S1, 02 Ambassador (November 21, 2017)

So, um, IMMA SCRAPPIN' MA PROLOGUE!!!! YEAH!!!! DISREGAURD DA INFERMATION! AND DIS IS A FREEBUILD FOR DA COLLECTIVE!

“For thousands of generations we have dwelled in our underground holes in unbroken slumber. For millions of generations, our enemies have scorched our homelands with unholy buildings. For billions of generations, they have oppressed us!

“The pagans and heathens vandalize our temples, throwing Grecicerg out, and building monuments of gold and silver of their idols. Both the so-called Followers of the Universe and the Collective are responsible for our pain! How can the universe create? IT IS A NAME! A PURE NAME! A name for the stars Grecicerg put in the sky!”

The crowd roars with accordance, as Ulazo High speaks to his brothers and sisters.

“They view us as parasites needed to be exterminated from ‘their’ world, when really they are the pest! THEY are the ones who invaded our homeland, devouring our crops and burning our great architecture. The virus that they are is blind to our magnificent beauty, they don’t even know what looks ugly! To them, their senses, no, their beliefs, are opposite, opposing to us.

“So now, I announce that we will rebel! We have decided that shall destroy them all. Imperium, Alleriua, Muarders, Followers of the Universe, the Collective-it doesn’t matter! They refuse to accept logic. They are unorthodox, blatantly stupid!”

The crowd erupts with the rubbing of antenna and clicking on pincers.

“Please, Wendell, we’re in private, you can call me by my true name.”

“Stop stalling, Cyrus. ”

Cyrus sighs, his eyes dropping to the floor behind his mask. “Sorry, it’s just the Registration Act. It scares me.” Cyrus rises from his chair, beckoning Wendell to walk with him.

“It makes me paranoid too,” Wendell counters. “But it’s no reason to take out of the underlings. That things a beast, more sophisticated and complex than Collective politics, and they’re just simpletons.”

“I guess that’s true, but still, that doesn’t take away from the problem at hand.” A shrill, whistle is made through Cyrus releasing a fast, long breath through the chain mill clinging to his skin. The sound against the bowl-shaped mask just amplifies it.

“Yes, yes. Hmm... Well, maybe we should step in.”

“How so?”

“Well, I have been researching, and there seems to be a group of insectoids located on Qotor who hate the Imperium-and all other factions, for that matter. We could manipulate them into an army.”

The pair stops, and Cyrus’s brilliant blue eyes look directly into Wendell’s. “Perfect. Go, grab your assassin’s gear, just in case. Bend them to the benefit of the Collective. They are a loaded gun, we simply have to pull the trigger.”

Without a word, Wendell obediently leaves his master’s side, dashing across the hall. As Cyrus walks back to his room, his comm-link glimmers to light.

“Eris?” Cyrus tries to hold back his surprise. “What do you need?”

“There has been a problem… I had a team confiscate a droid made of parts made by the One. I’ll need you lackey, Wendell, I think was his name, to come and guard the Spire-we suspect the man who stole the droid will try and come and take it.”

“Well, Wendell is not available But I am.”

“Your hospitality is very much appreciated, Ulazo.” Wendell straitens his back from bowing, always staying alert. A service drone brings Wendell a golden platter, with a wide range of alien food on it. He grabs what looks like a blob of metallic jelly, inside a cup, and sips it down, slowly.

“Oh, it is nothing. It is our rules to be welcoming; we would let even an enemy stay for a night, though he would be under guard.”

“Well that’s convenient, because I am one.” The two guards at the king’s side step closer to him, and their plasma staffs are pointed outwards.

Ulazo swings his hand in the air. “What is your faction.” Oddly enough, his tone is perfectly calm.

“Collective. And well, I shouldn’t say anything. You have waged no war, and thus we will wage none, either.”

“But you worship a pagan god, ‘Deja.’”

“That may be one of our few differences, but I’m sure we can get along.”

“We see. We look forward to getting to know you…”

“Rift. Rift is what you shall call me.”

“Oh, where are our manners, would you like a drink, Rift.” Ulazo offers as the droid turns to Wendell. It has four stubby legs, and is bulky and boxy, it’s colors mismatch and ragtag. Its upper surface is flat, for the most part, expect for a few small grooves and spikes. It has a long, snout-like tub protruding out, right under two bulbous insects “eyes.”

Rift whistles. “I’ll pass, Ulazo, but your offer is very kind.”

“Are you sure?” The insectoid lifts the second glass, from the droid’s table-like top. “It’s Blue Dozulza, brewed and created by workers from many of our hives.”

“I do not mean to be offensive to your kind, but I can’t drink. Though I would love to hear about your hives and infrastructure.”

“Alright then,” After setting down the black, triangular bottle he motions the insectoid droid to leave. Starting to walk down the hall, he takes a sip of his own drink. “We have thousands of different clans, but each of our factions have a leader, known as a ‘High.’”

The hallway is long, but very wide, with beautiful chandeliers, each one crafted in its own, unique pattern. One looks like a tornado of transparent colors, each tendril wrapping around the star like great serpents. In the center of the hallway there is a skylight, allowing hot sunlight to bake the shimmering, silver tiles draped about the floor.

“Interesting… Are the leaders elected?”

Ulazo High laughs. “Why would that be? Each and every hive shares a swarm intelligence, or a hive mind as it is more often referred to.”

“I do not understand. I mean, I know what a hive mind is, but how do they work.” Rift lies. He knows that if he makes Ulazo feel superior, he’ll be more compliant.

“Well, we share an intelligence, a common pool of knowledge. We share a name, the name of our hive, the name of us. You know, let us keep it simple: though there are many bodies, it is one mind.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

“Each hive has a certain job, for example, our job is to represent the council’s decisions, legislate officially.”

Like a gust of wind, the two stop talking, simply pacing down the hall. This allows Rift to study the pieces of artwork, hung near the floor, oddly enough. They’re all landscapes, ranging from mountains, towering over the clouds themselves, to iced-over lakes, wind whipping over their frigid surface, like ghastly figures treading through miles of desert sand.

“What are these pictures of?” The guest asks to Ulazo.

“Ah, the Htgyyrf Series.” His sentimental tone turns rotten. “’Twas Quotor before they came. Before they ripped us from our ancestral (I choose Jesus!) lands.”

“They are obviously made by an amazing artist… But why are they positioned so far to the floor.”

“For if the caves collapse, they won’t have too far to fall.” Ulazo High replies gravely.”

“Has it-“

Hasty footsteps cut Rift off. “Ulazo, Ulazo!” An insectoid guard runs to Ulazo. His appearance is slightly different, with the underlayer of his chitin being red, whereas the top is black. He continues. “Zogoz has had reports of intruders. You were the closet Ulazo I could find.” He waves his plasma staff as he rambles.

“I want to be taken to our chambers immediately! Rift, stay be our side. You’ll earn our trust by helping us fend these slimes off.”

“Too late.” The trio turns to be staring down the barrels of guns. Imperium guns, wielded by commandos. The two in the back wear doomed, chrome helmets. If one were to squint, you could barely see their eyes, their crystalline eyes. The one in the front wears no helmet, on the other hand. This exposes sea-blue skin and hair, obviously Quschi. His face is petrifyingly serious, like he’s seen it all.

“Stand down; lower your weapons.” The commander orders, motioning one of the two troopers to move forward.

Ulazo whispers. “Now would be an appropriate time to help, Rift,” But when Ulazo looks over, all he can see is the art of an older civilization; an ancient one.

“Looks like got not help.”

“We never should’ve trusted that fool. But be warned-“

“Rift never abandons his comrades, his allies.”

With the humming of a plasmatic blade, and the burning of flesh, one of the troops falls dead where he stood. And the other masked one runs to him, as Rift moves on to battling the leader. Whipping out blades of his own, the two begin to duel.

Lydia screams, ripping off her helmet and chucking it at the bug dressed in fancy garbs. He her is a maze of knots and twist, but she doesn’t care. She lifts the body of her comrade up, throwing it over her shoulder. Even with all the equipment, she’d lifted heavier, mostly because she was taught how to balance weight. Besides this, she can’t sprint, she just has to hope and pray she’s not shot.

Trampling to another hallway, she didn’t even notice when mike’s helmet clattered to the ground, covered in coked up blood. She slumps down against the wall, holding the limp body tightly.

“Honey, honey, no…” That’s all the lovebird can say. Or, once lovebird…

For an seemless amount of time, she can’t say anything. All she can do is let the anger boil up, like soup. They’d killed him. Those bugs, they killed him. And her heart.

Have a good day, and GOD Jesus, the One Who Saves, bless! Amen! Allujia!