Prisoners of war can be a tricky thing. Sometimes you’ve got your docile, broken, ready to piss their pants types . . . if they wear pants. Other times you’ve got your defiant, screw you, you can’t touch me, antiquated Convention types. Then you’ve got the Dzaraks. Jesus Christ. It’s nothing but fury and rage 24 fucking 7! That is if you’re in an outfit unlucky enough to be part of an operation that manages to take one alive. I’d just as soon drop a plasma grenade down their festering gullet than have to feed them, or listen to them. Let me tell you, I’ve been in the Grenadiers for twenty years and I’d almost, ALMOST, rather buy it on some backwater shithole than have to be within one hundred meters of a live Dzarak. But I’m short in the Grens, and unlucky. I’m not about to toss away my retirement melting the piece of alien garbage bellowing in my face right now for no good reason other than he sucks as soldiering. I just don’t care. So keep screaming shit face. Put a finger on me, go ahead. Give me a reason to end you right now so I can go take a shower and wash your stink off me!