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Grass Eaters 3 | 105 | Pax Galactica II
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 15:47:01 +0000 UTCThe Hawk holstered her handgun as the group got back into their truck and drove away from Skhork’s cottage.
There was silence in the vehicle for a full minute.
“Surely he must have been lying through his big buck teeth,” one of her minions said. “Grantor? The Grantor Underground? A Grass Eater collaborator well before their civil war?!”
“That’s a new one though,” another said. “And if he did make it all up… I’ve never heard of a former Grass Eater Marine with that much creativity… and the guts to lie to us about all that.”
“What do you think, boss?”
The Hawk sighed. “My extended clan originated from Grantor City. There were two hundred of them. Now, just one remains: my cousin Ciurbib. His family didn’t manage to get out during the evacuation. Instead, they hid in the city, surviving on scraps, living every day like it was going to be their last. Some of them succumbed, but my cousin did not. And one day, the Grantor Underground came by…”
“Did he ever mention a Six Whiskers Skhork fighting on their side?”
“No, never. This week was the first I’ve heard that name.”
“So the Grass Eater was lying—”
“When the Grantor Underground came by, they set up their weapons on his building. Alien weapons. Terran weapons. They had many of them, and they had these pawheld missiles that would shoot down Grass Eater choppers. They set up an anti-aircraft nest on the top floor of his building, and when the Grass Eater Grand Fleet Commander flew by, they shot his personal transport down. Almost got him too.”
One of her subordinates looked at her in awe. “Your cousin was a part of that operation?!” It was ultimately a failed mission, but the failure itself became a legendary part of Granti Underground lore. That they’d gotten so close where no other species — not even the Terrans — did. It was something tangible they could celebrate. Every Granti knew that story… and quite a few Malgeir too.
The Hawk shook her head. “Well, no. Not… exactly. He was just in the building at the time,” she replied sheepishly. “And he was a cub back then, like I was. He got to meet their fighters though. And they talked a lot. One of them talked about how they were getting their information. How they knew it was going to be their Grand Fleet Commander. How they got his schedule and all that.”
“How did they know?”
“Well, it was a surprise that he was going to be in one of their helos, but they knew he was going into the city that day,” the Hawk recalled from memory. “They had sources deep inside the State Security downtown building. Some said it was the Malgeir collaborators they brought in. But that never made much sense to me. They wouldn’t trust one of you that much to give them that information, especially not to police their own commanders. One of them said they suspected one of the Znosians on the inside was feeding them intel.”
The vehicle was quiet for a while.
“You think it was our Six Whiskers Skhork?” her minion asked.
“It… would match parts of his story. And it explains a lot about the early days of the Underground. There were always rumors.” The Hawk shrugged. “I don’t know. Or maybe it was someone like him. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t kill him back there. Just… minor penance, something he’ll remember for a while.”
“The cretin seemed more miserable alive than dead anyway,” her minion commented.
“Perhaps he will eventually find his peace,” she mused. She snapped back to reality a minute later. “Alright, who’s next on The Docket?”
“Some State Security refugee who’s now hiding out deep in the Grass Eaters’ territory. Here, I’ve got new passports for us.”
“What was wrong with our old ones?!”
He wrinkled his snout in displeasure. “Terran Republic intelligence found out about our old ones. One of our guys inside it says they’ve got an alert out for those identities now. He warns us that if we keep this up, they’ll have to pass our case to their creepy all-seeing thinking machines…”
“Damn half Grass Eaters. How do they get onto us so quickly every time?! There’s like a trillion Grass Eaters they’re supposed to be watching out for, and somehow they always find us.”
“It’s because they do it so much. That’s why they’re so annoyingly good at it… Here, Hawk, I’ve got the hair dyes. What do you want this time, silver or blue?”
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Ow!
Skhork gingerly pressed a paw to his tender snout where his whiskers had been plucked bare.
It could have been worse. Way worse.
Somehow he actually came out of the ordeal feeling better, having told his story to somebody. Maybe just enough to cover over the physical pain.
He picked up his datapad and dialed in the numbers he knew for a family of Terran immigrants in town. They’d know who to report this to, and their authorities would capture the lawless criminals, and…
And what?
Even if they were found. Even if they were captured… If they got captured, perhaps that meant that someone else, someone who did deserve to die, they would escape. Maybe it would be someone who was just following orders, but maybe it would be a State Security operative with the blood of thousands of innocents on their paws. Millions, maybe.
Skhork didn’t know anything about Blackstone’s ratio nor the philosophical debates about justice versus vigilantism in a civilized society, but even if he did, he likely would not have cared.
He cancelled the call and put down his datapad.
And that was the first time in Skhork’s life he chose not to report a crime.
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Bertel
An indicator on Bertel’s head’s up display blinked from red to yellow as her portable Arikara helodrone flew leisurely above the city at 300 kilometers per hour. That was the joy of air superiority. Not that she’d have needed to worry about such things on a peaceful planet like this. The residents below — the few who were up this early — probably thought she was just in a training exercise or something.
“Target in range,” she reported in monotone. “Permission to engage?”
“Can you verify with direct visuals?” the voice on the radio asked.
“Negative. It’s beyond the horizon. All I’ve got is the data-link signal from your transponder.”
The scrambled voice was insistent. “Get a direct visual. My people want confirmation for this one.”
“Roger. Approaching target.”
She flew closer, eyeballing the target position in her thermal sensor pods. As she turned past a mountain range, it came into view. Her camera tracked to the moving target with perfectly Terran-engineered stability and precision.
“Control, I’ve acquired the vehicle.”
“Pilot, we’ll need a direct visual on the target.”
“Hang on, cleaning up the image…” She fiddled with her controls for a moment, and the infrared image displayed in the corner of her screen. She passed it on without bothering to analyze the face. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t have bothered. “Is that the target?”
There was a long moment from her controllers as they verified it.
“Pilot, proceed with the engagement.”
“Yes, Control. Launching strike package.”
Fwwooosh.
She watched the missile trail through the air before executing a textbook top-down attack. The four-door sedan stood no chance, blowing apart into a million pieces in a cloud of hot smoke.
Bertel cleared the obscurations from her sensors, activating the false color filter to inspect the damage.
“Control, I have good effect on target.”
“Pilot, we’ll need you to verify that the target’s been—”
Fwoooooosh.
There wasn’t much left in the car wreck, but the second missile took care of whatever was.
“Good job, Pilot. Someone in the area called emergency services. Get out of the area before they arrive.”
“Yes, Control… Who was that?”
Her controller seemed to hesitate, but replied a moment later, “Former State Security. Extermination camp administrator. He chose to go on the run instead of taking the amnesty, so…”
“Ah. So why are the locals protecting him?”
The radio voice chuckled. “They aren’t. But if we make a request through the official channels, we’ll have to give him a trial…”
“I see,” Bertel said. A minute later, she asked, “If you people want vengeance, why don’t you just simply change your rules to allow people to be brutally tortured and killed after the trial?”
“It’s… not that simple.”
Nothing with the predators ever was, but Bertel didn’t mind much. It was one of the quirks she’d come to accept after working with them for so long. “We did that when we were in the Dominion,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, but our way is better.”
“It’s less efficient,” she countered. “I’m sure there are easier ways to kill someone than a two million Republic credit missile. Two of them, actually.”
“Yeah? Then how did we win the war anyway?”
She didn’t have a rebuttal for him. Instead, she just focused on flying her drone. Bringing it to a secret landing spot just a few kilometers outside the city, she took off her headset and packed her duffel bags.
“Pilot, you know what to do now?”
She didn’t reply. She simply poured a jerry can of gasoline over her portable control station and lit it with a prepared match. Then she changed her clothes, tossing her old identification documentation into the flames as she did.
From her new pockets, she fished out her new papers with her new identity. New photo. New birthday. New name:
Berktal.
They’d never be able to figure that out.
“Ready to go, Control. Anything else before I burn my comms?”
“Nope. That was all. Remember, you are now Berktal, a senior flight attendant for Denspi Spacelines. You explain safety instructions and serve drinks to rowdy—”
“Yes, I know. I’ve practiced.” Bertel rolled her eyes. “This is not my first illegal foreign op, you know?”
“Good. We’ll see you back here. Enjoy your flight home.”
Bertel made it all the way back to Grantor before news of the assassination made its way to the intergalactic wire services. Another day, another dead former State Security administrator. At this point, pretty much everyone knew who was behind them, but other than some perfunctory diplomatic condemnations, nobody got too worked up over them.
Bertel continued to conduct covert operations on Znosian soil for another two years. Eventually, her Granti Intelligence unit ran out of fresh targets to hit, and funding for defense was diverted away to the planetary reconstruction efforts. She quit and moved to a Znosian planet that had trouble putting down a minor insurrection of Dominion revanchists so she could enlist as a Skyfang gunner there.
In life, many people did not find their true passions. It was even rarer for most to be able to fuse that with something they could do for a living. Some drifted from place to place, doubting their purpose, trying new things, making sacrifices to balance life and work. That was the double-edged curse and beauty of freedom.
Bertel never had that problem. She simply loved shooting rockets and rock-sized autocannon shells at people from kilometers away. It was an unusual hobby, but in the new, tolerant Znosian society, there was room for all kinds of people, including Bertel.
She helped the Free Znosian States suppress the revanchist rebellion. And when that conflict ended, there was another. There were many Znosian planets. Among a trillion people, some of them were going to need killing from time to time, and Bertel was happy to be there when they did.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
???
Consciousness materialized, and slowly his senses came to him.
Then, speech. What he intended to be speech, at least. Gurgles, more like.
“Relax, relax. You’re in a hospital. You’re okay,” a soothing voice above him.
About half a meter above him to be exact.
He calculated the exact position in his head without opening his eyes, and without warning them, his hands shot up toward where he estimated their fragile neck would be.
Clunk.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is fine.”
He opened his eyes and looked down. His wrists had been restrained. Some kind of plastic zip ties. Not a problem. He ball his fingers into a tight fist and began to silently strain them against the plastic. He just needed a few seconds to stress the tensile plastic, which…
“Do you remember your name?”
My name?
Wait, what? Who am I?
He struggled to uncover and to dig into the black hole in his memory. Then, the cloud cleared away, and he remembered. He remembered everything.
This time, his voice box worked. “Mark. I am Mark.”
Mark frowned. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. He couldn’t access the data feed of information he’d been used to. He couldn’t access his implants.
His classified implants.
They shouldn’t be removable in case of capture. In fact, they should have created city-block sized mushroom clouds of plasma fire if anyone tried. He looked down again. His body looked… wrong.
“Good, Mark. What else do you remember?” the nurse asked.
“I don’t know,” he lied as his memories came flooding back. “I’ve got… nothing.”
The nurse sighed lightly. “You don’t have to lie to us. Think about it.”
Mark nodded to himself. “You’re right. If you could remove my implants, you had access to everything anyway.”
“Correct. What do you remember last?”
“A truck. A missile. I died,” he said, not feeling the emotion he knew he was supposed to.
“Good. Good. That’s everything. You were recovered.”
“My implants were recovered,” he said matter-of-factly, then began to sharply observe his surroundings as he’d been trained. “This is not a hospital. This… is a lab. You have reconstructed me from the data in my implants. And somehow… you’ve filled in the rest. Somehow. This body must be a clone, or this is some kind of virtual reconstruction.”
“Very good, Director. Deduction skills are all back. We are in the Argyre Republic Lab on Mars—”
“The consciousness lab… This project was put on hold before the war started—” He frowned as he looked down at his body. “You’re not supposed to be able to do this. This is illegal.”
“It was when you died.”
He blinked twice. “How long have I been… out?”
“Twelve years.”
“Is— is—” He struggled to formulate the question.
“Relax. There’s no urgency for your recovery. What do you want to know, Director? We won the war, by the way, if that’s what you’re—”
“My fiancée. Martina. How is she? Is she— Did she—”
“She’s fine,” the nurse said, then broke into a wide smile. “You thought we were going to revive you on the taxpayer’s dime? Your death is not considered a service-related disability. Ms. Wright paid for everything.”
“Is— is she still— is she here?”
“She’s waiting outside. Would you like to see her?”
He nodded wordlessly.
Despite her aging twelve more years, almost eleven, since he last saw her, Mark had never seen anyone more beautiful than in that moment.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Neither of them needed to say anything.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
“What am I supposed to do now?” Mark asked, still smiling at Martina.
“Anything you want. Except… well, except your former job. They couldn’t leave the TRO Director position open for you for a decade on the off chance that this worked!” she teased, ruffling his hair.
He thought about it for a second. “Yeah, that’s probably sensible.” He looked darkly at his arms. “Something is— there’s something missing. I know the doctors got all the brain signals and memories, but I can feel… something is missing.”
“Like your soul? Is my husband a soul-less monster now?” she mocked gently.
“No, no… It’s… probably just my TRO implants. I’m going to need to get used to doing everything without them now.”
“The horror! What will you do now?”
“I’m still— I’ve still got some of what they taught me. Maybe I’ll become a security guard. Imagine me… guarding a mall, against all enemies of the Republic, foreign and domestic—”
Martina giggled lightly. “Can you even fight without your implants?”
“I’ll learn again!” he vowed.
“Well,” she hesitated. “There’s just a slight complication to all that…”
Mark scrutinized the complicated expression on her face. “What is it?”
“You… can’t leave here.”
“What? I thought they said this experimental cloning operation is now legal.”
“Yeah, it is, with… some legal legwork. But you specifically are going to be under house arrest. Four years. Plea deal, worked out by our lawyers. You just need to sign it.”
His mouth formed an O and his expression morphed to one of understanding. “What was it?”
“One of the illegal missions under your watch.”
“That… doesn’t narrow it down at all.”
“The chemical weapons program.”
“Ah. Which one— I’m joking, I’m joking.”
She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “That was stupid.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“They only got you on conspiracy to manufacture. Should have brought your precursor chemicals and synthesizer extrasolar, outside the jurisdiction of the Treaty of—”
He cut her off with a tight hug. “Did I ever tell you I love you?”
“Not enough in the last decade.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mark’s resurrection, essentially, was classified top secret for two whole months before the details were leaked to the public. It inspired another lengthy round of public debate about the nature of consciousness and the ethics of such medical procedures, especially given the high resource cost of the operation and questions of whether the implants that would enable similar cloning procedures would become available to all citizens of the Republic.
Some argued such an imbalance would be unjust and could lead to further inequality. Others argued that the treatment could become affordable for all over time, as all other advancements had. The technology continued to progress as if ignorant of the societal conflicts it created. As it always had.
After serving the remainder of his sentence, Mark started a logistics company. An actual logistics company. With the end of the war and the opening of several massive interstellar markets, the transport business was booming. And in a line of work that was mainly about who you knew, being the former director of the TRO had its benefits.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Kara was initially sentenced to eight years at Neu-Nuremberg for conspiracy to violate the Chemical Weapons Charter of the second degree, but her lawyers also managed to get it commuted to house arrest by convincing the judge that her incarceration in a public facility would be a threat to the security of the Republic, as well as the safety of other prisoners. She was released on parole six months into her sentence.
After her detention, she resumed her post in the Terran Reconnaissance Office.
Allegedly, she continued to run missions in the Free Znosian States in violation of the conditions of her release, though that rumor was never proven. When the events of the Datsot Sarin Incident were revealed to the public after the war, it inspired mild outcry. From that point on, whenever Znosian officials in the new Znosian democracy died in suspicious circumstances (which was statistically quite often, as it was a large civilization with lots of officials), conspiracy theories inevitably formed that she was somehow involved, even after her retirement four decades later.
The TRO publicly denied her involvement in at least a third of those incidents. In an accountability hearing before a Special Senate Committee, the new Director of the TRO admitted to several additional illegal plots involving her unit, but the transcripts of that meeting were classified against Freedom of Information requests until 2238. All Republic Presidents since the war declined to lift or waive the classification status.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
During the war, Martina was head of Raytech for a short while, which had become the third or fourth wealthiest corporation in the known galaxy, surpassing even most of the multi-stellar Malgeir enterprises that had been operating for centuries.
The company received significant domestic criticism for its sale of weapons and munitions to various Znosian factions during the Znosian Civil War. A few of those factions turned out to be some very, very bad people under Republic sanctions, though that critique was somewhat watered down by solid confirmation that their weapons were indeed being used to kill massive numbers of other Znosians. The Granti were — in particular — big fans of the leaked war footage coming out of the Dominion, and watching Znosians kill each became the second most popular spectator sport in the New Granti Alliance (the most popular was, of course, swimming). As a result, Raytech executives were treated as local celebrities wherever they went in Granti territory.
Several top Raytech executives who were suspected of arms control violations escaped justice; they requested and were granted residency or citizenship in the Malgeir Federation and Granti Alliance. Republic prosecutors managed to secure extraditions for a couple of the high-profile ringleaders to make examples out of them; for the remainder… the Malgeir and Granti promised they would get to the bottom of those extradition requests in the next 250 years or so.
Martina was investigated but not directly implicated in the scandal. She later retired and became a part-time consultant for a lobbyist firm on Malgeiru.
After the war, many Republic citizens protested the continued usage of Panoptes. It was revealed that the all-seeing intelligence could infer almost every aspect of their lives from publicly available information, even if it ostensibly did not have the ability to access to their private data in peacetime.
To assuage their concerns, Raytech took exceptional action and… rebranded Panoptes as Vigilance. That was about it. The complaints did not stop coming, but really, what more could the privacy people want?!
Vigilance turned its attention to the new mission of monitoring the numerous Znosian systems after the war to ensure their compliance with demilitarization. As the transitional overseer of the surrendered species, it did eventually find cures or treatments for most Znosian ailments that affected their elderly and increased the life expectancy at birth for Znosians hatchlings to up to 55 years. Oddly, the treatments specifically failed to work for several prominent Znosian war criminals. An internal investigation and multiple independent audits of its motivation routines found no evidence of intentional obfuscation or wrongdoing.
Bad karma, possibly.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Znos
“What is that?” the detective-in-training Zdekst asked her new predator partner as they trawled the grisly scene with sterilized gloves. She held a small silver vial attached to some wires from the burnt-out vehicle wreckage in her paws. “I don’t think this came from the car itself.”
“Huh, good find, hatchling. You’re getting pretty good at this,” the human praised.
She beamed with pride.
He took the tiny object and held it up to the sunlight. “Looks like we found the culprit.”
“Culprit? What is that gadget?”
“An old-style tilt switch, I’m pretty sure… Haven’t seen one of these in a couple years.”
She frowned heavily in confusion. “Tilt switch? What does it do?”
“A variety of things. But at the scene of a burnt vehicle? I have my guesses.” He walked around the vehicle again, examining some patterns in the wreckage. “One of the Teddies’ groups, maybe. They’ve been known to use these…”
“Teddies? The Slow Predators?! So this is a murder case after all?” Zdekst asked in surprise. She took a closer look. The vehicle’s sole occupant had been burnt to a crisp in a fiery inferno. She checked the registration identification as she examined the barely recognizable photo. “Who would want to kill you?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Khesol
When Znos-4 fell to the schismatics, Director Svatken deserted and left her in charge of destroying documentation and intelligence: Khesol barely managed to get out of the State Security HQ before the enemy Marines arrived. Technically, that meant she was Director of State Security for about half an hour.
It was not that difficult to hide out on Znos-4 among her people, especially given the connections and power she had accrued during the schism. It was simply a matter of making sure everyone who knew where she went was no longer alive. And she made very sure of that.
When she was first recruited into State Security by Svatken, this was not what she thought she would be doing. But she had little regret. She did her part. Not for some fake Prophecy; it was for her species. There were times when she questioned what she was doing. But she’d be lying if she said she would have done it much differently.
Which she did a lot of. Lying, that was. After the Dominion fell, the predators came looking for former State Security members. She was smarter than most, and she was able to evade them.
One morning, as Khesol was driving in her new ground vehicle, she got a strange call on her datapad.
“Hello?” she asked tepidly as she answered it. The display said:
Unknown caller.
“Hello.” It was a male voice. And by the impossibly perfect accent of the translation, she knew instantly what manner of creature was on the other end of it. “Good day, isn’t it, Operative Khesol? Or… should I say… Director?”
She nearly drove off the road.
“Hello? Who is this?” she asked innocently. “I believe you may have the wrong number.”
“Oh, you know exactly who it is.” The voice chuckled. “You really thought you’d get away, didn’t you?”
“Great Predator scum!” she snarled after a few seconds.
The voice made a disapproving sound. “Tsk tsk. Sore loser doesn’t look good on you, Khesol.”
“This— this is not over. You may have fooled some of our people for now, but this isn’t over! Not by far. Even now, our people secretly hope for order. For stability. For the purpose we gave them! That you’ve stolen from them!”
“Ah, yes, your glorious purpose. Stability and order. Well done with that, by the way. We should thank you for making our jobs that much easier. Well, it’s your Director Svatken I’d like to thank, mostly, but you helped quite a bit.”
“Me? The director? Help? What are you talking about, abomination?!” she screeched into the datapad.
“You’re a smart cookie. Smarter than your old boss, possibly. Surely you’ve figured it out by now. Without your assistance, we wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far against your people as we did.”
“We stood strong against the tides,” Khesol said defiantly. “The director and I. Without us and the other diligent Servants of my office, the Dominion stood no chance against your underpawed tactics and insidious plans—”
“I’d explain it all to you in depth, but it’s pointless. Despite what some of our people believe, some people simply can’t be redeemed. And that’s what made you two so perfect for the job. The truth is, forget the spaceships, the missiles, the helicopters, the tanks, and the infiltrators; you were always our greatest asset.” She was speechless as the predator continued, “Then again, without people like you, we might not have been at war in the first place, but… we all play the cards we’ve been dealt. Speaking of which, did you watch the tribunals? Recognize all those familiar faces?”
“We will get our revenge,” Khesol fumed at the predator’s taunt. “One day. We are more numerous than you. We are more determined than you. We are better than you. And we will—”
“Oh, don’t worry. See, the thing is: we look forward to that day too. Truly, we do. Once in a generation, people like us — we get handed a blank check to do what we want in a time of crisis… Of course, we can’t be allowed to run wild like this forever; that would make us just like you, wouldn’t it? But in brief spurts? We gaze into the abyss, and we light its every dark crevice with thermonuclear radiance. Then, we step off the brink before the abyss gazes back and our legs turn to jelly. That’s how we get to have fun and that’s how we get to keep our collective sanity…”
“Fun? Sane?! You— you—” she sputtered.
“We treat threats like you as we would a cold bath: in and out, soon as the job’s done. Institutional experience…” It sighed a long sigh. “Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Just one more loose end to clean up before we tear up that blank check…”
Khesol didn’t need its elaboration. She checked her surroundings through her vehicle’s windows and mirrors. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just the sparse morning streets of a nameless town, but she didn’t expect to pick up the threats anyway. She sped up her vehicle, hoping she’d be able to reach somewhere, anywhere — any safe spot where she could get some cover and plan her next steps. She had a safehouse with enough supplies stashed for a few years…
“Here to finish the job? You tried to kill me no less than eleven times!” she taunted.
“No, we tried to kill you once. Clever Bun. The rest were your own people during the war. I mean, we didn’t exactly disapprove of the attempts or anything… But don’t worry, we won’t miss this time.”
“However you found me, whatever you have planned for me, someone will avenge me as well,” she said, hoping they’d reveal a clue or something.
The voice sounded amused. It said innocently, “But we didn’t do anything. The many, many legions of people you’ve pissed off, on the other hand… There is no shortage of people who want you dead.”
She pressed hard on her accelerator, her heart pounding even harder as the city streets sped by outside her window. “What do you mean? Who?! Your quislings in our people? Slow Predator special intelligence?!” she demanded.
“Exactly my point… Just… one last question: do you happen to know where your Director Svatken went off to? We’ve been trying to locate her, and well, it only led us to you. Not a terrible consolation prize by any means, but if you tell us where she is, maybe there’s a deal to be made here…”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ll see you there then, I guess. Just save a spot for me… Ah, just a smidge faster now— there we go. That should be enough.”
Huh?
The line clicked dead. As Khesol processed what the caller said, her eyes turned wide, and in wild panic, she stepped hard on the vehicle brakes.
Which was exactly the mistake, the overreaction… the cue that the eight kilograms of high explosive equivalent attached to her undercarriage were waiting for.
Click.
Boom.
Comments
Alric Malicorne
Is that really Mark? Or a construct that thinks it's Mark?
M
Nice to see Mark is back :)
J
I am inordinately happy that Skhork is still alive. Poor bun has been through a lot.
