D’zarak Versus Gren
When : Where
561 DE (2871 CE) : Cromia N670 / D’zarak Front
Prisoners of war can be a tricky and ugly business, especially when they’re of a different species.
Sometimes you’ve got your timid, broken, ready to piss their pants types … if they even wear pants. Other times you’ve got your defiant “Screw you, you can’t touch me!” types who carry a copy of the antiquated Troxian Convention in their back pocket … if they even wear pants.
Then you’ve got the D’zaraks … who have never even heard of pants.
Holy-sheee-it. It’s nothing but fury 36 fucking 10! All rage, all the time. That is if you’re an unlucky member of a unit that’s additionally cursed enough to be part of an operation that manages to actually take one alive. Which is thankfully a rare event, but one we need to be prepared for. I’d just as soon drop a plasma ‘nade down their festering gullet than have to feed them, or listen to them. What a waste of space. No wonder they’re losing this campaign in a bad way. They lack focus. Unfocused soldiers are dead soldiers, and dead soldiers, or captured ones, lead to failed campaigns.
Then you’ve got the D’zaraks. Holy-sheee-it. It’s nothing but fury 36 fucking 10! All rage, all the time.
Now, let me tell you … I’ve been in the Grenadiers for twenty tours. I’ve been from one side of the galaxy to the other. I’ve been in some real shit, but I’d almost, almost, rather buy it on some outback shithole planet than have to be within one hundred meters of a live D’zarak. But I’m short in the Grens, unlucky and cursed. 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 at soldiering and managed to get himself captured. I just don’t care. I’m about to leave this chickenshit outfit and gate back to homeworld.
So keep screaming you ugly SOB. Put a finger on me, go ahead! Give me a reason to end you right-fuckin’-now so I can go take a shower, wash your stink off me and grab some rack.
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