Operation: Pacifica, Sunset (Epilogue) by DeadLock the Feral (NYAR!), deadlock@one.net [time: much later, same day as 'Damnation'] "Admiral?" A second polite knock on the door buffeted against the room's muffled air. J. FoxGlov wearily opened his eyes and hoped whoever- it-was would assume the room empty and leave. Orangish-red sunlight streamed through the porthole of his quarters illuminating a crumpled, discarded uniform strewn across the floor. A third knock, this time louder and more insistent. "What do you want?" J grumbled, rolled over, and pulled the stiff linens over his bare shoulders. He'd assumed human form before beginning this restless attempt at sleep and saw no reason to try another now. "Sir.." faltered the voice from the hallway, "they're expecting you." "I'm sleeping. Go away." "Grand Admir-" "How blunt to I have to be about wanting to be alone?" The lieutenant in the officer's hallway winced, surprised at the edge in the Admiral's voice. "Sir, I have my or-" "Leave. That's an order." The officer stepped back in surprise, the tone of his superior severe and tainted of anger. Lieutenant Allman silently pondered the situation. He tugged at his collar uncertainly, then knocked. "Sir, Gra-" he began in patient tones. J's door flung open and banged against his bunk. "I'll tell ya what," snapped the Admiral. He stepped halfway through the door frame, clad only in his boxers. The lieutenant cast his eyes down a moment later, surprised at the inpropriety of a superior in his skivvies. "Get out of here. Tell CP I'll be along when I'm ready." "Yes, sir." The young man waited uncomfortably for a moment then departed. ... [place: Deep inside the _Freedom_, 'silent' conference room] "We look like a bunch of college kids after a scavenger hunt," remarked Admiral J-Rock to everyone seated around the black, glass-covered conference table. He laid out the armload of items acquired during the dying throes of Pacifica. A Lyran tome, two map cases, and an assortment of parchment sat in front of him like cards after the call in some surreal Poker game. Windigo, Shardik, Samhain, and Darkside placed their trophies in plain view. After Charn'El's exile, the Maenads fled the throne room to discover an immense library. The opportunity had been too good to abandon - - the Jihad had succeeded in capturing exactly zero pages of written material in all its years of combating the sorcerers -- so they'd gathered everything within reach before the chamber's threats of collapse became reality. CP solemnly placed a long, thin bundle of red velvet on the table's cold surface. Everyone fell silent as he unwrapped it for this, of all things, weighed heaviest on their hearts. A moment later, CP held a lion's share of the broken Barney Slayer in his hands. Cracks and sharp fangs of Owsenite glittered in multi- colored, refracted light, marking the place where Charn'El had destroyed the weapon in his fury. "Let's get to what's really on our minds." CP turned the blade idly in his hands, marveling at how graceful it remained. He waited for someone to begin. "You never waste time on idle-talk," remarked DarkSide. He sat back in his chair, unwilling to venture a beginning. "Thinking this, I am," spoke Windigo. The room's magnetically sealed door hummed, then clanged loudly as the lights changed from white to red, indicating conversations could now be monitored. J, still in human form, slipped through the widened gap as the door's mechanisms labored. His impatient gestures at the door's operator were clear: Close this damn thing. Steel came to a silent halt, then reversed its course, sealing out the world in an ever-shrinking crescent. "Greetings, Vulpine." CP regarded him, slightly annoyed as the lighting returned to white. "I have nothing to say right now. Continue with whatever you were talking about." "All right. Windigo?" The atshen's ears laid back slightly as her eyes narrowed: she didn't like this change in J. Something had happened between the early hours of the morning and now. "Of Owsen, know I not his fate. Dead, probably he is." She stared at her reflection in the table and shook her head sadly. "We don't know for certain he's dead," replied Samhain. "I don't think anyone really knows what Charn'El did to him." "I think having your chest caved in is pretty conclusive." DS winced at the memory, still too painful to talk about at length. "The Barney Slayer is broken, its other half missing. If Owsen is alive, he will find a way to return it to us, if nothing else," rumbled Shardik. As much as demeanor concealed it, he still hated losing an old friend. J, the man who had known him perhaps the most intimately, sat silent. "So what are we going to do if Purple and Putrid attacks before the Slayer is fixed?" wondered J-Rock aloud. "If it can be fixed." J stared into J-Rock's eyes, giving him a slight chill. No one spoke in favor of the Jihad's ability to repair the Barney Slayer for they knew little of its origins. "We won't know until we have both pieces. What's important remains: we're without a known way to kill the Hell Wyrm. This could be a fundamental shift in power." CP set the blade down in its bed of velvet and looked at his fellow Maenads. "So what you're saying is: life could be real rough for us until the Slayer is repaired." thought DarkSide. "If." J folded his arms across his chest and reclined in his chair. "One weapon can't make the Wyrm a great deal more powerful," replied J-Rock. "But there is nothing to give the Great Satan of Backstage Fondling pause now. Nothing. Before it had to be concerned about permanent death, now the worst we can do is temporarily inconvenience it." Samhain fell silent, brooding over the future. "Meaningless, entire conversation, this is!" snapped Windigo. "Powerless, if we be, now that things have changed: nothing can we do. Only continue to fight." "Agreed," rumbled CP, Shardik, and Samhain in unison. "Ok, next up..." prompted J-Rock, wanting out of this room sometime before dawn. ... [time: dawn, day after Pacifica's destruction] Malaclypse wandered onto the _Freedom's_ deck and took in the smooth, warm morning one bleary-eyed stretch at a time. He glanced to his left and spotted a figure he'd been trying to find staring out to sea. "Locked yourself in to play Quake for the past day?" "No. Secret squirrel stuff," replied CP. He didn't glance sideways, just looked into the distance. "Ah. I see." "I'm sure you didn't wake up this early to talk about the weather. What do you want?" "Geez, if I didn't know better, I'd say you wanted to talk all day." CP didn't reply. Malaclypse turned his gaze out to sea as well, searching the horizon for what interested his companion. "What happened in the Citadel? All you gore-happy Ferals have been unusually silent and reclusive since returning to the fleet. From one person, maybe two, I could accept it as a temporary thing -- but from everyone?" CP exhaled quietly through his nose, then began to retell their story. ... "Why did I ask? Oh, why?" demanded Malaclypse of himself. "You'd have found out eventually. People will know everything soon enough." "I know that ... I'd rather have known at the same time as everyone else. Any other little gems you're not telling me?" "We know what Charn'El's plan was in building Pacifica." Mal stood in shock, not sure he wanted to know the answer. Certainly, Charn'El hadn't granted them an extended interview to explain his stratagems. "Ok." "As best we deciphered from capture documents, the island had two purposes: lure Jihad operatives to their deaths, and then be a base for surgical attacks to cripple the Jihad. Charn'El had hoped to slay a key figure or two with his Pacifica ruse." "And we gave him more than he'd expected," thought Malaclypse aloud. "After an anticipated 'rescue' attempt, they would have started a guerrilla war, destroying key, but innocuous targets, until we were weak enough to collapse under a full-scale assault. The plan was elaborate and incredibly devious." "Hmmm.. What else?" "Everyone who suffered on that island was nothing above a pawn, serving Charn'El's purpose with their every tear or desperate cry. Only reason every captured Jihaddi wasn't twisted into a Thanatin, or something worse, was they still needed bait. Damn Lyrans were ecstatic every time one of their creations killed a member of the landing team or themselves died at our hands." Mal made a disgusted noise. He fought back the anger as the meaning of CP's words worked through his mind. "We're valued less than their common house pets. Nothing would make the Lyrans rejoice more than humanity's extinction." ... [time: several days later] [place: TRES Corps HQ, Clear Springs, Colorado] J. FoxGlov walked into CP's office without knocking or waiting for permission to enter. CP ignored him for a moment, tapping at his side terminal, then turned to regard the tall, lanky, blond man. "Yes? Civvies and human form, no less, Vulpine." J reached into the pocket of his voluminous corduroy pants and produced his rank insignia. "I need out." J laid his pins on the Grand Admiral's desk. CP's composure didn't change as he regarded his 2nd in command. "Why?" "I can't take it anymore. It's just too much." His long time friend held his gaze without comment. "Look, I need a break," spoke J, his tone insistent. "Don't know why I'm here now. Give me time to sort it out." "Granted. You're no good to anyone if some sense of indebtedness is your only motivation." J blinked, surprised it had been so easy. "I'll get back to you when things are clearer." "Look forward to hearing from you. I'll take care of the arrangements; don't argue too much with TRES security about what's necessary to live as a civilian again. We do want you back in one piece." "Thank you." J lingered for a moment, realized CP had returned to his work, and quietly closed the office door behind him. "Dammit," swore CP. His head rested in his hands and he sighed heavily. [FIN] This segment concludes Operation: Pacifica. DLtF(NYAR!) Copyright, Pyrokinetic Productions, Inc. (1997)