As I’ve mentioned several times, I participate in a monthly table top gaming group across skype. The game’s primary GM is really good at challenging me to do new things with my characters. Several months ago we started working on a behind-the-scenes incident with one of my characters so that certain things would be set up prior to an upcoming in-game reveal. This keeps things a surprise for the rest of the game group. I already posted a small clip from the adventure here. This one happens a little later on the same day.

Funny story – when you copy and paste something into Word and then attempt to save it, it suggests the first line as a file name. In this document’s case, I had a good laugh, then decided I liked it so much I would make it the title too.
. . .


As soon as laughter started to flow from Stafar’s throat, Domerin knew his chances of success had slimmed. Every moment he allowed the laughter to flow, every moment he lingered, every step he took beyond this room, his chances were slimmer than they had been before. Everything worked against him now, even his appearance.

Working with Stafar had been a longshot anyway. An interrogator with a conscience wasn’t something Domerin had expected to encounter. Especially not when the man flew at him hissing how dare you? after he murdered his psychic friend. But what had the two of them really expected?

You attack me, his own angry words echoed back to him, kill how many people to bring me here? Drug me. Cut me. Mark me. Gods only fucking know what you’ve done to my family. You’ve proven yourself more than willing to attack and injure an unarmed, bound man. Yet I’m the fucking monster here?

But this was no out of the way interrogation room. It was sheer dumb luck there wasn’t a blood bath waiting for him outside. Just as it had been sheer dumb luck he managed to slip his restraints in the first damn place. And because he was aware that his chances to escape grew rapidly slimmer the more he delayed, Domerin didn’t pause to think.

He slammed the butt of the pistol across Stafar’s skull. It didn’t matter if he survived; the scions wouldn’t get much use from him now. Domerin had already stripped the murdered guard of his uniform. It was too big, but he would make it work, even if wearing it made his skin crawl. The helmet would hide his scars; the most important detail. He took a moment to tuck his hair into the jacket before he checked the guard’s gun – bio-locked, of course – and slammed it back into place with a muttered curse. Last of all he snatched the guard’s radio, slid the ear bud into his ear and pulled the helmet into place.

Walk with confidence. The more confident one seemed that they should be in a particular place, the less likely anyone was to question their presence. He was just another bastard on the way to whatever asshole duties he’d been assigned for the day. If there was no waver in his step, no hesitation in his decisions, then people who passed wouldn’t pay any notice. But without a guide, he’d have to find some kind of map or access some kind of terminal; it was either that or wander the hallways and hope he got lucky and luck was not on his side today.


The sound made him tense and it was almost impossible to force his shoulders to relax. The question had to be meant for him. The hallway was empty and he had been hoping the footsteps behind him were just someone passing into another corridor. He was just barely past the mess hall, which was the last place he wanted to attract attention.

“Bet you’re glad to be off babysitting duty, huh?”

Domerin half-turned, trying to keep his face as concealed as possible, which was difficult in a brightly lit corridor with no crowd to duck behind. And he had to answer. The idiot would just sound alarm if he didn’t.

“Yeah. Those scions are pretty full of themselves.” He tried to change his voice, tried not to let it sound raw with the anger and hatred roiling in his guts. But he didn’t think it was possible. Domerin had never been all that good an actor. But the idiot was closer now, and that’s what mattered.

“Wait… Shit, it’s you! Freeze!”

Domerin had to give the Ruby Daggers credit; they trained their people well. They had trained him, after all, and he’d liked to believe he had skill. But the idiot didn’t get his gun all the way out of its holster before Domerin had the dagger in his throat. He shoved his left hand into the idiot’s mouth to muffle whatever gurgled protest was bound to issue from his throat and dragged him to the nearest storage closet, conveniently located less than five feet away. He didn’t exactly have time to properly cover his tracks, but it would have to do.

He had barely gotten around the corner when he heard the first rumble of discord over the radio.

“…Sajid has been killed. The scions have been incapacitated. Domerin is loose.”


If there was a slight hurry in his steps now, perhaps he could pass it off as being related to the alert. Though it wouldn’t explain why he was moving in the wrong direction.

“The scion alerted me with her psi scream when she died. Everyone arm up. It’s hunting time. And Domerin, if you’re listening; give up now. If not for your sake, for your daughter’s.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His legs ached to run. His lungs ached to scream. Fucking bastards, every single one of them.

He could tell by the squeak and scramble of boots in the hallway that there was no running. There was no hiding. He flattened himself into the opening of a dimly lit service corridor while he listened, recognizing the tell-tale signs of a military sweep. Quick steps and a pause before someone else started to move.

He was at every disadvantage. They knew this place, he didn’t. They were armed with guns. He had an unknown and insignificant number of bullets and a knife. He was already wounded and the psychic’s parting headache still pounded behind his eyes, growing worse as the minutes passed.

There had only ever been a slim chance he was going to get out of this alive. And if he was going to die, he’d rather die fighting.

He whipped around the corner with the gun in his hand, recognizing the patches on the Ruby Daggers’ uniforms even has he fired the first shot. Tempests. Which made it personal. He wondered if they still whispered his name like a curse in the barracks. It would please him greatly if they believed his angry spirit would haunt them after his death.

One, two, three times he pulled the trigger. His aim was good, his hand steady despite the whirlwind in his chest. Three less guns to shoot at him. Three less bastards in the universe. He swung the gun around for the fourth shot and heard the click. Damn. But no matter; he swung the useless pistol into the nearest bastard’s face at full force even as he drew the knife back into his hand.

He was alone and outnumbered. But he was pissed, so he figured that leveled the field.

He recognized the albino Arcturan, not because he had seen Rhuk fight the other one, but by the shouted commands he gave his comrades. He noted the heat blades in his hands and the lack of armor, knew he was dead if his opponent landed one critical strike, and instantly ceased to care. That bastard had threatened his daughter. Empty threat or not, he deserved to die for it.

He closed the distance, more brazen than he might have been otherwise. The Ruby Daggers wanted him a live or they would have killed him the first time. And the Tempests had better aim than this, he was sure. But when they got close enough, he and the albino, the shooting stopped. The Tempests might be willing to take chunks out of his flesh, but they didn’t want to hit their friend.

With little more than a snarl, Domerin joined the deadly dance. In moments like this, the pain in his limbs fell away and he felt like the man he had been in the days before the disaster. Or at least, some twisted version of that man, with death and murder on his mind.

The Arcturan was fast, faster than Domerin anticipated, though maybe pain and fatigue made him slower than he would like to admit. Even so, Domerin was a match for him, darting out of the way of his blades, their heated edges only ever catching against his stolen armor. The helmet was gone now, lost at some point in the scuffle, which allowed Domerin an unobstructed vision of his opponent’s face, allowed him to see the hatred, disgust and determination reflected in those dark orbs.

His knife bit unarmored flesh. He didn’t take stupid risks but, when he saw an opening, he took it, driving the knife as deeply as he could or dragging it along exposed flesh. If he was going to die, he’d take this bastard with him. He’d gladly embrace his last sight to be the life fleeing the Arcturan’s eyes.

He could tell he was close – oh so close – when the Tempests broke formation to descend on him. Domerin fought like a wild creature, even after they managed to knock the knife from his hands. He punched. He kicked. He clawed and he bit.  There was nothing left but the animal drive to survive, to fight, to kill, and he would answer it with every fiber of his being, right up until the moment oblivion claimed him.

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