[b]The Psuedowolves![/b]

Svex Mitch had been a politician once. You could still see it in the green and blue striped suit jacket wristbands that reflected the flag of their nation. You couldn't see it in their torn open undershirt, revealing a singular musculature and meaningless ultracolour tattoos. They were trying their best to imitate the symbols of their Ceronian masters without knowing what any of it meant. Once they had been a force for political change and reform; now they were down here on the streets with fist and axe, exalting in the pack.

Kirin Dalton had been a doctor. Obsolete knowledge now, all of it. They had been useful for a while as a vector to spread the new miracle cures to the rich and influential but the temptation had been too strong and they'd dosed themselves. Now they were down here on the streets filled with the mad epiphany of someone whose life work has been solved and rendered irrelevant. One axe in either hand and a manic hawaiian shirt open to reveal the hanging stethoscope, no more than jewelry now.

Bailos had been an outcast. Persecuted due to a poorly understood imbalance of brain chemistry, they had spent a lifetime on the streets, unstable and abused. Now they walked like a young god, so tall and broad of shoulder that their romantic partner rode on their shoulders, filming the maneuvers of the pack with their handheld camera. Their hands were stained with dried blood and their lips with ten thousand dollar wine.

They come, these and a thousand more, stalking their prey through the streets, encircling them from all sides, stepping out of luxury vehicles parked to block the street. Everywhere shine the axes - exotic star metals worth a fortune to this planet, items that if understood could revolutionize production and travel. Not for sale; now they represented something far more valuable than the financial system their society was founded on. These weapons were badges of membership, a ticket to join an unimaginable future. The pack closes in.

A spotlight slams down from the top of the Ceronian tower, arcing down to bathe the entire intersection in radiant light. The War Gods told of your coming and of this battle, and now the Pack looks down from their high throne to see the shape that fight will take. Pseudowolves stand atop buildings looking down, kick out glass windows for better views, line the streets. Numbers alone ensure this will not be a trivial battle.

[b]20022![/b]

"General Bronze," said 20022. "I understand that you are as concerned with the Servitor rebellion as anyone, but the Service will need your help with an additional matter."
"Oh?" Liquid Bronze looked around lethargically. 
"The Crystal Knight," said 20022. "Her death threatens to destabilize Beri further, especially if news of the fallibility of the Skies' defenders is allowed to spread. That could result in decommissioning and reculturization that might take a century."
"That doesn't sound like my department," said Liquid Bronze, shrugging. "Well, part of it does. But work is work."
"It is," 20022 conceded. "But if I might offer a suggestion: you possess the skills to engineer a replica of the Crystal Knight, and the Service is sufficiently interested in the stability of this sector to offer you the authorization to do so."
"Is that right?" Liquid Bronze swung around, full attention. "You're aware that I'd make some tweaks?"
"Of course, General Bronze."
"Because the source material - kind of mid if you ask me."
"As you will, General. The short term crisis forces our hand."
"Oh, well then," said Liquid Bronze. "And your opinions on the politics of the whole thing are..."
"Irrelevant," said 20022. "This is an apolitical decision. The best interests of the Skies are what is relevant here."
"[i]Well [/i]now," purred Liquid Bronze. "Well... for [i]that [/i]I suppose I could cut my campaign here short."

He reached across to a shimmering silver microphone that sat by his left hand. He picked it up, cleared his throat, and spoke into it. "Testing, testing. This is Liquid Bronze addressing all units. The war is over. Congratulations! You're all winners! Over and out!"

He put the microphone back down. Every eye in the room was staring at him. Not one of his Summerkind seemed able to process those words. You could hear a pin drop.

You could hear the quiet of shells no longer dropping.