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Mother Confessor:

Now partly bruised and torn from my examination, I retire to my makeshift sanctuary. Bandaged and weary, yet compelled to organize my things. A tedious task on it’s own. Better to be comfortable after the intrusion of my being. Tenderly I begin to set up my disrupted way of life. Organizing and setting out my things in a familiar fashion. Anticipation grows in my weary frame. Longing to get to work as soon as my strength returns. Reveling in the memory of caving in that Terran’s chest plate with the war hammer. Knowing it is not my preference, but still satisfying. The tearing of cartilage and crushing of bone under the heavy mallet. I suppose my hosts do not see things as I do. Possibly from having the pleasure of actual combat on a regular basis. I envied them in my frail being. Never able to be adequate on a proper battlefield. Much to frail and analytical, I should stick to my own tact and prowess. I have no place in a war zone of any kind. The thought thrills my imagination as to what really takes place on such a stage.

Gazing at the collection of harvested hides of the many I have seen, I take pause. Is what I do, let alone a warrior, really worthy of such a thing as honor? Eyes passing the many symbols and names forever staining the stretched skins. To take the life of those who dared to fight for those they loved, or for their beliefs? This I do not understand. Though I am in the company of trained killers and assassins. I suppose in time I will learn to understand this, and in time atone for the blood on my own hands.

Placing the instruments of destruction that I possess, I begin to weep. The first time that this has ever happened to me. The hot tears searing a path down my slender face, burning a path to drop off my chin. Streaking my face, the reminder of all those that sacrificed their very souls and bodies to defend their beliefs. It all starts to burn from my eyes like an acid rain, as I complete the final touches on my new abattoir. Wiping the burning moisture from my face with guilty reluctant digits.

Graxis:

Finishing my latest reports for the week in transit to our next objective. Signing the last of the many forms for the evening. Mulling the next adventure with the Terran I have come to know as my friend. Smiling to myself with my feet planted upon my desk, thinking of what it an honor it is to fight beside a worthy adversary. Lost in my thoughts of what the future holds. Dreaming of the day that Terra and Centurian will be allied, an end to this senseless bias. Knowing that the day is a ways out, but none the less I remain hopeful of the day when Terran and Centurian unite as one. No more death and destruction to prove who is superior, but to see each other as equals. What a sight it would be to work beside them for the betterment of their way of life and technology. As well as learning their complex way of life. We have much to gain from being united. For now we shall remain divided as long as the Chairmen have anything to say or do about it. Pompous lot those greedy Terrans are. Thinking that they are the only ones allowed to resources and wealth. Perhaps in time they will learn to understand the error of their ways.

Marckus:

After the last hour and final cup of coffee, still no show of the tech. I decide it best to spend the remainder of the evening at the cantina getting into a stupor. Not letting the night go to waste over a missed meeting. Straitening myself out, placing my combat knife on the desk. If by chance a brawl were to break out, it will be fought fairly. Internally laughing amused at the thought. Taking pause at the door a moment to not pull rank the rest of the night, to just be a man going for a few drinks.

In the corridor I encounter a young private. Asking if he has a spare pack of smokes, and that I will return what is leftover later this evening. Hesitantly he obliges handing over the package containing the cigarettes. Not troubling him further and thank him. Placing them in my pocket, I continue to my destination.

Upon arriving at the cantina the merriment dies and all stand at attention.

“At ease, as you were”, I order the patrons.

Making my way to the bar, I take notice of an out of place familiar face. Sitting alone in a corner booth, staring mournfully into a partially drunken cocktail.

“What will it be, sir”, the bartender addresses me.

“Whatever you have passing for whiskey, thanks.”

As he pours the green liquid into the glass the smell of the alcohol is very pronounced. Taking the glass brimming with the volatile liquid from the bar. Traveling to the mournful occupant in the corner.