Regaari took a break from the Field Manual in front of him. It was 4 AM by Cimbrean time and he was losing his focus, even with the dedicated “help” of Bozo’s snuggling, wheedling encouragement. Time for a snack. He padded into the kitchen to prepare a roast beef and provolone sandwich for himself—he was up to a full Human-sized sandwich these days—and maybe have another of those delicious beers. He pulled all the required supplies out and set to work.
Bozo took up command in his corner, from where he could survey all traffic in the common areas. He was constantly vigilant, that dog, whether for treats or trespassers.
The FM was frustrating. It was a guide to tactics and maneuver, one the humans referenced extensively but were not enslaved to like some of the more rigid Clans of Gao could be. Doctrine was wisdom, not law, and on that point Whitecrest and SOR heartily agreed. The FM contained much that was worthwhile and broadly aligned with Whitecrest theory on the matter, though it was obviously more advanced in many ways and a little behind in others. This document alone would prove to be a fruitful exchange between the staff officers of their respective peoples, yet another strong, mutual benefit to the partnership.
If only it was not so impenetrably officious and overly technical. On that point Whitecrest could teach them much; he had never met a human who appreciated this style of writing and though his sample size was small, this must surely be a widely-held view. So why did they persist in this painful style of writing?
Aliens.
A door opened and he could hear Blaczynski’s distinctively light footfalls and shortly thereafter smell his overpowering aroma. He was heading to the latrine. Anticipating his hunger, Regaari fetched the dijon mustard, extra sharp cheddar cheese, and the rye bread. He drooled a bit from the smells. Gaoians in general loved flavors either pungent, sweet, or both. Sadly, all three of these items together gave him indigestion and the mustard in particular was a bit overpowering for his nose. No matter. He made Starfall a pair of sandwiches just the way he liked them. Four times as much meat and cheese as Regaari preferred—the cheddar, not Regaari’s beloved provolone—no vegetables of any kind, absolutely no mayonnaise, and far too much dijon for Regaari’s comfort.
Of course, Regaari’s personal masterpiece of a sandwich was doused in cod liver oil and layered in anchovies, much to the disgust of the humans. To each his own.
He also heard and smelled Firth emerge from the same room as well, his heavy, loudly thumping steps as distinct as Blaczynski’s. He was one of the three men on the team truly pushing the definition of superhuman size and his mass would send small tremors through the floor when he walked. The ladies did not emerge—Regaari decided they were probably resting. Most likely the men will just want quick food, then. Easy enough. Firth preferred ham and turkey; Regaari fetched those ingredients and also fetched the eggs and butter. Firth liked to fry things for his late-night snacks.
Regaari finished Starfall’s food right as he emerged from the latrine. He sauntered into the kitchen buck naked and proud, absolutely drenched in musky sweat and very much disheveled, with an extremely pleased expression on his face and by all signs already contemplating his next amorous encounter. He was therefore not paying any attention and nearly jumped backwards in panic when he finally noticed Regaari, but then he saw the offered food and was suddenly as pleased as a puppy.
“Oh, DUDE, that’s exactly what I need right now, thanks!” He sat on the cold metal bench with a wince, got over it, and began shoving one of the huge sandwiches into his mouth.
“Coulth youf git me sum milkth pleatf?” Regaari rolled his eyes but did so. Much like with Bozo, there was just something very rewarding in the blissed-out pleasure on his big friend’s face, and of his intense joy at simple indulgences and little gestures. He seemed to absolutely crave any positivity directed his way and drank it up so greedily and so happily it was its own reward just to smile at him. Regaari took another bite of his own food, sipped his beer, prepared Firth’s sandwiches, and enjoyed the happy vibes Blaczynski practically radiated into the room.
Right on cue Firth arrived in much the same happily disheveled and sweaty condition as Blaczynski but…more. More primally intimidating with his taller and much broader stature, muskier scent, and his far greater size and strength. His self-pleased smirk was somehow cockier than Blaczynski’s, a feat that a mere moment prior seemed impossible to top. Everything about him seemed larger than life. His raw physicality was so completely overwhelming and his ability so great that only the veteran Protectors could best him and even then it was clear the three occupied the same strata of ability.
His presence was compelling and all but Adam responded subtly yet definitively to it. The Gaoians, for obvious reasons, were borderline terrified of Firth for the first week. He was slow to warm up to anyone and it was only his almost undetectable deference to Adam and the humans’ seemingly compulsory predisposition towards affection that broke through the anxiety and let friendships flourish.
Nowadays Firth was probably the most fond of the Gaoians besides Adam and Bozo.
And he was immensely pleased with the food. “Oh, hey! Thanks, man.” He gave a genuine, huge smile, pat Regaari roughly and affectionately on the shoulder, squeezed it firmly and complimented him on his growing strength, and sat down practically on top of Blaczynski to eat despite ample room on the bench. The huge man pressed up firmly against his (comparatively) smaller friend and both sighed happily.
That was hardly surprising. Firth and Blaczynski were the second bromance on the team and went through Combat Control School together as young, dumb kids, much as Adam and John had through the PJ pipeline. The two programs were considered sister schools in the Air Force special operations community due to their similarly long and hellish training schedule, the programs’ highly selective nature, and the alarmingly low graduation rate. Like the Protectors, the two Aggressors shared everything, knew everything about each other, and could seldom be found apart.
And they always ate together. Always. They sat down with their food and practically inhaled the heavy snack, shoveling it into their faces with an almost grim, practiced skill. But even two enormous cheese- and meat-laden sandwiches each wasn’t enough, not for men of SOR. Firth got up to fry his eggs, Blaczynski burped very loudly and scratched his lower stomach, and Regaari quietly watched.
“Bro, you want eggs too?”
That huge puppy pant-grin. “Yeah dude, over easy?”
“Mhmm. With butter and avocado!” Regaari fetched a pair without even asking, which earned him a firm snuggle and a quick ruffle of his crest. He quickly washed his paws; the oils in the skin and pit could be considered mildly toxic if ingested and one should not take chances with Deathworld life.
Blaczynski, as always, enthused genuinely about the prospect of food. “Duuude, you’re the fuckin’ best!” Firth gave a pleased little grin and fired up the griddle, slathered it in butter and prepped the avocado. Regaari sneaked a slice for himself and Bozo; Regaari loved the rich, buttery fruit and so did their giant mutt, though both could only indulge sparingly. Bozo wagged happily and sat unobtrusively in his corner.
“Y’think our girls want food, bro?”
“Nah, we wore ‘em out! Let ‘em rest before we go back, heh.”
“Heh.”
They chuckled to themselves for a moment, happily quiet. Then Blaczynski eyed Regaari with a lecherous and mildly worrisome leer. “Yo, Dexter, you get laid back on Gao?” Blaczynski was, as always, blunt and to the point. Firth gave him a warning glare but it was ignored as usual.
“I did indeed. Our cub will be beautiful, I imagine.”
“Wait, what? You’re a father!? When did that—”
“Blac, that ain’t news. He’s got lots of cubs, bro.”
“Wait, how did I miss this?”
“Prolly not paying attention, as usual.”
Silence. “…Yeah, you’re prol’ly right. I’m sorry, Dex.” He pouted sadly for a brief flicker of time. Suddenly: “How many?”
“Two dozen by my last count, and some of the males have now survived their Clan Rites.” Regaari sipped his beer and could not hide the deeply pleased expression on his face.
The look on Starfall’s face, however was difficult to read. He sat, contemplating.
“Do you keep in touch with them?”
“Blaczynski…” the warning tone was strong but Starfall was, as ever, oblivious.
Regaari understood. “I do check in on them occasionally but we do not form nuclear families, Starfall. We are raised communally, remember? And there is, sadly, a strong possibility many of the males will not survive until adulthood. The Rites of the Clans can be challenging and, well. Young males can be hot-headed.” He said it matter-of-factly in precisely the wrong manner.
Blaczynski suddenly looked despondent. “I suppose I can sympathize with that.”
Silence again. Something compelled Regaari to approach and hug his arms around Starfall’s head, who immediately swallowed him in an absolutely crushing hug. Regaari had his very breath squeezed from him before he even knew what was happening. He cast a panicked look to Firth who was fortunately watching. He firmly cuffed Blaczynski on the back of the head. “Easy bro! Dexter can’t breathe!”
“Oh! Right. Sarry.” He let go. His expression was…sad, definitely. And something else Regaari could not quite read. “Are you okay?”
This, too, felt like a phrase loaded with meaning. Meaning which just barely eluded Regaari. Again he relied on instinct. “I am fine. I think you fixed a back complaint I’ve had since returning, in fact.” He stretched to prove the point. “Thank you!”
A laugh, then, with a barely detectable shudder. Prompted by Firth standing behind and unseen by Blaczynski, Regaari asked, “Are you okay?”
“…no, not really. But I’ve got good friends. The best, man.” He looked Regaari dead in the eyes, universal predator language for Very Serious Topics. “Like you.”
This was not the kind of talk he would normally expect of Starfall. He was usually a very happy, bouncy, crass but well-meaning individual who had difficulties with interpersonal boundaries, all to everyone’s amusement and mild annoyance. Serious introspection was not something Regaari could ever recall seeing from the man. He wondered what exactly prompted this.
“And I you, Starfall,” and he said it with complete sincerity. Blaczynski understood and nodded thankfully, the happy smile returning to his face. Firth sat the massive pile of eggs down and the humans ate in silence, pressed up closely against each other in friendship and support.
Regaari again watched in silence. They were studies in extremes and very different in so many ways. Firth, for example, was without question the most impressive all-around physical specimen of the SOR, and across all of humanity. He was the tallest and broadest man on the team, taller than any of his massive fellows by at least four inches. He had shoulders wider than a doorframe before any Crue had ever touched his body and he’d only grown since. He was the biggest and easily the strongest of either the Aggressors or the Defenders. In a foot race he could handily beat any bipedal being, even the Protectors, and only they could best him in strength or sheer mass, a gap he was steadily closing. In matters of endurance he was tied with Sikes, for sheer physical toughness he was top tier along with Arés, and in serious close-quarters combat he was not properly challenged by anybody.
Unlike the Protectors he did not have the advantage of starting the Crue-D training regimen shortly after his seventeenth birthday. The drug was a kind of fountain of youth, in a sense; it could, over time, reverse the damage of years and restore a body to functionally perfect youth. So while John and Adam were, in effect, perpetually nineteen and held in the absolute flower of their youth, Firth’s body currently sat somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties. It took time to reverse aging-induced damage and Firth had not been gentle on himself.
In the end he too would have his second shot at a young adult’s health and vigor, but only for a few years before the resistance factor kicked in. Quite what he would have been capable of with a full fifteen years of extended youth was the subject of much barracks speculation and that loving, minor jealousy only the best of friends can have. No matter. The Crude gave him increasingly effective healing and recovery as the years slowly fell off, and he intended to maximize the opportunity, just like the Protectors. He was an absolute freak of nature, knew it, embraced it, and reveled in his unmatched natural prowess.
Blaczynski was very different, particularly in personality. Where Firth was more of a raging barbarian, Blaczynski was an armored and skillful fighter; Firth fought mostly on instinct and deep training, while Blaczynski fought with his head. He was, in fact, one of the most intelligent men on a team of exceptional minds, though one might be forgiven for not noticing; Blaczynski was emphatically not an intellectual. His was a practical mind, intimately tied up in the real world. Like all such beings, Blaczynski was an extremely physical man.
He was massively and powerfully muscled like all the men of SOR. He was bigger than Snapfire and Titan and had strength to rival Rebar’s. But even a six-foot-four brick shithouse like Blaczynski was tiny compared to Firth. Nor was the smaller man remotely as strong, muscular, or heavy, though of course the least of SOR could snap even an impressive fellow human over a knee with disturbing ease.
Instead he was much more nimble than the giant Firth, which was saying something—Firth was, despite his incredible size, remarkably light-footed and deft when he wanted to be, though like anyone approaching his stature he found that kind of agile movement to be very energy intensive. Firth preferred the direct assault. Blaczynski preferred motion, and was enduringly nimble and quick in a way only Murray could best…and he was faster than Murray, too. And bouncy. He was the most kinetic of the Aggressors and loved any such challenge; parkour, time trials in obstacle courses, and so on.
But most importantly? He was tough in every sense of the word. Like Firth and the Protectors he had an iron-hard body and an incredibly high pain tolerance. And though he wasn’t as solid as Arés or Firth, he had tenacity and game like none other. He regularly shrugged off abuse that would leave a normal man broken and writhing in pain. He used this to his advantage, too. Firth, despite his unquestionably harder and stronger body, was also a giant and therefore easier to hit and consequently more open to attack. This was an advantage Blaczynski regularly exploited. Firth of course retaliated as only he was capable but Blaczynski could and would absorb an incredible amount of abuse.
And then dish it right back, beyond his opponent’s ability to withstand. In the end Firth’s prime disadvantage was that he needed to take a lot of punishment in most any fight and even he had his limits. Nobody had yet found Blaczynski’s. He never surrendered. Beaten into unconsciousness? Certainly. Firth’s enormous fists did so regularly, and Arés could crush the man breathless with almost trivial ease. But not once had Blaczynski ever tapped in a fight. Firth and Arés, both much harder and stronger men…they couldn’t claim the same. Blaczynski was, perhaps, a little bit crazy, but anyone who knew him deeply respected his tenacity and heart.
The two were different in combat arms as well. Firth, while from the same military tradition as Blaczynski, very much preferred his fights up close and personal. He had an absolute savagery to his personality that everyone found intimidating—he quite honestly and openly enjoyed combat and all that goes with it—though most of the time he was a big, happy puppy-boy like the rest of them. That did make him a frightening sparring partner in combatives, of course, and though all would brave him, few left practice without massive pain and injury. He used his combination of tremendous size, strength, speed, and deep training with a good dose of Aggressor acrobatic magic and maneuver to relentlessly crush his enemies. He was an intense personality and he thoroughly enjoyed breaking his opponents, be they friend, foe, or otherwise.
Though he had to admit, in simple hand-to-hand combat the Protectors were hard to beat and in a straight wrestling contest he was no match for them at all. In a sport where, all else being equal, size and power mattered the most, he was quite simply out-muscled and out-massed.
For now.
Blaczynski’s combat style, on the other hand, was cold, calculating, and utterly remorseless. He wasn’t cruel but he c ertainly was not interested in his enemy’s well being, or in fact with most of the trappings of the warrior mindset. He had a job to do, first and foremost. He preferred to destroy his enemies from a distance if he could and had almost supernatural skill with the rifle, the throwing knife, the grenade. And in a pinch he was an excellent close-quarters combatant as well, even if he was not quite at Murray’s or Firth’s level.
Most importantly for a combat controller, Blaczynski was a wizard on the radio. That man had a grasp of the moving battlefield matched by nobody on the team, and Powell had once given him a rare smile and compliment when he utterly flummoxed the simulation team in a supposedly impossible scenario. He rode that praise-high for days. As for the simulation team, they still have no idea how Blaczynski had detected the hidden enemy with the information he had on hand. New recruits on the simulation team were told the tale like a ghost story.
And finally, Blaczynski and Firth were very different souls and personalities. Firth was a consummate warrior with massive rages and giddy happiness, a being of huge, wild emotions and absolutely iron self control. More than anything else, he feared his own very dark impulses and refused to succumb to their sinister allure. As a result he was generally quiet, reserved, and unassuming around strangers, even if he was unusually intense and deeply proud of his abilities. In his better moods—which, to be fair, were far and away his most common daily experience, despite his self-doubt—he moved through life with an understated, stoic smirk, as if his own vast abilities and people’s fear and admiration of them were part of the humor of life. Firth was the rare example of a massive ego not generally inclined to be a massive jerk. He’d far rather make friends. And probably fuck them silly. As long as he was in charge.
Blaczynski was a much simpler man. While he was not a shallow being, truth be told he was far more interested in experiencing life as simply, happily, and intensely as he could. He wasn’t one to brood or contemplate darkly violent fantasies as he knew Firth sometimes did. He was a soldier, not a warrior born, and he knew it. And hey, if his simple, happy life gave Firth an anchor and some slightly envious joy by proxy, well, what were friends for? Nor was Blaczynski one to engage in subtlety. He wore his thoughts and feelings quite openly and didn’t take many pains to filter his speech. With him, one always knew where they stood.
This became obvious when the two resumed joking as they finished their meal. The topic went back to their girls, Blaczynski grew quite obviously aroused, he received another (apparently loving) cuff to the back of his head, and Firth sent him to relieve his increasingly urgent needs, promising to join him shortly.
That left Firth and Regaari alone. Something was clearly bothering the giant man but it took him a moment to put his thoughts together. Regaari found no need to rush him. Not that it seemed wise to irk such a terrifyingly competent killer in the first place.
“Regaari, are you okay? Blac, he means well but he’s, uh, not really quite right in the head.”
“Is he defective?” That seemed very wrong.
“Oh! No no, he’s perfectly healthy and sane. He’s just…okay. Earlier? The thing with the cubs? Well, he’s had a rough childhood, man. He’s never met his father.”
“Ah.” Regaari pondered. “That I think would explain much. Why has he never mentioned this?”
“It hurts, man. It hurts a lot. He came from absolutely terrible circumstance and I am fuckin’ proud of him for escaping and getting here. Honestly? Odds are he woulda died on the streets from gang violence or a drug overdose. But y’know what? He told fate to go fuck itself, man.”
Firth paused again. “He spent time in foster care, too. It wasn’t happy. Did you ever wonder why he volunteers so much time in the after-school programs?”
“I…had not considered it, honestly. I thought it part of the volunteer work we all do in this unit.”
“…Yeah. That work means a lot to him. Want him to love you forever? Help him out this week.”
“…that seems beneficial for everyone.” Regaari tilted his head, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Blac decided he could trust you just now. That’s…You just made a lifelong friend, bro. One who would do anything for you. Do you understand how serious this is?”
Regaari suspected he could. “We have a similar thing amongst my people. When we form deep bonds with Gaoians from different Clans, we call them Cousins. I only have a few I call Cousin and I owe all of them great debts.” A worried head-duck, “Does he feel indebted to me?”
“No,” Firth chuckled, “This don’t go quite that far. But Blac, he takes friendship very, very seriously. This is no casual thing with him and I want you to understand that. I am only telling you all this because he trusts me and I trust you. It’s not a secret, just…a sore topic. You respect that, you hear? We’re all very careful about that subject around him.”
Regaari head-ducked in understanding. But he had to ask: “What did I do to earn such a profound thing?”
“Hah, that’s easy! All you had to do was show some understanding and love. He values that more than anything and he knows bullshit when he smells it. You’re the real deal, pal, and he knows it.”
They sat a bit longer. Regaari finished his beer.
Firth got up to leave. “One last thing. You let me know if there are any problems, okay? There won’t be, but…I look out for him, right? If you’re his friend, you’re my friend, too.” He grinned, “We’re a package deal, I guess. Heh.”
“I will.” Regaari said it with as much conviction as he could muster.
Firth nodded in approval. “Good night, Regaari.” He paused, awkwardly, then scooped up Regaari in a big hug like only humans could give. Regaari found himself lifted completely off the ground but this was a friendly and gentle hug, not desperately happy as with Blaczynski.
Firth put him back down and nodded. But his thoughts immediately drifted to his companions for the evening and his dominant smirk returned, along with the unmistakable signs and scents of a human male growing powerfully aroused. Like all things Firth it was quite overwhelming and mildly frightening, even compared to most of the other men of SOR.
Firth apologized by way of an incredibly smug half-grin. “Heh, I think I better go take care of this and teach that boy how ta’ fuck like a man. G’night, bud.” He clapped Regaari affectionately (and slightly painfully) on the shoulder once more, then turned and headed back to his room, leaving Regaari to contemplate exactly how humans, if Firth was any example, could safely couple. Trust and empathy, perhaps.
The scent remained. Regaari felt an urgent need to open the windows to eliminate the distraction. He did so, letting the evening sounds fill the barracks; they did little to dull the muffled noises still going strong across most of the rooms. And then Firth’s joined the fray, noticeably louder than the rest.
At some point during Regaari’s brief reverie, Murray padded in with nearly absolute silence. He wasn’t even trying; that was simply how he moved. Regaari only noticed he was there by his scent. “Heavy stuff.”
“Indeed.” He noted Murray had the decency to at least slip on a pair of shorts and not parade around the barracks shamelessly rampant, ready, and stinking of animal arousal.
Which, now that Regaari thought about it, was him adopting a human sense of modesty. Or am I only applying their own standards to them?
Murray was direct and considerate, as always. “Need anything?”
“No. Just time to think.”
Murray nodded in understanding and handed Regaari some keys. “Horse’s apartment. He told me to give them to you.”
“…tell him thank you.”
“Tell him yourself, laddie, he’ll be out eventually I’d wager.”
“…understood.”
Murray fixed himself a quick snack and padded out again silent as a mythical ninja, one of his many unique skills that set him apart from everyone else. He was so quiet Regaari didn’t hear him walk down the hall, open his door, or even enter his room. It was only when he heard Murray’s partner stir that he could place him at all. That was the thing that was uniquely Murray; his careful, perfect movement. And he could move like that at full tilt, a silent, deadly lightning bolt in his EV-MASS, making him the only human member of the team stealthy enough to avoid detection by the Gaoians.
Regaari was about to clean up and leave when the floor trembled much more strongly than Firth’s footfalls, and the incredibly heavy, thudding, leg-swinging gait of Arés made itself known. The other men were of course varying degrees of extremely large specimens but only he could cause the entire building to shudder slightly just by walking. He was the hardest, densest, toughest, most massive and easily the strongest member of the team, and nobody but Burgess or Firth could approach his size, power, or appetite.
And he was fast, almost as fast in a short sprint as Firth…at just over a short-legged five-foot-ten. Burgess stood six-foot-four and Firth stood (even slightly hunched and crouching) five inches beyond that. Adam made up the difference with sheer, insane power. Like Firth he was a genuine freak of nature, but while Firth was an awe-inspiring, all-around athletic powerhouse of a warrior, Arés was a man possessed of extreme, naturally enduring strength developed to its absolute limits through pain, Crue-D, lucky timing, and ideal genetics. And like Firth, his aggression was deep and powerful.
Aggression he spent fruitfully and vigorously in healthy pursuits, such as Kovač, his current mate. He had many personal charms, of course, especially his fundamentally friendly and caring nature. But tonight was a celebration of the body. He too entered the kitchen as uncouth, unclean and uncaring as Firth and Blaczynski had earlier, fresh from his liaison and blissfully happy, yet somehow still bore the stink and appearance of deep, unsatisfied arousal. Clearly, he had much more planned for the evening. On Adam his love-stink was so powerful it overwhelmed Firth’s scent and not even the gentle breeze from the windows helped clear it out.
Regaari couldn’t help but take an unconscious step backwards and flatten his ears. Warhorse was so physically overwhelming in every measure there was no question he was the alpha-dog of SOR. But he needed food. An elite, hulking body like his needed fuel and judging by his disheveled state and the earlier noises from his room, he had burned quite a lot of energy that evening.
He thumped his way over to the refrigerator, grabbed a gallon jug of his meal replacement and chugged a third of it in only a few quick swallows. He looked over at Regaari and grinned, happy and smug. “Sup, bro? Busy night?”
It would seem so.