Commander Dok had sent four squads out to find that blasted prisoner. One squad requested reinforcements and the other three responded to find the squad dead in the jungle. Everyone on the island heard the explosion, they were still jumpy at a loud pop going off thanks to that accursed Wolf.
“Well?” Dok barked as he walked into a retrofitted communications center, the other had been located in the Hangar.
The Hangar was now a crater on the other side of the clearing near the beach.
There was a gulp, and the only other Legionnaire in the room shook their head, “Still no contact with the Prisoner.”
“How does a half-crippled wolf wipe out a squad of healthy Centurions?” Dok demanded angrily, his biotic arms rotating with a soft whir. The Platypus itched to tangle with that gray furred whelp again. But no one could find them.
“Maybe he isn’t as hurt as you think sir.”
“His arm cracked like your head will if you don’t find him!” Dok shouted back at the Centurion, who cowered beneath his glare.
Commander Dok prided himself on his strength. Once he got his cybernetic arms to replace his weak, fleshy ones, Dok could ruthlessly crush bone with just the faintest shift of his fingers.
Gods did Dok enjoy hearing the sound of it.
However, it may have been Dok’s winning personality that had him placed so far away from the front lines, overseeing the ‘back door’ of the Eggman Empire from a possible attack from that direction.
That was a crock, there was not anything worthwhile out here. Yet who could argue with the Chapter Master?
When those old drones arrived, Dok crushed them with his own hands.
Then they captured the Wolf when they tried to run away.
They attempted to get the Wolf to talk. Who sent them and the drones? But even with some of the best persuasive techniques Dok knew, he could not get that foul beast to say anything other than “MARS3,”
The Wolf escaped their jailers, they have been after them all week. When Dok finally backed the creature to the lip of the Volcano in a climactic final duel, crushing the creature’s arm with his steel grip, it took on a near-suicidal approach and nearly deposited them both into hot magma.
If it was not for his superior strength, they both would have been ash.
Dok threw the Wolf away from him and into his Centurions who were hungry for revenge for the damage it had done.
Somehow or another, it got away. Again.
Dok was surrounded by incompetence and failure. Of course, Dok may have made a tiny mistake in holding off reporting the Wolf’s capture, and the battle with the drones to the Chapter Master.
Now the Hangar was gone, and the Communications Center with it. They had no outside link to the Empire.
There would be no reinforcements. Someone would come and check on them sure, and when they did, Dok needed that Wolf. Dead or Alive.
As Dok continued to stand there, biotic arms folded over his chest, the sentries posted around the base started rattling off their numbers in their hourly check-in.
A question was asked. He barely heard it. But what happened next Dok did not need a radio to hear.
“Do you smell smoke?”
The question asked by the Centurion in the middle of the formation had been answered almost immediately by a gurgled gasp emitting from the back of their line.
Laser rifles and eyes turned round to see their rearguard fall to their knees, a gaping hole in their chest.
The next in line, with augmented eyes, pointed out their own killer moments before disappearing into a mist of fire, blood, and dirt.
Confusion mounted, the Leader called quickly for back up from the nearby squad, who were already rushing inward to render assistance.
Shots were fired wildly at the faintest sign of movement, by sight, sound or by their sensors.
Seconds passed. Minutes. They slowly pulled themselves into a circular formation. formation, eyes were scanning high and low, weapons still hot from their wild firing.
“Abo-” A Centurion started to shout in the middle of their formation.
Once more laser-rifles and eyes turned, but now only to watch in awe-inspiring horror as a green and blue-clad Mobian descended from the treetops like a fiend from old storybooks. Curved sword points penetrated through robes, armor, flesh, shoulder bone, and implants with an awful wet noise that chilled their insides.
Precariously mounted by their swords on a mortal wounded Centurion, predatory gold eyes locked onto the nearest Squad Leader.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Yet fear spread like wildfire.
As time slowly started to churn forward once more, the body lurched backward under the weight and wounds suffered. The green and blue-clad creature ripped the swords from the Centurion at the apex of its fall and lept towards the biggest gap in their staggered positioning.
It was quickly chased by laser-rifle fire and curses. Once again it disappeared into the thick underbrush leaving behind vapor trails of burned vegetation.
And no one was sure they actually hit it.
“What was that what was that?!” someone shrilled excitedly.
“Still your tongue or I’ll do it for you,” one of the Squad Leader’s snapped, attempting to distill panic, “Anyone got a good look at it?”
“It was a Fox, it looked armed.”
“Armed you say?” the squad leader replied sarcastically.
“Of course, it was armed! Close up the formation, I want everyone to check your line of fi-,” they started barking out orders, but as the platypus neared the end of their tirade, the Fox announced their return with a burst from their odd-looking rifle, dropping the squad leader, but not killing them.
“Return fire!” the other shouted.
“Suppress! Suppress! Burn the Jungle with him!” they pointed out in the general direction of the attack.
The surviving Legion happily complied, firing their laser-rifles until the barrels were white-hot and their energy charges spent. During the exchange, three more Centurions fell from the specter they could not see, though now it was more smoke than it was vegetation that hindered their sight.
Then, short of the crackling fire that started to consume the Jungle, silence descended on them, their weapons drifting as they sought a target.
That was close.
The exchange of shots had not been completely one-sided. Jerry could smell singed fur mingling with the stink of burning vegetation and clothing. The armor worked, the laser-proofing absorbed and redirected the energy, essentially dispersing the heat in the same direction it came.
But it felt like someone had stuck him with a hot poker in a few spots.
Jerry smothered the small cloth fire on his back by rolling about on the ground behind a tree a good distance from where they were shooting. Another smoldering spot on his hip he swatted out as he took cover behind a rock.
MARS4 had taken hits while he focused on his firing, suffering from the same auditory exclusion he had been exploiting before.
Jerry panted as he contemplated his next move.
The first thing that popped into his mind was that he needed a break. Jerry had been engaging them at a flat run, using every ounce of his minuscule strength, agility, and skill to wound or kill.
Jerry’s personal saber had been chipped in that last display, he was also running low on those large, grenade things. Jerry was even down to four magazines of ammunition, not counting the eight rounds still left in the SAS-G.
The burns were irritating Jerry as the armor rubbed against it, and he reached up to adjust it when his fingers brushed against something that hung closely against his neck.
His fist closed over the Knight’s Cross of Acorn, his Father’s medal. It had come up from its hiding spot beneath the sweater he wore.
The irritation quickly faded, his exhaustion forgotten, the burning in his muscles cooled. All other thoughts of ‘resting’ expelled from his mind.
Standing up Jerry looked over the fire. With careful ease, he tucked the medal back in its place, tossed the broken cigarette he had in his mouth the whole while right over his shoulder as a new thought took hold.
A new comrade needed his help, Control was depending on him to get the job done. Jerry’s needs and wants could go fuck themselves.
He needed to get in the fight. It had been exactly what he wanted, was it not?
Jerry needed to plug a few shots in their direction and led them closer to their base camp or just break them altogether. Either case, they needed to move further from MARS3′s position.
The Fox gaze shifted towards that base of theirs. He could not see it where he was standing, but through the canopy, he could make out a long, thin tower, colored green to camouflage it from onlookers in the air. That was supposedly the jamming device, and that was what had to go.
Then the lack of sound garnered his immediate attention.
They stopped firing, he wondered if they could recharge their weapons in the field. They had a detection device he could exploit, their focus narrowed while they fired, something he was thankful the armor kept him from learning the hard way, but what about their weaponry?
There was one way to find out.
“That thing dead?” The wounded squad leader asked as they inspected their arm.
Metal slugs tore through the implants, it was a clean shoot, through and through. Looking back to where the rounds would have gone, whole chunks of a tree where missing. Armor-piercing rounds, with explosive tips?!
The Squad leader could still shift the wounded arm, operate it, but even with the nullifiers, they could feel the dull pain working through their torn muscles.
Removing their hood, the wounded Squad Leader now surveying what was left of two squads of Legion Infantry.
The other Squad Leader took a few rounds to their chest and was out cold, two others were dead outright. Either they were shot or had been caught in miniature explosions of the ammunition detonating after passing through.
Out of their six members, they had two. Out of their own, they had four, including themselves.
Whatever it was, it essentially wiped out its second squad.
“Check to see if he’s alive,” they ordered gruffly, “Recharge your weapons,”
“We got to fall back, we’re going to die if we stay here,” one of them started panicking.
“Do what I order you to do, get the kit,”
“We got to run!” the panic Centurion fumbled, looking around the jungle, “We’re going to di-.”
They never finished the sentence.
The Squad Leader walked up to them quickly, and with a single shot from their laser-pistol, ended the cowardly display.
Even as the carcass fell, the Squad Leader turned towards the others, pistol still raised,
“You are Legion! You die fighting!” they spat as he glared around at the survivors.
After announcing that grim intent, they headed over to their wounded comrade as another one of their own squad scanned them with a medical device.
“He’s not going to make it,” came the report from the designated medic. The leader nodded grimly, shifted the Centurion away, then put the other Squad Leader out of their misery. They left no one to be interrogated.
Commander Dok’s own orders.
Now they were down to five. The Squad Leader did not like these numbers.
“What are we doing Parcus?”
Expecting eyes turned towards the Squad Leader, Parcus Dunefeather.
The Platypus frowned, pulling up his hood again to hide his own fear.
“We confirm if this thing is dead or not, then we fall back,” Parcus then looked to the other last squad member of the previous squad, “Stay close, ditch the tracker and inform command-”
“-device is fried, sir,”
Parcus’ frown deepened, “-then just stay close, try not to die, that’s an order.”
They were coming. Slowly.
Jerry counted them, only five, one was wounded, he could see the dark stain glistening on their purple robes.
The way they were all holding their weapons, it was a good chance that they had recharged them. The way they looked upward towards the branches above, meant they were expecting that particular route. The fact that they neglected the motion detection device, they were relying on their eyes sight.
But they did not see him, not yet. They continued to wade through the knee-high grass, shifting through the chest-high brush, sticking together. Eyes looking off to their left and inspecting the flames and the charred remains of bushes.
Jerry had no choice, he could not wait for them to get closer.
The grenade MARS4 fired missed its intended target and landed behind the encroaching squad, but he held his tongue as they scattered, gritting his teeth in a brief stint of frustration.
They fired a few wild shots in front of them, quickly seeking cover behind the trees.
Unfortunately, Jerry was to their immediate right, and when they settled in, he lined up his shot, and gently eased back on the trigger with his finger and-
“-What is going on out there?” the Commander barked.
Dok could hear laser-fire and something else in the background.
Pops, explosions, more pops.
Dok had pulled one squad from the field then he sent them back out there towards the commotion. Yet with a portion of his Garrison in medical already from the Wolf’s escapade through the Barracks, he did not have the numbers to go out in force.
And now, the fighting sounded louder than before. It was coming closer.
“How many are left?” Dok demanded, “Excluding what was out there, how many are left?!”
“Six, sir,” the Centurion reported, and Dok growled at the number. Including himself, that made seven. The base originally had forty-two of the Legion. Four were wounded when the Drones attacked, five more when the Wolf escaped. Now, this?
“Tell Ivan to fall back to base,” Dok turned around to stare at a map as he gave his orders, “Get the Centurions out of Medical, put them on posts,”
“Sir some of them can’t stand,”
“Then prop them up!” Dok roared, whirling around to jab a metal encased finger towards the doorway, “As long as they can shoot their useful when they’re not useful, they’re dead, are we clear?”
Parcus checked the pulse of the Legionnaire nearest him, shook his head, then closed the being’s eyes. Wincing as he sat himself up to rest against the tree, Parcus’ face twisted in anger and pain.
Whatever it was, it had just killed four more Centurions and Parcus spent his last charge firing back. Parcus had been wounded again. His leg did not want to respond and it hurt. The implants were working on his arm and not his leg.
Surveying his surroundings, Parcus spotted a laser-rifle. After dragging it to him, the Platypus discovered the battery dead and chucked it. It was then he heard the rustling, coming closer. Parcus yanked his knife from his boot and held it forward towards the noise.
Those gold eyes again.
A Fox stepped out from the bushes, its eyes focused hotly on Parcus, who looked pathetic keeping that knife up with his uninjured arm, blood-soaked armor, and tattered robes. The eyes shifted left and right, surveying the two other Centurions, before once more settling on Parcus.
“Tough bastard aren’t you?” they asked, keeping their weapon level on him.
Unconsciously, Parcus leaned forward of the dead, trying to look as menacing as possible. He was doomed, but he was not going to beg for mercy.
There would be no whimpering from Parcus Dunefeather.
They studied each other, Parcus noting that the male was panting, from heat, exertion, he could not guess, but the Fox, physically, looked tired.
“Fearless fucker too,” they seemed to point out in an arrogant manner.
“I’m Legion-” Parcus begun.
“-Oh I heard,” the Fox cut in. A sinister smile spread across their red face “You die fighting.”
“That is a motto I can respect,” they offered with a slight tilt of their head.
With that, that chilling gaze diverted from Parcus, now fixating on a point in the distance.
Without another word, Fox shifted backward, though they wore a ragged blue sweater, their fur blood-red, they quickly disappeared into the jungle. The Legion Squad Leader knew they were heading towards the base or were they?
Parcus, later picked up, treated, debriefed by his superiors, surrounded by somewhat sympathetic comrades, did not believe he had escaped those golden eyes. Up until he made his report to the Chapter Master himself, Parcus thought it some cruel joke on the Fox’s part, that they were coming back to finish him at any moment.
At any moment. Even in the Transport. To the Hospital Barrack. Right up until he made it back to his own Bunk on Base.
That thing that looked like a Fox would come for him.
Jerry let him live on two counts.
First, someone had to inform their chain of command that they were the last one alive and that they had a very real threat coming their way. Jerry, though, had no way of knowing that the Platypus had no means of communicating with his superiors, but even then it might not have mattered.
The second reason? That Centurion of the Legion had been staring death in the face and did not flinch as he put an arm across the other’s chest. They might not have cared about that comrade they were leaning next to, but for that brief, flickering moment, it looked like it to Jerry.
Badly wounded, guarding a downed comrade with nothing more than a knife? It was rare to see that sort of raw determination anymore. There had been Honor in that Centurion’s actions.
Besides, even in the old days, his little group had always left the one survivor. Someone had to spread the Fear.
“At least he can take a breather,” MARS4 muttered to himself.
It was the armor and pack combined that was draining Jerry. The armor was something Jerry could get used to if given time, which he had none. That duffel stuffed with explosives? That needed to go. Combined with the pants and his fur?
Jerry was hot, sweating and needed some water.
Just another mile or so to go, and he can ditch the pack. Just another two or so hours, and he will be back on a transport, heading back to base. Then he could take off the sweltering gear. Then he could relax in a nice bath, enjoy some scotch and not inhale his cigarettes or worse, throw them away because they are broken.
Just so much more and the punishment would be over. For now.
Jerry’s breathing steadied. He walked towards the Enemy’s Base with his SAS-G shouldered, his head swiveling for possible enemies. Then Jerry scoffed at himself.
Punishment? A smile stretched across Jerry’s muzzle.
This was no Punishment, this was Sport. He could still smell the blood even through the burnt ozone and smoldering fur.
This was a Fight.
And there was no one else here to steal Jerry’s kills.
A short walk later, and Jerry could make something out through the vegetation, the tower through the gaps in the canopy. Then the fence that surrounded the establishment as he drew closer.
Jerry almost gave a grunt of contempt, but that would give away his position. The chain-linked fence and barb wire topping would prove little challenge to him, but it was the Legion surrounding the barracks that had Jerry leery of a direct assault.
The Fox had been exploiting thick vegetation and years of experience in infiltration and ambush to his advantage. Other than the fact that Jerry could not see where the gate had been, there was a wide-open dash from the edge of the fence to the barracks itself. Short of the two bunkers with a Centurion in each, there was absolutely no cover he could reach uncontested.
The Centurions within the bunkers were mounting sinister-looking cannons, both swiveling independent of the other seeking targets, watchful and wary.
Then, a Centurion on each corner of the roof, two more patrolling the outside, and Gods knew how many more were in there.
But this did not deter Jerry from planning some sort of attack. Charging headlong over open grounds would be suicidal and stupid. Which Jerry and Thousands like him did it more than once, armed with little more than swords, spears, claws, and fangs against entrenched positions of death spewing rifles.
Yet this time Jerry did not have an Army to rush the Legion.
That meant Jerry needed a distraction. Anything to catch their attention for just a few seconds for him to clear the fence and reach the barracks. If he could close, get within arms reach-
-“I can see gold twinkling!” someone shouted behind him.
Jerry whirled with his SAS-G raised, the movement earning a cry of surprise before lancing red lasers scorching past him.
“And now you can see my swords you fucking bastards!” Jerry snarled, firing blindly in response before ducking to his right.
Jerry had been careful to keep his golden-hilted weapons out of the sunlight, but it was apparent the Gods decided to send down a particular ray for an ill-timed display. No. Jerry had gotten careless, eager.
More beams streaked past him, lighting the greenery with brief puffs of smoldering flames and acrid smoke.
Jerry ran for the fence, pausing behind a tree long enough to shrug off that heavy pack and SAS. Shifting through it for an explosive charge, Jerry armed it, then placed it on the tree to his left. His brain worked overtime as he attempted to remember how to get it to go off. Was there a remote? A Timer?
It was this time that a Centurion shouted “Got you!” as they emerged from the bushes at the Fox’s back, laser-rifle raised.
Jerry froze, half turned to send a menacing glare over his shoulder at a pale-furred Dingo beneath a purple hood.
“I got him!” they called triumphantly, moving closer. So close that Jerry could smell the carbon scarring near the focus lens of the rifle. So close that the Fox could make out the soft twinge of light in their eyes from their implants.
So close that they were now within the lethal range of Jerry's sabers.
“Hands in the-” the Centurion started as they approached.
Jerry appeared to comply, but as the distance closed between them, the Fox started spinning to his right.
With his left paw, Jerry gripped his Father’s saber on his left hip, bringing it out with an easy, practiced motion. As he finished his turn, Jerry lashed out with the oddly held weapon, sliding it across the DEL’s chest and splashing the green vegetation with a dark liquid red as the Royal Guardsman Saber sliced through robe, armor, and the rest with impunity.
The Laser Rifle discharged harmlessly into the air even as Jerry completed another turn, sinking to a knee as he added another deep wound beneath the first.
The Centurion staggered forward as Jerry stood, snatching the rifle away with his free hand as the Centurion fell to the ground. With a snap of his wrist to flick the blood off the blade, and with the same practiced ease in which he drew it, Jerry sheathed his Father’s Saber.
After a quick inspection of the Legion weapon, Jerry adjusted the SAS-G on its slack so it would rest on his back, then made for the duffel bag. The Legion Laser-Rifle was easy looking to operate, and he did remember to keep the explosive away from extreme heat since it would set it off.
Hah! He did not need to remember how to set the detonators now!
Jerry extended the enemy rifle to the brush beneath the explosive device and depressed the trigger until he could see a flame. The Fox then ditched the rifle just before the bunker’s open up with their heavy weapons near the general area where they heard noise.
The large beams put perfect round circles through the tree trunks and just disintegrated the green around him. The beams were so hot that there were miniature thunderclaps as the air quickly collapsed in where it had burned away, making the smoke twirl in place before ascending and dispersing into nothing.
Cursing, Jerry threw off his duffel and flattened himself as best he could on the ground. The Fox crawled away as streaks of compressed energy nearly singed the fur off his tail, all the while pushing the duffel forward as he scrambled on his stomach.
Then the flames reached the explosive.
The result had been deafening. The shock wave almost flipping Jerry with his feet upward. He did not hear the crash of the tree or the obliteration of the particular portion of the fence. All the Fox could hear had been the constant dull ringing in his ears. The double images and ringing disoriented Jerry, who crawled on his hands and knees away from the explosion.
Jerry barely caught movement to his left as another of the Legion tore past without even looking down at him, calling the name of someone, more than likely the being who had the misfortune of straying too close to Jerry. Another did the same, whatever they were shouting he could not hear, but it was obvious by their gestures that they were suggesting they head deeper into the jungle.
When the world straightened itself, Jerry stood, grunting at the stiff pain in his ankles. He could hear more muffled shouting, someone was going off their rocker in the base, but all Jerry could make out were muddled words from a speakerphone on one if not all of the corners.
Jerry closed in on the fence, peering inward once more to see a few more Centurions running away from the barracks with packs, three in all, heading in the opposite direction of the explosion.
Even the roof was clear, at least for now, and Jerry scanned the rest of the facility he could see. The ones in the bunkers, they stayed where they were, weapons swiveling where they could.
Apparently, they were having dissension in the ranks, with so many gone, some of the survivors thought it best to cut and run. Good news for Jerry, he really was not up for any more guerrilla warfare.
Slinging the duffel over his shoulder, the Fox trekked around the fence until the Bunkers no longer had an angle on him. Jerry proceeded to cut the fence with his Father’s sword, a task he nearly scolded himself for. However, with his own cracked, he did not want to put it under any more undue stress then he had to.
Cutting himself a hole, Jerry slipped in, his gaze and rifle switching from the rooftop to the bunkers all the way up the point Jerry pressed himself against the barrack’s wall. Lowering the pack to give himself some speed, Jerry closed in on the closest bunker, SAS-G poised to fire.
The Centurion inside was whimpering quietly in fear and pain. Their legs wrapped in a dirty cast and they were propped up awkwardly behind the heavy laser gun. They scanned around the scenery, desperate to find whatever had caused the explosion.
Jerry’s head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed in contempt and acknowledgment. They were short on numbers, and those who could run were doing so at the expense of their wounded.
The Fox approached in the deathly silent way he had done in the jungle. No sound outside of the slight noise the Centurion made with their labored breathing. Jerry partially drew his Father’s sword, paused, then put it back in favor of the dagger.
It was a knife’s work, and it was done quickly and cleanly. Their suffering over in a mere moment.
The other in the second bunker shared the same fate. They were oblivious to their doom as it slipped up behind them and Jerry ended them right there and then. But there had been no joy in these mercy killings. It had been contempt.
The Fox was disgusted, outright disgusted.
They were Centurions of the Legion. Though Jerry had honestly never fought one before until now. He’s seen them from afar or heard stories on how the great hero, Sonic, defeated whole armies. They were supposed to be fierce, worth more than most Standard Soldiers only because of their Cybernetic Enhancements.
The last point had been that they were Mobians, honest to the Gods Mobians. They deserved respect as an enemy. Not the sort one would give to an Overlander, but respect all the same! Treating your wounded as fodder? That just turned his stomach. Overlander’s did that to their wounded, not Mobians!
Jerry approached the door after securing his pack. It was one of those fancy sliding ones he seen at Fort Acorn, had a keypad and what looked like a camera. Of course, a Camera, they could see him now and the Fox stared up at it with that predatory gaze of his.
“Knock Knock Mother-Fucker,” the Fox smiled as he placed an explosive device on the door itself, then slipped off camera. Jerry loaded another grenade into the launcher, hid behind the bunker, aimed and fired.
The detonation ripped a chunk out of the front of the barracks. When Jerry could coax his ears forward, he could make out coughing and moans coming from inside. With effort, he scrambled over what was left of the stairs to put his booted feet on the first floor, scanning through the smoke and sparking wiring.
The corridor was hexagon-shaped, the metal plating scoured by the explosion and smeared lightly in something that could only have been blood.
Jerry grinned at the carnage, though the grin slipped away. No. No more fun. Someone here had put wounded Mobians up to Fight him. There had been another, MARS3, out in the Jungle waiting on Rescue.
This was no longer Fun.
Readying his weapon, Jerry maneuvered down the corridor, stepping into adjacent rooms long enough to sweep over it with his eyes.
Coughing caught his attention, the source a Centurion crawling towards a set of stairs leading obviously up. Jerry casually shot the downed being as he went by, having no real interest in the First Floor. According to MARS3, the jamming device was located on the Third, so bypassing the second floor completely, Jerry stepped onto the landing of the floor described to him.
Gold eyes flicked from side to side. Obvious signs of a past battle decorated the floor and wall. He could just make out two beings conspiring ahead of him, obviously trying to get someone near them to run with them. Jerry should hide somewhere, let them discuss and come to terms with their plan.
But Jerry did not know if there were more in the Jungle, still hunting down the wounded Verlos. Jerry had to move, he had no more time.
The Fox let the SAS-G go slack on its sling, took the pack in one hand, drew steel in the other and entered the archway.
The room looked important, a control console on the inside was the same described to him by Verlos. Three Centurions stood arguing amongst each other, the furthest noted Jerry but was too surprised to give ample warning.
“Hold this,” Jerry instructed rather frankly, throwing the duffel between the first two and into the arms of the reluctant one, who dropped their rifle as they juggled the bag full of explosives.
One of the persuaders managed a startling outburst of “What the-,” just before a sword stroke silenced them, the Centurion sinking to their knees as their other companion put up a stiffer resistance.
Sharp steel connected with a rifle, the other conspirator, a billed fowl of some sort, attempted to preserve itself. They even manage to squeeze off a shot that filled Jerry’s nose with burnt ozone when they tried to maneuver their weapon to shoot him in the face. Despite their desperate defense, the end result was two wounds on their chest, their body slouched onto the wall with a new red stain decorating it.
The Third just stood there, stupefied, still clinging to the pack.
How fortunate. Now if Jerry could convince this one into turning the jamming device off, Control could remind him on how to set the explosive charges.
“Shut it down,” the Fox ordered, gesturing towards the console.
“What?” the Centurion asked, and Jerry put his stained weapon up to their face,
“I don’t repeat myself,” he warned
The Centurion, new obviously, a very young feline, dropped the pack and did as instructed, turning off the console. Jerry could hear the static dissipate in his earpiece. Satisfied, he turned a more scrutinizing eye towards the Centurion before them.
They were breathing heavy. There was panic in their eyes and they focused solely on the blood-stained blade still jammed close to their face.
It did not take a strong sniff or glance either to note that the Centurion had soiled themselves. This being was thoroughly broken in spirit and retained enough faculties to realize that Jerry could, and would kill them.
Less than a heartbeat later, Jerry gestured with his sword towards the door,
“Run, I see you again, I’ll kill you,”
“W-What?” The Centurion asked again, and Jerry smacked them across their face with the flat of the blade.
“Run you fucking idiot!” the Fox snapped angrily.
Still clinging to their face, the Centurion fled.
Jerry wiped the sword on the body of his first victim before putting it away to shoulder his SAS-G again. Years ago he may have simply killed the young cat on sheer principle, hells, it would have made Jerry chuckle to see them whimper and whine.
But this was not about having fun. And these were not Overlanders.
The War was over. Again Jerry reminded himself of Control’s words. Tried to etch them in his mind. Eggman was not a True Overlander, they were after enslavement, not Genocide. They had War Machines who did not kill indiscriminately, and the Legion were comprised of Mobians. After all that had happened to them in the War, Mobians deserved a smidgen of Mercy, didn’t they?
Hells, Jerry could spare two. He was in a semi-good mood.
"Re-assuming communications upli-is that blood?” Control’s voice thundered in his ear, shaking Jerry from his thoughts.
Realizing the context of the question, Jerry physically stiffened as he looked around. Apparently, Control could see what he was seeing, or could she see him? How did she do that?!
“Yes?” Jerry asked, frowning slightly in thought. A sudden urge for a cigarette had him lighting one up before he thought about lowering his rifle to do so.
"Is that Legionnaire dead?" Control asked as if obviously surprised by the fact that there was a body of a Centurion nearby.
“Look, lady, I didn’t get medals for playing patty-cake with the enemy,” Jerry growled irritably just before inhaling a long draw of chemicals that soothed out his nerves.
"Are you smo-"
“-Enough of the twenty fucking questions, can you see MARS3?” Jerry snapped, looking around the room for something to punch. Gods that was irritating!
A short pause before Control responded, her voice even and unoffended by his outburst.
"Affirmative, MARS3′s emergency transmitter is online, his communications uplink, however, is dead,"
“Dead-what?” Jerry asked, suddenly worried. Jerry did not know the lingo, his first thought was that he failed, he was too slow!
"Do not panic MARS4, it means I have no way of confirming his status," she replied reassuringly, ”I am sending transport to him now.”
"New Objective,” Control added suddenly, ”Download the Legion Jamming Software unto your PDA for analysis,"
Jerry stared blankly ahead, then searched the room visibly, “Down-huh-to-the-fuck-what?”
"What in the name of the Queen-.” the Fox started to swear.
“-Go to the console MARS4,” Control sighed, a hint of annoyance in her voice. ”I’ll walk you through it,”