"And let this one singular event, the passing along of the faculties of government to a new leader, and our nod to the due process of Imperial law, stand as a reminder to both ourselves and our timeless foe; although this war is not over and many dark days undoubtedly lay ahead of us, there is only one path for us now for us to follow – and that is the path forward: to victory." There was thunderous, deafening applause, accompanied by much whistling and yells of overwhelming approval from the gathered mass of humanity, the universal acceptance and love of the great hero Caanon. This was the man who had already given all that he had, including his brother and two of his sons, to this terrible war.
Behind him, slightly below the dais stood Griphon, and next to him his beautiful new bride, Patience Weathers-Fairchild. Out of honor of the Fairchild name they had decided it would be hyphenated, and to honor Caanon's ascension to Emperor the wedding had been earlier the same day. It was the happiest day of Griph's life, and his father had seemed more excited about his son's wedding than his own political triumph. Hector was there as well, served as Griph's best man at the wedding. Hector wore even more medals than Griph, all in the service of defending the Empire; he looked incredible in his Knight-Commander's uniform, the tall, dashing, gallant, officer with a surprising sensitivity to both matters of family honor and political affairs, something Griph could never bring himself to master. "I have never been more proud of you little brother." Those had been his words at the cathedral. "A grand ceremony for a grand couple." Hector had kissed Patience's hand, causing Griph to flush red. But if the gesture was embarrassing, what he had said to Patience when it came time to say the vows was true – he had truly never been happier than he was today.
His father turned away from the podium now, was stepping off the dais, nodding and waving to the jubilant people below, shaking the hands of a few particular close supporters and family friends, including the Fairchild family. Of course, he was there too, his other brother, the middle-brother whose name he would not allow himself to say or even think anymore. Hector had told him later that it was a silly notion – the real him had been dead years before it happened, bore no responsibility. Hector was right, but still… Griph couldn't bring himself to think of him.
As Caanon turned towards them now, smiling, Griph returned it, beaming to see the same thin crown embossed with the Imperial Angel resting on his father's head. Then the middle brother stepped forward, extended his hand, and he seemed to question – saw out of the corner of his eye the mortified look on Hector's face, the Knight-Commander pitching forward, suspended in motion as though time had slowed to a crawl. The outreached hand was obscured from Griph's view now, but the sound of the two shots as they rang out were unmistakable; and then he was down, tackled to the floor by Hector. Griph was moving now too, but it seemed like it wasn't him at all but some master puppeteer moving his body for him. He seemed to move as if swimming through gelatin. The weapon had been wrestled away from his struggling brother now, and the new Emperor sank to his knees, his white robes stained red with the blood drawn by his own son.
Then the people pressed in from all sides, and the frantic rush in the air returned time to an incomprehensible, whirlwind pace. The Emperor was surrounded, being whisked away for emergency treatment, while the Imperial Police apprehended the culprit, Griph's own brother, and only seconds later the lamentation of the crowds drowned out the NewNet drones blaring out the news of the attempted assassination.
April 2845
The planet loomed large in the eye of the dropship's external camera, the blue-grey orb specked with thin white wispy clouds taking up almost the entire view screen. Griph glanced at it, thought, Just another world to be claimed by the Empire. His real focus was on the satellite maps of the drop zone. He'd learned fast that reliable intelligence was important in any battle or war, and this one was no exception. The material was supposed to be good this time, not always the case these days. With Imperials jumping the gun and the Colonials chomping at the bit for a chance to get a whack at the toasters, the men on the ground could sometimes find themselves facing either more resistance than expected or an empty world – although, the latter option didn't seem very likely to Griph in this case.
The truth was that the Cybrids had an important nexus in this sector, and this was the most likely place for it to be, even without the satellite evidence the probes had gathered. True, a scout force hadn't actually touched the surface yet, but that was his job. That's what the Organization was for, these days. What he'd joined it for, anyway.
He ran another diagnostic. Everything was running in the green, optimal performance, checked, calibrated, defragged, cleaned and ready to go. Griph sighed. It was the waiting which always got to him.
December 2837
The array of Knight hercs crouched silently in the snowy mountainous area, ready to ambush the next Cybrid supply caravan that attempted to run the pass. The damned glitches had managed to slip one through a week ago, but by now they'd need more replacement parts, especially due to the recent harsh Rocky Mountains weather. Turned out the machines didn't fair much better than the human beings in a blizzard. So much for biological weakness, you fucking monsters, thought Griph. At least I've got warm blood and a beating heart inside of me you cold metal pricks. Now we're going to hit you right where it hurts – right in the goddamned anti-freeze.
Snow was falling hard now, but this wasn't like Io's snow – this wasn't radioactive and corrosive chemicals that would throw off sensors or destroy a herc's components over time. True, one had to watch the temperatures to ensure that no hardpoints froze up, though that was unlikely unless the herc had taken damage, since the internal systems were largely self-regulating. Visibility was rather low, but that hardly mattered to Griph. He was good at this by now, staking out a target, making the sensor instruments an extension of himself and running entirely on intuition. He was a hunter, and the Cybrids were his prey. He was a natural predator; he was Blood Eagle.
Joining the Order had been a difficult decision, but Griph had felt it to be his duty. When the Furious Stars were wiped out, he had felt something inside of him snap. They'd taken so many innocent lives already, good men and women, and now his old Knight Order as well… Hector's warnings about the Blood Eagle and Patience's pleading had meant nothing in the end. He wanted a crack at the same Cybrids who'd killed so many of his brothers in arms, the very 'brids that the Blood Eagle forces were relocated to fight here in North America. So many of those Furious Stars met their deaths not at the hands of enemy guns but with a knife in the back from their own comrades; Trojan Horse infiltration into the officer corps had been nearly fifty percent.
His brother had been a Trojan Horse too – nobody knew for how long. Hector had thought he knew when the switch occurred and their brother was no longer their brother but an alien wearing their brother's skin as his own. It was irrelevant now. The only thing that mattered was what was going on in front of him, who was to die today, what horrible new tactic would be unveiled in a war that was every bit as much about taking souls as taking lives. The Cybrids had shown how truly soulless they were, smashing a meteor into the Pacific that had caused tsunami waves to ravage the PacRim and the west coast of the North American Prefecture. And for their part, the Blood Eagle had become ever more brutal towards their own men. Griph shuddered and closed his eyes as he tried not to remember some of the things he had seen, some of the things still going on at the Blood Eagle barracks near Denver…
No respect for the dead – just for the killing. It was selfish, Griph knew, and barbaric – he refused to take part in the consumption of a comrade, no matter the circumstances. Nonetheless there was precious little to eat; and if anyone had earned the right to be selfish it was the Blood Eagle. It was only their heroic, titanic efforts which kept the NorthAm front from collapsing completely. The Cybrids still held Denver though, and without that vital supply and control center, it was going to be rough going. Oh well, one thing at a time. 'Vape this convoy, then the next… and in the spring we make a push for Denver again. We're in this for the long haul.
In the meantime it was the duty of the Blood Eagle to enter the heart of darkness, confront the evil there and purge it. They were like ancient exorcists, in their own way, bound by sacred duty yet free to employ whatever methods worked – even the most brutal. Effectiveness over compassion – and so what if they were losing their humanity? For a small group to lose that so the rest could keep it seemed an even trade.
He glanced at the men around him. These were real fighters, his Eagles. Nearby him were two Apocalypses and a Myrmidon, cloaked and silent, barely visible except for the snow drifts accumulating on their surfaces, outlining them in the snow. It wouldn't matter – visibility was too low to notice that kind of detail at the distance the 'brids would approach from. Looking at a trench cut dug into the snow in front of him, Griph felt sympathy for the infantry manning the firing positions, and those ready to go over the top and begin assaulting the 'brids and carting off salvage. In his Basilisk's cockpit he was already cold; the men on the ground must have been freezing.
Economy of force in these conditions and to maintain surprise dictated that operations should not involve much more than a sword of hercs, and Griph had positioned himself with the squad closest the pass, the ones who would begin firing first whenever the enemy appeared. As always, timing would be crucial. Still, these were reliable soldiers, he'd been fighting with them all spring and summer – and among their ranks even at this moment were men who had fought against the infamous SCORPIO unit of hunter-killers in Nova Alexandria. Griph tightened his grip around the herc's control stick and narrowed his eyes. He had confidence in the men… in the mission… and yes, Cybrid predictability.
He sensed the movement from the mouth of the pass even before he saw it. Then his sensors picked it up, then at last he saw it, black shapes in the distance… growing closer by the second. Comm silence was absolute, so Griph shifted the feet of his Basilisk from side to side slowly, the signal to get ready. The men on the ground manned the low-profile anti-herc turrets and sat up against the edge of the trench. An agonizing five minutes passed as the convoy crawled closer and closer. A little more… come on, that's it, right into the kill zone gearheads…
"Now! Carve the bastards!" The Basilisk had uncloaked and was firing before Griph consciously knew he had pulled the trigger. Highly concentrated EMPs and a stream of autocannon bullets slashed into the lead sentries, Shepherds unsurprisingly. The most common form of escort, the Shepherd was fairly versatile and could pack firepower, but it didn't stand up well when ambushed – it didn't seem to ever be quite fast enough to escape that first hail of firepower. This particular Shepherd wasn't either, as the concentrated attacks of Griph's squad, as well as supporting infantry, tore the machine's right leg off, causing it to topple into the snow and cripple its pilotform.
The second the attack had commenced, huge searchlights rigged to shine on the snow flickered to life, spotlighting targets in the evening dark, and blinding the Cybrids in the reflective snow of the blizzard. Picking out another escort, this one a lighter Goad model, Griph also noted the size of the convoy, thought, Hunter's bones, we've hit the mother lode this time! He triggered off another volley of linked fire, this one eviscerating the already shield-less Goad's pilotform housing. Griph smirked as he was rewarded with a large electrical arc slicing across the cockpit, accompanied by a small explosion which caused fire and smoke to pillow out from the center of the herc. He didn't know if he had instantly killed the glitch or if it was slowly burning, but he imagined he could hear its synthesized screams, and smiled.
The infantry were up now, over the top of their shallow makeshift position and bull-rushing the small convoy vehicles, their fire teams keeping them covered with small arms fire. Griph looked instinctively for the rest of his sword, and saw them fully engaged, facing a force of as many a dozen Cybrids. There'd been more than in the past, apparently an adjustment to the Blood Eagle scavenging tactics, and they'd guarded well. At least two Executioners and twice as many Adjudicators were visible. Quite a force to commit, thought Griph, they must really need these parts.
He ordered his squad to concentrate on an unlucky quad of blue-painted Cybrids, the lighter of the enemy group. His Knights made short work of them, wasting barely thirty seconds in turning the assorted enemy Shepherds and Bolos into smoking piles of scrap metal. Turning to orient himself he caught the dying screams of a Knight in the other squad. Equal in numbers, the Knights were separated and suppressed my missile and particle beam fire from the Executioners, who were keeping the Knights from being mobile in the cramped space while the Adjudicators moved in front. Two of the Adjudicators and an Executioner turned themselves to confront the threat of Griph's squad, and Griph saw the dangerous tactical position he was in. He had numbers, but the Cybrids could inflict serious casualties, possibly even escape unless he dispatched these heavies quickly.
"Freya, Odin, take a 'judge and stick with it." said Griph, delegating an Apocalypse to each attack an Adjudicator. "Beowulf, fire support to both of them." he finished, addressing the Myrmidon pilot last.
"What about you?" chimed Beowulf.
"Don't worry about me, help the others!" With that Griph throttled up and charged directly at the Executioner shielding the convoy. With a feral yell Griph blazed away with his weapons, aiming deliberately at his enemy's missile racks. He managed to knock one off, but not before the Executioner emptied two of his Shrikes and several plasma bolts into his forward shields, causing the computer to beep out a warning that its strength had been reduced to zero. Directing his fire again, he chipped off bits of armor and damaged the other missile rack, engaging his thermal diffuser and causing another shrike to fly harmlessly by only to detonate in a snowdrift as he did so.
The Executioner began to retreat now, and he pursued, battering it with EMPs and autocannons every step of the way, wading through the path of Cybrid convoy vehicles and overturning a few. After taking its last two weapons off, Griph blew off its left leg joint, savoring the clean kill as the huge monster of a herc did a face plant into the snow. A few more shots and a reactor leak went critical, causing a shockwave which was mild for Griph but probably quite scary to anyone on the ground. Just then he heard the voice he knew was Freya screaming in pain before her transmission cut out. "Damn!" he yelled. He'd been too absorbed in getting his kill, and now his squad was in trouble. Griph twisted the Basilisk around, raking certain convoy vehicles such as the Jammers and Protectors with crippling fire as he turned, then doubled back at maximum speed towards his own group.
One of the 'judges was down, along with Freya's mangled Apocalypse, and a damaged Odin was attempting to limp backwards to safety as the remaining Adjudicator advanced, training its radiation gun on the hapless pilot again and again. Griph winced, knowing full well the permanent damage that cruel weapon could cause to the human body. Meanwhile Beowulf's Myrmidon was laying down pulverizing railgun shots onto the glitch, but it was just taking it, focused on knocking out Odin.
"For Hunter's sake kill it already goddamn it!" Odin was yelling frantically. Griph sized the target up, decided instantly that the fastest way to kill it was to attack the damaged foot. Luckily for Odin, Griph was a very skilled marksman as well as a pilot; three linked volleys of fire tore the distracted Adjudicator's foot off at the heel. Unsupported, it teetered for a moment before landing on its side, into the original area the infantry had entrenched. Griph checked his sensors, saw that the two squads slightly to the west had dispatched their enemy without losses, and felt suddenly guilty. His squad wouldn't have lost Freya if he hadn't been so consumed with his own target.
"All clear, scavenger crews get movin' before 'brids call in the cavalry, that one took us way too long, I'm almost positive the convoy got off a signal beacon. Time's a factor here, people! Go, go!" The infantry and scavenging flatbeds were moving into position before he had finished giving the order. Griph saw a team of infantry with plasma torches begin cutting open the cockpit of Freya's downed Apoc, and felt sick, forced himself to look away, trying to convince himself that they wanted her remains for burial. His train of thought was interrupted by the voice of an infantry commander on the comm.
"Knight-Captain Weathers, we've got a situation down here."
"What? What's going on?" asked Griph, concerned. The infantry knew their jobs – they ordinarily didn't require special instruction.
"Well sir… there's… there's people down here sir."
"What?"
"People. Humans. They're saying they were captured by the Cybrids and were on their way to becoming Trojan Horses." Griph shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Uh, commander I believe you know our policy as regards refugees from glitch territory. We cannot accept these people into our camp."
"We'd considered it sir, and we have interrogated a few briefly. For the record sir I do believe they're telling the truth. But I do know the doctrine." Griph frowned, thought suddenly of the "Flesheater" virus that the Cybrids had unleashed on humans and animals, the biological warfare that had gutted the cities of Vancouver and Los Angeles. He could send this incident up the chain of command… but there was no time now, glitch reinforcements were probably already on their way.
"We can't take any risks. Follow the doctrine." said Griph grimly. From his cockpit he could see the individual figures moving in the darkness below him, silhouetted by the spotlights.
"Roj that sir." Griph watched with hard eyes as visions of the Trojan Horses which had killed his beloved Furious Stars, his brother, and quite nearly his father ran through his head. As he stared the hundred or so refugees were forced to stand in a straight line, then the order was given and dozens of bright green and red flashes of light from blasters and candleguns slashed into the prisoners, and the bodies lay where the fell. Griph knew that as the scavengers completed taking what they could from the convoy that they would roll over the bodies with the treads on the way back, to ensure that they remained unusable in any tangible form to the enemy.
Griph felt a dull nausea overcoming him, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still, all he'd done was follow Imperial decree – this wasn't just any war, it was a war of survival and a war of annihilation. Despite the fact that he knew in his mind that this was a victory, that gnawing feeling in his gut would not let him forget the wrongness of what had just happened. As much as he tried to push it out of his mind, convince himself of its necessity, he felt as though he had sacrificed something vital to the realities of war. He couldn't quite place it… but amid victory there was a defeat of sorts. Some tiny, vital part of him had been surrendered to the Cybrids.
April 2845
Griph gritted his teeth as the dropship slammed into the atmosphere with a force equaling eight times Earth's gravity. The entire ship shook, and Griph wondered briefly, as he always did, if it was going to come apart around him. Helluva way to go, he thought, hands gripping the edge of his console tightly. The further along the ship got, the rougher the ride seemed to become. There was no feeling of downward progression, just a drop that hit him all the way in his feet and sent blood shooting to his head, and the oppressive feeling of weights being pressed against his chest.
Gasping, he knew that even though this was absolute misery every time, it was one of the most intense sensations one could ever experience. It was somehow more real than combat even, out here there was no hazy bloodlust or dull numbness that took hold to dampen the psychological effect of the incredible danger. It was more vivid and powerful than sex. It was like the worst kind of drug, like Wreck, a bad high with worse withdrawal affects, yet it was completely physical, mechanical, not lucid at all. It was like touching the face of God.
As this humbling affect took hold of Griphon Weathers, and his dropship plummeted at incredible speeds towards the landing zone, he knew that outside the craft the wings and the prominent portions of the boxy hull were being superheated and aglow with orange and red tones. In just a few moments the threshold would be crossed, and that to do so required another kind of surrender. A surrender of inhibitions, of sensitivities, of fears – the total commitment, focus, on the mission at hand. It was as the Furious Stars had always said, the point of life is to Flame or Fade – and they had. The dropship was past the point of no return now, slamming the atmosphere in formation with thirty-five of its brethren, at seven minutes ETA to target and that other old Furious Stars battle cry echoed in his brain.
"Kiss the Edge!"
March 2841
"Do you submit your innocence, before this court, of the charges laid against you?" The judge's booming voice seemed to fill the otherwise silent chamber.
"I do, Your Honor." Griph's reply was firm, steady. He knew Patience was among the gallery, watching him. He felt the judge's eyes burning into him like lasers, wondered now if God had forgiven him for the things that had happened around him, and because of him in the Rockies.
"Then do you also deny that the testimony of key witnesses, placing you at the scene of the Denver incidents, is true?"
"I do not Your Honor." Griph stared up at the man in black robes, thinking if it would be justice for him to suffer for the crimes of other Blood Eagles simply because he had not committed the crime in this particular instance. The night of slaughter in the mountains with the convoy had never left him, but it had gone unreported. Another guilty Blood Eagle overlooked by the system…
"If you were at Denver, as you have admitted yourself you were, would it not have been very nearly impossible to misunderstand the situation? Please Knight-Captain Weathers, we are discussing a matter in which thousands died due to the actions of your comrades – the entire Blood Eagle chain of command itself has been implicated. I do not need to remind you that you are under oath." The judge was losing patience, knew that Griph was hiding something from him, and wanted to know what. But Griph was unwilling to disgrace his family name by admitting the completely unrelated massacre of prisoners – much less to admit that he had done such a terrible thing in front of Patience, despite the fact that he had only obeyed official policy to the letter.
"Your Honor, I have already explained several times the combat situation that occurred at Denver." Replied Griph tiredly. "My pennant was operating east of the city, spearheading a push to cut the main highways into the heart of the metrozone and surround the Cybrid defenders. The alleged killings, rapes and other cited brutalities occurred in the southern and western sections of the city, far from my unit or myself."
"So you have said, Captain. However I feel it is my duty to inform you that I have served on this bench for nine years, and have a sixth sense when it comes to understanding the probable guilt or innocence of a party in question." He held up his hand, as if cautioning Griphon not to speak and let him finish, although in truth Griph was far more disciplined than to do something so stupid in an Imperial Court. "I understand you were not supposedly near the exact area where these instances occurred, however you were in the general region. And, I feel compelled to say this Captain, you have not entirely convinced me of your innocence with your words." Griph's eyed widened a bit but he kept control, searching back to that old concept of balance he'd learned so well on Io.
"Uh… well, Your Honor, if it pleases the court, I have offered previously to turn over the records of my tactical communication officer for the Denver North area of operations –"
"Please Captain, do you really think I am that stupid? I'm quite certain your records are clean, or you would not offer them. What I am concerned about in this case, as I have been throughout these proceedings, is that as the Blood Eagle are concerned, all that they need is an alibi and their mission statement to get away with gross injustices and abuse of their mandate as an Order of Imperial Knights. All TDF personnel are held to certain standards of conduct, and the Blood Eagle are no exception." The rising anger in the judge's voice was quite apparent, and Griph felt powerless. I feel guilty but I know I'm innocent in this case, thought Griph, frustrated. Admit the truth of the matter, or hide it? Disgrace and shame lay in either option.
"Your Honor, perhaps interviews with my subordinates or superiors could yield answers to the questions that you want so badly answered." The judge looked absolutely furious.
"Captain Weathers, I have consulted all the sources I need in your case, and you are by all accounts an exemplary soldier. The trouble is that I believe you are also an exemplary liar as well." Griph's cheeks burns but he held his tongue.
"Your Honor?" was all he said in reply.
"You heard me Captain. There is no evidence to disprove your testimony, and you must therefore be acquitted, but I am no fool. I do this only because due process demands it. I must remind you that an obstructionist mindset, even in the guise of servitude, is not smiled upon by this court or by the Emperor. The appropriate annotations have been made." The judge looked down at him with great scrutiny, and Griph had to make an effort not to wince. "Please try to make judicious use of your freedom Captain Weathers. The defendant is hereby deemed not guilty of complacency in violation of Imperial law or TDF military statute 571, and is acquitted of all secondary charges."
January 2844
Though his court-martial had not deemed Griph guilty of any crime, he knew in his heart that he had participated in the kinds of terrible things which the judge had spoken of, and knew the he had been right. Now the shame of lying could be added to his list of crimes, only made worse by Patience's loving eyes staring into his own as she pronounced her firm belief in him. "I believe you Griph, even if that judge didn't. It's been a terrible war, but I know you'd never do something like what the other Blood Eagles did. You're not Razorfire, Griph."
He was not, but the feelings of horror would not leave. Griph felt his only recourse was to transfer outsystem – he considered briefly leaving the Order entirely, but in the end decided that would be irresponsible and would change nothing in the future – despite a few convictions, the Blood Eagle would not change their ways, he knew. Instead he decided to continue serving under them, to rise through the ranks and hope to reform their dire attitudes as he advanced. Idealistic, perhaps, but Griph was used to success. Patience had supported this decision as well, although she didn't understand the motivation. "We both have a job to do." was what she had said to him before he left. Even his own father's frustration with the Order had led to a strained relationship, especially due to the fact that he did not quit after the court martial. Griph sensed that the Emperor knew the true depth of the Blood Eagle deviance, but was reluctant to act because of their dependable nature as fighters.
In mid-2843 Griph had transferred to Titan, as part of an inquisition team under the command of Knight-Captain Sunder Cain. Cain was a cold and distant man, although he was proving an incredibly competent leader. On his watch security had been tightened considerably, much to the chagrin of the local icegrubs. There'd been much whispering about the return of Teddy oppression, and Griph had decided that more cordial relations could be helpful – Cain had approved this fraternization, setting Weathers up with an NTDF liaison officer, convinced both of NTDF's loyalty as an old unit and the need to establish a familiar face in case a trusted insider was needed in the future detention and interrogation process of certain locals.
So it was that he found himself sitting across the table from his friend, the NTDF liaison, drinking coffee in the lounge of the Eskandani station mess area. She was reading some engineering magazine, adorned with pictures of the fleet's brand new ships and certain herc designs. Griph sipped at his coffee a bit, looking at the girl. She wasn't quite yet thirty, with short brown hair. She was wearing a typical grey jumpsuit with a blue field cloak draped over her shoulders, and seemed fairly absorbed in her reading material so Griph said nothing. They'd gotten to know each other fairly well over the past few months, and he was quite fond of her.
"These Ryu Pinch drives are somethin' else." she murmered in her vaguely southern NorthAm drawl, taking a sip of her own beverage. Griph looked back up at her, waited for her to elaborate. She didn't, so he shrugged and stifled a yawn.
"You should really date me." she said randomly. Griph's eyes flitted back to her. They'd been over this before a few times, and she wasn't serious anymore, but just liked teasing. Although Griph got the feeling that the offer was only partially a joke.
"You know I'm married Genie." he replied, taking another sip of coffee.
"So what?"
"You know perfectly well. I'm married! Maybe if I were an icegrub I'd say yes, but I'm a Knight for Hunter's sake – we can't just abandon our families. It'd be dishonorable." He was smiling as he spoke, in truth he found Genie's teasing as amusing as she did.
"Well isn't that cute. Look, Mrs. Weathers is far away, that's all I'm sayin'. All you nice handsome Knights would be better off with a real woman like me than some dainty Imp aristocrat." Genie put down her magazine, and drained her cup of coffee.
"Uh huh." Griph's personal communicator beeped; it was Cain, requesting he report back to base immediately. He didn't answer, just switched it back to standby, and stood up. "Sorry Genie but I'm gonna have to cut this one short. I'm wanted back at HQ." Genie stayed in her seat watching him, still with a smirk on her face.
"You Knight pretty-boys are so easily whipped. Hee hee." She chuckled to herself as Griph walked out of the mess hall, muttering curses
