screaming falcon, your formation falls onto the chaos of melee. You are outnumbered by great odds, however in the heat of battle, the enemy seems to have lost the initial trail of your unit. With your ships barreling at full speed, the Heleians simply don't notice them until they are among them, positron batteries lighting the space. A fortuitous turn of events, and perhaps the only reason you stand a chance at success.



Your vessel shakes as explosions rake your formation from all sides. This is a truly close-range battle; with your vessels cutting through the center of enemy formations, sometimes meters away from their Heleian counterparts. It is the sort of battle where raw speed and reflexes are all that matters. Batteries fire point-blank; missiles plow into armored hulls without warheads having armed only to overpenetrate enemy ships and hit their compatriots. Quick, sudden and merciless.

For a few precious minutes, the Heleian commander simply does not recognize your blitz. By the time he does, it is too late. Your fleet had passed through the front, leaving a trail of burning wrecks behind you. The Reyan fleet, as if shaking itself from stupor advances with a roar, armored hulls reorienting themselves towards the enemy like antique arrows. Heavy prism batteries rain fire onto the Heleian, cutting a fiery swath that your own fleet uses to advance even further in. Like a sword splitting a bamboo, the enemy formation parts.

But you are not yet clear.

The rear of Heleian formation begins to react, it's sheer depth allowing the echelons to spot the danger and take countermeasures. Green particle bolts begin flying toward your formation, but your ships neither slow nor dodge. There is simply no time. Artillery crews race against the time, hoping to neutralize as many ships as possible before Heleians start coordinating their fire.

"This is the crucial part." You think, holding tight on rail. "If we are halted here, we all die in failure"

The enemy, giving up hope on trying to target each of your ships individually simply begins to pour fire into raw space, as if to create a firestorm. Some of your ships begin to duck and wave, minimal corrections that turn lethal hits into narrow misses. A few destroyers even manage to deflect an odd shot or two.

But your luck cannot last forever.

A ship to the starboard of you is hit dead on, cored out by the enemy particle blast. It explodes immediately with all hands. Soon thereafter, others follow it. Several vessels fall out of the formation, fire and debris bursting from holes. A number dies practically instantly from direct reactor or munitions hits, leaving behind only a cloud of debris. You see one hit passing cleanly through a destroyer, it's hull comically ballooning before it explodes with great force, sending its prow rocketing out of the battlefield. But even so, you keep yourself resolute, your ships in formation. Even as several bolts pass right outside the bridge tower.

Your formation smashes into the last, concentrated rank of Heleians. Batteries turn to fire practically point-blank while captains scream to empty the missile holds. The last act of your squadron is dramatic and vengeful, Heleian corvettes and several larger ships torn to pieces. But so are your destroyers.

Out of the perfect firestorm, only your destroyer and six others emerge; barely a fraction of your original force.

But you made it through.

"All vessels, attack at will!" You bark as your flagship desperately swerves under the battery of the closest assault carrier. "Reserve nothing! Victory or death!"

Like bloodthirsty harpies, your ships circle the larger vessels. One of the assault carriers desperately fires its Comet Shock Canon, incinerating a lone destroyer. But the rest carry on.

"Tubes 1 through 4!" Taras' voice rings clear over the dull boom of ship drives and exterior explosions. "Angle at plus 3! Sustained barrage, fire!"

Your destroyer makes a final turn, dipping low as its four torpedo tubes finally let loose. Graceful, almost delicate arrows cut through space, passing through Heleian shields unmolested and piercing into the hull before they detonate.

Your smile is positively bloodthristy as enormous explosion severs the dreaded ship in two. Your destroyer flies right past the debris, buffeted on all sides by venting inferno, debris and even unfortunate crewmen. Somewhere behind you, the second assault carrier dies, having successfully nailed one of the attacking destroyers with its secondary quad batteries before a second rams straight into it. Only one remains, listing heavily as it limps mortally wounded.

But not yet dead.

Taras orders torpedoes reloaded as your ship enters second attack run. But then the lumbering ship shifts, rolling horizontally to present one of its working quad-batteries right into your face. Your ship's cannons fire, hitting the armor, but not doing much damage. Then, right as you let your torpedoes loose, it fires.

One of the beams plows directly into the first battery, destroying it immediately and passing through on the other side. Secondary explosions tear through thin internal bulkheads and wreck the secondary battery right behind it. Almost all your gunnery crews die instantly while the sleek barrels come loose from wrecked turret, one crashing right against the bridge tower. The force of impact throws you and several others onto deck, while loose elements come crashing down in cacophony of screams and groaning metals.

The second beam passes somewhere behind and below the bridge. Decks disappear immediately, their crews immolated. Secondary explosions cut open further bulkheads, shrapnel and debris turning isolated rooms into charnel houses. Not even bridge is spared as consoles explode, while debris falls all around you.

"PROTECT THE CAPTAIN!!!" Taras shouts, and it is the last thing you hear before you are knocked back and your vision goes dark.


The pain is the first sign that you are not dead.

You try to open your eyes, wincing. Your body hurts, including a few places you were only tangentially aware of before. But you seem to be able to move unaided, and most of your cuts and bruises are superficial.

The bridge is a mess. Parts of the ceiling had came down, crushing a number of command pits and cutting the level off from the rest of the ship, though thankfully the bulkheads were still holding together. Lights flicker and exposed cables spark. Gravity was still functional however, and in the background, you could still hear the faint hum of the engines.

This was good. The ship still had power.

You keep looking around, and your eyes widen. "Taras? Taras!"

Your second opens his eyes, coughing phlegm and blood. You only now notice that you had been thrown to the front of the bridge...your old post being in fact crushed by debris. Taras and several servicemen have shielded you with their lives.

"Ca...p...tain." Taras manages to rasp out from beneath the debris. His body from waist down was mulched, and maroon blood already begun to flow over the deck. Even so, he manages a smile. "Y...you...survived.....that...i-is...good."

There is a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes lose focus. He dies smiling, looking almost serenely despite his gruesome wounds. You gently close his eyes and stagger upwards.

"Bridge, report!"

Even with your rasping voice, your command might as well have been booming among the ruins of the bridge. Moans and groans answer you. Some dying, others alive-if-in-pain. You wade to the nearest functioning tactical station, trying to get a picture of the situation. The officer there - you recognize him as your weaponmaster, old, bald and wizened man with thick moustache - lies with his eyes half-lidded, tiny streams of blood flowing from his lips and ears. You check his pulse, but no will inhabits the body anymore. Muttering a short prayer to the old saints, you undo his belt and drag his body out to take his place. The time for decorum would come later.

The enemy assault carrier was destroyed, it's splintered wreck floating back into the asteroid ring. On the simplified projection, you could make out the reminder of the battered fleet - few had made it through, and a handful of cruisers seemed to be holding the rear in a suicidal rear-guard action. But there were survivors, and your job was done.

All that was left was survival.

"Navigation. Can you hear me?" You throw a glance to the front. After what seemed like an eternity, a voice answers.

"...y-yes sir. I am here sir." It is young, feminine. Couldn't be older than 18, maybe even less.

"What is your name, sailor?" You ask almost gently.

"...junior lieutenant Cirilla." You can't see her from your position, but can practically feel the shock in her voice. "Senior Lieutenant Basril and Lieutenant Holtz are dead s-sir. I'm the only one left from navigation section."

"Lieutenant, I need you to focus." You explain quickly. "I need you to check if controls are responding and if we have drive control and Hyshtam drive. We cannot stay here - and right now you are the only one who can get us out. Do you understand?"

"...yes." Her voice grows more even. She does not respond, but you can hear tapping on some screen. Meanwhile, you quickly look around and grab the old weaponmaster's communication earpiece, browsing the chaos of onboard frequencies.

"Engineering, come in."

"Captain! Thank the Saints, we thought the bridge was gone!" The relief in the voice of your chief engineer is palpable.

"What is our status? Do we still have thrust?"

"Yes. We managed to keep the reactor stable, though we had to bleed off a few surges into non-essential systems. We have hull breaches and fires on practically every deck. Frankly, I don't even know how this ship is still in one piece."

You mentally piece the information while trying to work the console in command mode. "Can we go into Hysh?"

"...I give this ship all of one long-range jump before it starts falling apart captain."

One was better than zero. "I see. Very well then, begin pulling out who you can from exposed section. We must leave before some Heleian realizes we're not quite dead." It would also mean that all those survivors trapped in breached sections would die immediately upon jump into the strange, hostile plane beyond your own universe....but it was that or death.

"I understand." The engineer quietly replied. "We will do what we can."

"Captain." Cirilla finally calls in, now more composed. "I have limited thrust, but FTL engine is operational."

You nod. From what limited sensor readouts you had, the vanguard was down to its last few vessels. If you were to leave, it would have to be now.

You close your eyes for just a minute, making a silent prayer to those of your men you had already killed, and those that were to be sacrificed still.

"Lieutenant, execute Hysh jump. Take us out of here."

The return to the fleet base in Eos system takes better part of two weeks - there are no unharmed vessels among the survivors, and more than a few of those had to be towed the entire way. Such as your destroyer - the drive failed catastrophically upon Hyshout, but at least the engineers were able to provisionally reinforce the hull to allow a light cruiser to tow you through remaining jumps in relative safety.

Out of your squadron, only three other ships survived - a fraction of the original number, if not less. Of course, three enemy assault carriers had combined weight and crews equal to almost entire escort force.

But that does not fill the gaping hole somewhere in the back of your mind. Your men had trusted you, and you led them to their deaths.

And the worst part was, that on some level, you were sure you would do it again. More than a thousand people lost their lives under you, but you had turned what would be unmitigated disaster into a merely humiliating defeat. You had went into battle, carried out your plan and paid the price.

And in the end, you had emerged victorious.

The journey back is quiet - everyone knows that even Hayrant's cronies will not be able to cover for the magnitude of this defeat. But there is also an odd sense of pride among your survivors. They were put to the ultimate test...and none were find wanting.

Even so, you are a bit surprised that, when your destroyer finally limps into dock and you're allowed to disembark, you are greeted by an assembly of surviving Reyan officers.

As one, they salute you, their immaculate heels clacking against the surface. You barely have the time to salute back when the man in front of speaks.

"I am Captain senior grade Doman Seriph, of the Everlasting Sunrise. I understand that you and your men had been the one to lead the surprise counter-attack at the conclusion of the battle?" Doman is every picture of classic Reyan warrior. Dark skin, more brown than white-pink, silver hair, tighs thicker than most men's skulls. In fact, you were pretty certain his immaculately pressed uniform badly stretched against his positively enormous chest. He was a total opposite of Hayrant.

"I am." You answer.

After what seems like an eternity, Seriph finally speaks. "....you have our gratitude, Captain. It was only through your efforts that the fleet rallied and fought its way out. You and your subordinates....It may be presumptuous for me to say, but even though you were not born Reyan, you clearly have our hearts and spirits. Our gods weep for the souls you lost, while our sailors salute their fellow warriors."

The delegates salute, again, before another officers speak. She is a redheaded woman, with paler skin and eyes like embers.

"I am Captain Mira Xandar. There is one other thing. Namely, the actions of our so-called admiral." The words are spoken with such venom that they honestly surprise you. "I understand that you have been-"

Whatever else she might have said is cut off by the sound of running, a dozen of MPs suddenly swarming your docking bay.
This month just keeps getting interestingly, doesn't it?

***

(QM's Note: Nope, it's not a failure state. However, I think some of you are going to love what's going to happen next. And I don't mean it in "SKY IS FALLING" gm speak. Also, holy batman your PC has insane dice luck, but more on that after prologue).

"Captain Desalt Abess?" The commander of the military police unit is an older, balding man with dark skin and thin moustache. "You are under arrest."

At those four words, the MPs surround you and snap chains across your wrists while the Reyan officers cry out in incredulity. Meanwhile, you try to maintain your best poker face. "Under what charges?" You reply. The commander smiles.

"Treason and insubordination."

That prompts even more ruckus out of Reyans. Even those who were somewhat miffed initially about your race seem positively mortified now. Seriph is positively seething.

"This is an outrage!" He growls and almost bumrushes the MPs, but one of the other captains holds him back. "A farce! Is this how Empire thanks those that fight valiantly in its defense!? You coward-"

"That's enough out of you, Captain Seriph." The MP commander waves dismissively as you are shoved forward with a butt of the rifle. "Do remember your place. The investigation into this traitor's history is...not yet finished."

"Don't think you can get away with this." Seriph doesn't voice doesn't so much growl anymore as it thunders. "Hayrant isn't the only one with connections in the Capitol. The Imperial Guard will hear of your incompetence."

But the MP only sneers and turns on his heel.


Judging by your predicament, Hayrant was still alive, unfortunately.

Truth be told, you had hoped that in the chaos of battle, Hayrant would simply forget about your formation as easily as he had forgotten about his honor. Or that he would find a more subtle punishment than having MPs drag you through the main promenade of Eos Station in chains, under charges of treason. It was blunt and heavy-handed, even for him.

But from the whispers of gathered Reyans and Auxillas, it was pretty clear his attempts at protecting his reputation were doomed from the start. The disappearance of most of the fleet was obvious. It wouldn't be long now before news would reach the Capitol, and incur the displeasure of Cosmo Fleet Command. Still, Hayrant's men among the MPs acted undeterred, taking care to shove rifle butts under your kidneys once in a while.

"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Giscky" One spats. You almost retort, when a shape catches your eye in one of the viewscreens overlooking the promenade.


It was a Reyan battleship - equally parts sleek and mammoth design. Twice again as large as a battlecruiser, these ships were rare, typically assigned to first-rate frontline formations. But this one was not colored in the bone-white of Cosmo fleet, but rather midnight black with white highlights.

The colors of the Imperial Guard.

So you only throw back your head and laugh. Oh, you will enjoy your freedom - from Hayrant - soon enough.


Sure enough, as the MPs try to take you to Admiral's office, they are blocked by a cordon of darkly-uniformed soldiers.

"Captain Abess." The woman at the head of the formation is exceptionally pale, short golden hair framing golden eyes. There is no expression in her voice, or emotion in her face - a pale, flat doll in skin of a sapient. "You are expected." Her hair turns ever so slightly towards the MPs. "You are not."

The MPs blanch. Among the varied branches of Imperial military, the Guard was perhaps the most feared. Unaccountable to anyone but Supreme Leader, they were his personal guards and attack dogs. The commander however, was unwilling to relinquish his authority so easily.

"We are bringing the prisoner as requested." His voice is straining as it tries to be polite. "Admiral Hay-"

Almost mechanically, the rifle in woman's hands snaps towards the man's chest. As one, the Guardsmen level their rifles and the MPs now visibly pale.

"You are not expected." The woman repeats.

One of the men leans to the commander and rapid-fires some sort of argument. The man nods dumbly before mumbling something. They leave, and your chains fall down.

The Guardsmen do not lower their weapons until they disappear. "You are expected." The woman turns to you again, with same robotic voice. "Follow me."


As you reach the Admiral's office, you hear a voice. One that every citizen of the Great Space Empire, regardless of race and gender knows. "Where is my fleet? Quintus Hayrant, give me back my fleet!"



Admiral Hayrant looks like a pale piece of meat, trembling and overflowing with sweat. Most of his staff officers are little better, each trying to outdo the other in matching their white uniforms as they stand at attention up against the walls. Around them, there are lined Imperial Guardsmen, with their black uniforms and plasma repeater rifles. And above, floats a vast hologram of the Supreme Leader Bentuss.

The man looks unlike many other Reyans you had seen. Pale-skinned, more so than others, with wild, thick unkempt dark beard and hair slicked back. Almost cavorite-green eyes peeking from behind bushy eyebrows. His statue is neither tall nor fat, yet still imposing even without the positively enormous black overcoat he wears over his uniform, ending with pure white fur collar. Unlike that of his military, his uniform is black mixed with red and gold detailing. A sheathed sword lays in one of his hands, fingers idly playing with the handle as Supreme Leader's eyes bore into incompetent Admiral, while the other hand holds an exquisite glass with some sort of dark liquid.

Beneath the lifelike hologram, you notice one of his Executors. Elite agents of the Imperial Guard that formed his personal lifeguard and acted as his emissaries. Like all of them, she was a Yorhan monk, with platinum silver hair and porcelain-like face, eyes obscured with traditional band. Her dress is elaborate, black-and-white as those of the soldier's uniforms, but the white sword at her hip gleams with polish of a lethal weapon, one used regularly.

Hayrant struggles to say something, but the Supreme Leader cuts him off. "It always astounds me, how you people think something might escape my attention in my Empire. That I would not know of an almost entire fleet lost; of our flank exposed to the barbarians, of you dragging your heels to meet an enemy in the field and then desert the battlefield in the hour of need." He tuts as if talking to a small, particularly troublesome child. Hayrant gulps, his newly-find voice sounding like a whine.

"T-the fleet can be replaced, My Lord..."

"Replaced!" The Supreme Leader bellows in astonishment. "You use words, Quintus, yet you understand not what they mean. They will be replaced. You notice the future tense I'm sure; emphasis on the future tense." The eyes of the most powerful man on entire Reia narrow into slits. "At the cost of resources we could have spent elsewhere, at cost of vessels and crews needed at other, more valuable fronts. Imagine where our Great Empire would be, if we lost a fleet every time it sallied out to crush mere barbarians."

Hayrant bows his head, staring at his feet. The Supreme Leader smirks...and his gaze turns to you.

"Ah...Captain, I believe? Please, make your approach."

Your head almost spins off into space as the Supreme Leader of Great Space Empire, Lord-Protector of Reia, Defender of Faiths, Unifier of Worlds, Scourge of Barbarism speaks to you directly. Your body moves by itself as the Guards bring you next to Hayrant. You snap off your most perfect salute, heels striking against the marble floor of the office.

"Rey Rheyun." You intone.

"Rey Meh." The Supreme Leader retorts, almost bored. Besides you, Hayrant suddenly looks up and gawks, his expression turning into one of fury...and shame.

"HIM!" He screams. "IT WAS HIM, MY LORD!!! GOOD FOR NOTHING BLUESKIN! HE BETRAYED OUR FLEET, MURDERED OUR MEN AND DISOBEYED MY ORDERS!!! I BEG YOU TO-"

"Speak when spoken to." Executor's voice is quiet, but it's sheer chill brings Hayrant's raving tirade to a stop like a palisade to a charge. "Or you will not speak again."

"Now then, Captain...Abess." The Supreme Leader smiles, and becks you to report on the battle you waged. You answer truthfully, to the extent you know events transpired. You tell him of Hayrant's ignorance, of how he disregarded advice and flown right into a trap, just so he could run at first sign of trouble. You say how you have thrown your forces into the fray, to bloody the enemy and save more valuable capital ships.

Bentuss stirs the glass in his hand, deep in thoughts. "So...you did, in fact, disobey an order, captain."

It is a subtle, yet loaded question. "I...have no excuses, My Lord." You lower your head. "The honor of our navy, of the empire itself, had compelled me to fight to death if needed to preserve a chance of success. My superior's orders had denied that chance; and I had been unable to have those orders confirmed. The chaos of battle is no excuse." You know that it was patently false, but the fiction was more likely to preserve your life then blatant honesty. "Either way, I would be forced to disobey. I...made a choice I felt served the Empire better."

The Supreme Leader sips his vintage. "You led hundreds of your own people into certain death."

It is the testament to your masterful self-control, honed throughout the years that you do not grit your teeth. "I had not asked of them anything more I did not ask of myself. To die in your service is glorious, and my men can rest well that their deaths had brought shame upon the enemy and exacted a bloody toll that salved the wounds of our own." You bow your head respectively. "My Lord."

There is a long minute of silence as Supreme Leader sips his drink. "It is a curious day indeed, when one sees a foreigner act more Reyan than Reyans themselves." He smiles at you, almost conspiratorial. "Desalt. You're from Giscander, aren't you?"

"Yes My Lord."

"I've been there once. I had a friend; very beautiful, but also a bit cold. She was a student of your ancient history, and she would regale me with some fanciful tales. Once, she told me that in older, more civilized times, when men had failed so utterly as we have seen today, they would rather throw themselves on their swords, than face their fellows in shame."

"That is so, Your Lordship".

When Supreme Leader Bentuss looks again at Hayrant, it is not a look of disgust, disappointment, or even anger. It is...nothingness. You realize that to this being, Hayrant wasn't even a corpse. He was nothing, a plot of land to step on.

"Now that's a tradition Reyans could get behind. And now that I recall, Reyan warriors are supposed to carry a blade..."

Hayrant stutters, his voice bleating like a goat's. "I-i-I uh, I, uh-uh, d-didn't b-b-ring...m-mine. Um, My Lord."

"That's not a problem." The other Reyan replies without missing a beat. "My Executor brought hers."

Hayrant barely has the time to scream as the blindfolded woman moves to him, so swiftly and quietly she might as well have been gliding. You know not what she hit, but Hayrant screams in pain, before suddenly going rigid. Then the Executor deftly drew her blade, it's handle clacking against the floor as she knelt.

"This is a man's death, Quintus." The Supreme Leader said dispassionately as the admiral's overweight body listlessly rocked back and forth. "And that is more status then you ever should have had."

As if by the Leader's words, the body falls. You watch with morbid curiosity as weight and gravity do their work, Hayrant sinking deeper and deeper along the blade as his white uniform matched the crimson of his collar. Whether finding his long-lost pride, or simply out of whatever neurological damage the Executor did, he speaks not a word, his teeth cracking, nose and mouth filling with pink bubbles. You can hear his breathing go wild, irregular, and then simmer into nothingness.

Then, with the tilt of Bentuss' glass, the Executor withdraws her sword, deftly disemboweling the (now former) admiral.



You watch as blood and guts splatter against the polished floor, and you briefly see Taras' death. Red yet again...brighter red, to match different skin, but red none the less.

"Captain, in recognition of your extraordinary service to the Empire, and your immaculate record, you are hereby promoted by rank and given Citizenship First-class. Continue to serve faithfully, and further rewards shall be forthcoming. All your surviving subordinates and crew shall be given citizenship as well. Those that died in my name are to be given state burials and shall be accorded Honorable Citizenship."

You snap a salute, schooling your face into a mask of military discipline. "Zer Valk!"

With nod, Bentuss turns to his Executor. "Ensure our former Captain is placed under someone capable...and that I don't have to hear about this particular sector for some time."

Another glorious day in a glorious empire.

For his extraordinary services and loyalty, Desalt Abess was stationed:

[]Under Marshall Erina Dommel - Hero of the Empire, Marshall Dommel has fought on almost every of the Empire's many, many fronts. A commander known for her courage, and some dare say, audaciousness, she prizes adaptability as source of strength. She currently commands a mobile task-force that acts as rapid reaction force. Currently deployed in Andromeda galaxy on Heleian Absolute Defense Line.

[]At Touca Front - The Touca are an advanced species inhabiting the recently explored Wayfarer galaxy, inhabiting the space mostly centered around spectacular nebula of red dust known as Sentinel's Eye. Masters of advanced biotechnology said to preside over one of the Wonders of the Universe, they had spent decades resisting Imperial Expansion. Now, by Supreme Leader's decree, they are to be annihilated.

[]As part of the Azure Fleet - One of the primary formation of Imperial Cosmo Fleet, commanded by Grand Marshall Ataliss herself. Known as elite and prestigious formation, it is currently deployed to Imperial heartland of Greater Nostrum Cluster following Angara Campaigns. Typically an assault and peacekeeping formation, they can be expected to act as opposition forces in training while being reinforced; further deployment are to be determined.

****

This took much longer to write then I expected. But here we are.

Hayrant totally tried pinning all the blame on you, but as Supreme Leader pointed out, it is pretty idiotic to assume that a despotic leader of a fanatical civilization does not have access to practically everything. So he knew Hayrant was made from beginning, but was trying to see how Hayrant was going to react regardless.

Didn't end well, obviously.

Now, this quest doesn't really revolve around math and dice, since that just makes my brain hurt. However, I do occasionally make...rolls of sorts, if I ran into situations where character backgrounds and personality make a number of different outcomes likely. Sort of tiebreaker if you will.

While it was unlikely for you to convince Hayrant (on account of him being just a giant dick in general, but racist prick in particular), you actually managed to make your case, and then not be dismissed from your post. Then you actually avoided death by taking the most balls-to-the-wall option by bumrushing entire enemy fleet with destroyers.

Desalt clearly has balls made from refined adamntium and devil's own poker deck.

Also, if I put in evil mind-controlling cats, this is @AKuz 's fault