((OOC:  Sorry for the massive post, guys.  I had to cover a lot here.  Hope you like!))<br/><br/>From the darkness around Karogen, the old man's now-familiar voice immediately spoke up.  "Nope!  Still not here!"<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>In Hempstead, the First Sergeant smiled at Emiko and took her offered hand, shaking it.  "I'm Dave Millhouse," he said.  "But you should probably just call me First Sergeant.  Or maybe just Sergeant.  You know, to preserve a sense of order.  We're big into ranks in the Resistance.  It helps us keep track of everyone and keep everything orderly."  He let her hand go, still smiling.  "We're probably going to be out of the action for a good while," he went on.  "I don't think Command is going to want us to leave your friends for a while.  Not until we know they're really out of danger, at least."  He scratched his head, feeling stupid - as he did often, though he really wasn't.  "Uh... anything you can tell me about your group?  You know, so I can protect them better?"  He frowned at himself.  That sounded pretty dumb.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>Resistance fighters were running rampant all across House Blotar's lands.  Miles and miles of farmland stretched as far as they eye could see, dotted occasionally by small towns.  Located to Kazmer's west, the vast, flat plains provided most of the food for Kazmer and House Javier's mining settlements.  Baron Deral Blotar, a fat old bull-morph, ruled the land with a sloppy, wishy-washy fist bathed in scented oils and often slathered in leftover food.  His castle, the relatively new Fort Blotar, sat on the southernmost edge of his realm in the town of Kree, bordered by the vast Lake Salamander - named so for its shape.<br/><br/>Kree was burning.<br/><br/>So was Graylark, Sombquist, and Granville.<br/><br/>Indeed, every town in the whole realm was in flames.<br/><br/>The Resistance here was rural, pampered, and, as a result, ultra-violent.  House Blotar's arsenals were empty, ransacked by the marauding humans.  The Resistance here had turned into slaughterers.  Slave masters were brutally murdered, disembowled, and put on display.  Everything was burned.  Those humans that tried to defend furs or simply got in the Resistance's way were savagely cut down or vored.<br/><br/>The slaves had met next to no opposition from the ruling furs - the Baron had been deeply asleep among his harem cows when the order went out to begin the revolution.  It had taken the wrath of the Baroness Larosha to wake him.  Even then he had not known what to do.  As chaos consumed his realm, the Baron had only ordered the drawbridge raised and his whole militia to retreat and defend the castle walls.  And such had been the case for the whole night.<br/><br/>The local Resistance leader, a large man known for his rage and total hatred of the furs, was atop a partially-burning slave house, brandishing as many weapons as he could carry.  His bald, scarred head had not been deformed by a master's malignance - the man had cut himself repeatedly, day after day, to etch the pattern of a swastika permanently into his flesh.  His bulky body was a product of both hard labor in the fields and years of strength training in the local Resistance hideout.  He had risen to the top of the cell here by recruiting his own band of followers within the Resistance, then leading a quiet but bloody coup months before this night.  Surrounded by his loyal thugs, this man was absolute ruler of all he conquered.<br/><br/>He fancied himself the greatest leader of men since the barbarian kings of old.  He didn't see the furs as future partners in an equal world, but as a scourge.  He had heard the legends of old - of the time when humans were the masters and furs were the slaves.  He wanted those days to return.  A pentacle was drawn across the front of his white shirt in red.  Undoubtedly in the blood of a fur, the symbol was that of the Five Gods of humanity's main religion.  This man flaunted his knowledge of the Divine Writings and used their power to motivate his followers.  His men didn't wear the same clothes as the Resistance in Kazmer did.  Rather, they ran about dressed in whatever they had on, tearing pieces off where they saw fit and adding other garments when they wished, usually taking trophies from the dead.  Atop his burning stage, the leader of the destruction licked blood that was not his from the blade of a sword he held.<br/><br/>His name was Shark.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>Halvorson made sure to direct Heretic to the right turnoff.  In about five minutes, they were pulling into a sort of park/recreation area.  At some point in Kazmer's past, this place had been a beautiful place of trees and flowers.  Over the years, however, the place had turned into a thick, overgrown patch of darkness and stink.  The homeless had often used the park for shelter.  Many criminals and fleeing slaves had hidden in the park for a time before venturing out to make a true escape.  The authorities rarely bothered patrolling the place anymore.<br/><br/>Nonetheless, the old structures within - a large gazebo, an open dining area, and a set of bathrooms - still stood.  They were gray and the wood was rotten with age, but they were still usable, and they were being used.  A couple dozen Resistance troops milled about the park, having lit fires in trashcans and set up lanterns on tables to keep the area illuminated.<br/><br/>Halvorson guided Heretic close to the gazebo and told him to stop.  He dropped down off the garbage truck and strode into the gazebo, walking straight up to a tall, older man with graying temples.  O'Toole, Janus, the medic, and the other humans all dismounted as well, bringing their wounded down with them.  Fenson was gently lowered to the grassy floor of the park, where he lay with a content smile.<br/><br/>Sergeant Halvorson smartly saluted the older man.  "Colonel Merelli, sir," he began.  "First Platoon reporting in."<br/><br/>The colonel saluted him back.  "Sergeant," he said, nodding.  "Where have you been?  We wrote you all off as casualties."  His voice was deep and bore an accent not native to Kazmer.  It was the dialect of the Grand Range, a vast mountainous region nearly a hemisphere away.<br/><br/>"Long story, Colonel," Halvorson said.<br/><br/>"We have time, Sergeant," said Merelli.  He pointed to the east, where the first rays of dawn were beginning to light the sky behind the thick growth of trees.  "The sun is not quite up yet."<br/><br/>"Yessir," said Halvorson.  "But first, can we get our wounded seen to?" He pointed to Fenson and the others, then noticed Chiro carrying Collins' body with the three others.  "And... can we get our dead buried?"<br/><br/>"Of course," Merelli said, nodding.  He directed the wounded to the brigade's infirmary: an empty warehouse across the street from the park.  "We have all of our medical supplies stored there."  The medic took Fenson and the other injured humans with him to the indicated building.<br/><br/>The colonel then looked at Chiro.  He was completely neutral in his expression.  Then, without much warning, he spoke to Chiro in a rolling, musical language none of the humans recognized.  It was a greeting.  When he was done, the colonel smiled.  "My family were enslaved near your nesting grounds, friend," he said.  "You can bury our men in the quiet end of the park." He pointed to a clearing some fifty yards away.  "We have many already buried there now."<br/><br/>Having seen Chiro, the colonel had also spotted Bane, Baz, Iln, Heretic, and Jania.  "You have a menagerie going, Sergeant," he said.  "You had better start telling your story."<br/><br/>Halvorson didn't waste any time describing the events of the night, beginning with Bane's joining of the group, going through the fight in the deli and the retreat to the safe house, followed by the attack of the Blood Cult and the lieutenant's betrayal.  He made special mention of how every non-human had come to be a part of his unit, and was totally honest in the recounting of events.  The colonel betrayed no emotion during the retelling.  When Halvorson had finished, he nodded and looked the whole group over.<br/><br/>"That is a grand story," he remarked.  "You have had a rough night, as they say."<br/><br/>He looked at Bane, holding the foxboy's gaze for a moment.  "I have known Sergeant Halvorson for a long time," he said.  "He would not speak so highly of you if he did not trust you.  Thank you for saving our people.  That comes from my whole brigade."<br/><br/>Merelli's hazel eyes strayed to Iln.  "You will be welcome in our infirmary," he said.  "Whoever attacked you will be punished.  Your brother is an honored guest and friend of my brigade.  In fact, there is much I'd like to talk about with him."<br/><br/>He looked at Heretic.  "Our job is not to avenge the wrongs done to you by the Blood Cult and their false god.  But it is likely that in our quest for freedom we will run into them before long.  I would ask that you tell my second-in-command everything about the Blood Cult we should know so that we can fight them well.  He will pass the information on to the rest of the Resistance.  I hope you will find your vengeance in time."<br/><br/>Then he looked at Baz and the Slayers.  "Thank you also.  Your friendship is the most valuable thing we could have in these times.  May I hear this recording that the Sergeant mentioned?"