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Hathtor cursed and ducked into the crater, dragging the attractive female in with him, causing her to stumble as her mag-locked wrists got in the way.

They had been right at the Talon when it had exploded, hit by an armour-piercing missile. The female prisoner's compatriots, a pair of injured males, had been inside. They were no doubt dead now. Thick, ugly black smoke had obscured the wreck, but before it had, he had caught a glimpse of black-armoured figures, and he had managed to catch a few pictures of them. Now, he studied those pictures as he and his prisoner huddled in a crater nearby the wreck. He felt the blood drain from his face as he realised just what had blown up his transport.

Shadowstone Blackguards.

This was bad, with a capital "B". The Shadowstone Blackguards were a group of nearly insane warriors with a bad attitude, a handful of guns, and a love of the close-up chaos of melee fighting. And they were here. They had blown up his tank. And probably doomed him and this beautiful prisoner.

Bastards.

He raised his Z-37 Pulse Carbine, letting loose with a rapid burst of fire, bright pulses of energy piercing the smoke - thanks to his enhanced helmet, he could see the enemy moving up, and was thereby easily able to target them. He saw two of the twelve warriors crumble and fall, and cursed - there were still ten more of them charging at him, brandishing AG-7 Service Pistols and energy weapons, the caged lightning coruscating along their lengths. He ducked as pistol shots tore up the ground around him.

"Let me go and I can help you!" insisted the prisoner.

"No!"

"Just give me a pistol or something! Please, I want to help!"

"Gah! Fine! Okay!" He turned to her and, as swiftly as possible, unlocked the metal bracers around her wrists, then handed her his own AG-7. Together, they stood up and unleashed a crippling volley of fire.

Another two fell. Eight more. Thirty feet.

"Again! Again! Shoot them again!" Hathtor snapped.

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

They continued firing, and another of the Blackguards fell. Twenty feet.

Another one down. Six more. Ten feet.

One more went down before they were suddenly engulfed in melee combat, the five remaining Blackguards surrounding them, swinging their blades and energy weapons with heavy, clumsy blows. Hathtor slammed his helmet into one of the unhelmed Blackguard's snout and was rewarded by a satisfying crack, before he was suddenly shoved to the ground by one of the larger warriors and pinned there, his energy-wreathed punch-dagger raised for the kill. There was then a sound like metal meeting metal, and the soldier fell off of Hathtor, his eyes wide behind the visor of his helmeted head. Revealed in his place was the prisoner, holding her pistol casually. She had kicked the warrior in the groin. Hard. And then she raised her pistol and shot the rolling, cursing warrior through the head.

He shivered and told himself never to forget not to anger her, and then slammed his knife's blade into the nape of another warrior's neck. Only one was left, this one apparently the leader. He grinned, and then moved forward, his figure shimmering slightly as he slammed through Hathtor, tearing open his plastron before crashing into the female and knocking her to the ground. He, bleeding profusely from his chest wound saw what happened next as though in slow motion.

The massive Shadowstone commander, a lieutenant perhaps, given his insignia - Hathtor reminisced that one always took note of the smallest thing when they were dying - crashed into the female, tearing her armour to shreds - and exposing her quite indecently in the process. Hathtor perked up as he observed her quite impressive curves, and from his position on the ground, he got a great view of everything there was to see. Regardless, the lieutenant pinned her to the ground, removing his groin plate gleefully.

Hathtor stared blankly at what he saw beneath. For such a massive, muscular male, the lieutenant was certainly not gifted in the loins department. He was surprisingly small. Confusingly so. Maybe the confusion was just from how slow it was going? Or maybe the confusion was just in his head. Or wasn't it? Well, technically, confusion is always in your head, he supposed. Normally. Unless it was someone else's confusion and you were borrowing it. But you'd have to be an empath to do that. Couldn't do it otherwise. Right? Wait. He was getting off-track. Had to stop that. After all, trains couldn't run very well without tracks. Well, maybe they could. They'd just destroy a lot of buildings. And people. But not like the H.S.A. really cared about people. After all, he still remembered the briefing.

You are expendable, sergeant. Now get out there and do the Director's will.

And so he had. And so he had. Wait. Off topic again. He had to watch. Had to watch. But he couldn't! Well, he could, but he didn't want t-

He stopped himself before he could lose hold of his thoughts again and forced himself to watch what happened next.

What followed did not fit his expectations. Not at all.

She did what she did to the other unfortunate male that had tackled Hathtor. Sort of. She ripped his miniscule male hood and his danglies off. Ouch. That had to hurt. That had to hurt a lot.

The lieutenant apparently agreed with him, screaming in sudden pain, agony even. A state of the mind, pain. A trick of the mind, a blip of the brain. That was what they always told the recruits back in training. Or was it a lie of the body? He couldn't remember. Still had to be painful, though. Really, really, really, like, agonising, painful. Had to be bad. He'd never want to have to go through that kind of pain. 'Specially because he didn't want his much-larger male hood and danglies torn off. He was a lot bigger. Lot bigger. He used to please females with it all the time, before he got shipped out here. A horrible job, this. Messed up from the beginning. He blamed that on the high commanders. He and the other grunts had done as they had been told. The plans, though, the plans. The Intel. They had messed up bad. Real bad. Real bad.

He realised that the female was still holding the poor lieutenant's missing body parts with two talons, holding it away from her as though it were a dirty piece of laundry. It was dripping blood. Ouch. Then she dropped it, letting it flop uselessly on the ground. Ouch. He'd never want to go through that kind of pain. Especially if he needed to be degendered to experience it. That just made it worse. Much worse. Ouch.

She left the writhing lieutenant in the dirt, and walked over to Hathtor, examining his bloody wound. That really hurt too. Not as much as being left without anything rendering him male, though, he bet. Don't hurt as much as that would. Not at all. At least he'd bet so. Didn't want to try. Not at all. Nope. Nope.

Suddenly, his head began to clear; the cluttering thoughts drifting away as he felt the pain in his chest begin to fade. He looked down in surprise to see that the wound there was gone, leaving only a faint scar where it had previously been.

He looked up at the prisoner, a little suspiciously, and saw that her hand was glowing with blue-white energy. A mystic? This young female was a shaman? The Federation had majick-users?

He realised that she was still nude and blinked, averting his gaze as he felt his maleness stirring beneath his bodysuit and armour. She blushed and scavenged some armour from the dead Blackguards, suiting herself up.

Hathtor stood up and dusted himself off, removing the still-crying lieutenant's plastron, armouring himself casually. He quietly went over and mag-locked the female prisoner's arms together, retrieving his pistol and pushing her to her knees as he called in another transport to pick them up. Something told him this was going to be a very long day.

* * *

A few hours later, in the 15thMechanised Infantry's forward headquarters, he turned the prisoner in to the commander for interrogation and saluted sharply, running back out again, headed for his home. Apparently, the attack had been called off, and so the troops were once more around the area.

As he hurried towards the small billet where he and his squad stayed, he saw a group of soldiers playing a game of the old human game "soccer" or "football".

Then he passed the medical building, the clinic, where the dozen or so wounded were being treated, their groans filling the area around it and making sure that none of the soldiers hung in the area for overly long.

Next up was the armoury, where a pair of guards stood at attention and saluted as he jogged past, then returned to vigilantly watching for any enemy soldiers.

Then there was the motor pool, where groups of tank and other vehicle crews had gathered and were telling exaggerated stories of their exploits throughout the assault and throughout all the battles before such.

Finally, he reached the billet where he and his soldiers were billeted. Ghalana, Komak, and Alvitz were playing a game of cards on the floor, dressed only in loose pants and undershirts.

"Where's Okan?" Hathtor inquired.

"Clinic", replied Alvitz without looking up.

"Ah, right, right..."

Knowing now that all of his squad had made it out of that bloody day alive, not like the poor souls over at the mortuary, nor the Blackguards littering Timeless Square, nor the Federation troops that had tried to block their way through to the bridges, probably like for that beautiful, curvaceous Federation female mystic that had saved his life, he sighed and collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep swiftly.