Hydra had forgotten to properly breathe in the smoke, and the back of his nostrils burned with a dull, throbbing ache. His focus was entirely applied, laser-like, on the barely lit silhouette across the room. It rested peacefully on the bed like a mummy, its legs draped in shadows. The palms of its hands, usually crossing over a map or gently cradling a pen, spastically circled his chest in elliptic patterns. And yet it was undeniably graceful. What did humans call that machine again? The one that created cloth from threads? Hydra could not summon the name on command, but he somehow remembered that small piece that zoomed back and forth as it operated. A flying shuttle, they called it. Polt's hands reminded him of those in all their strange mechanical precision.

Hydra hadn't expected an invitation to Polt's quarters. Normally, their enmity was so palpable that any measure of shared silence was torture. Their alliance, ostensibly an alternative to the carnage that would've resulted from further war, was a farce that had nevertheless gained uneasy acceptance. No amount of multicultural jabbering would unite Zergs and Terrans under one flag. Their hatred was born out of biological imperative. Tracking the outline of the ceiling bulbs, Hydra's skin began to pulse with unsettled blood. Steel and phosphorus! The wonders of ingenuity! How typical of civilized races. They fell in love with their ability to corrupt nature, only to tout it as the 'ne plus ultra' of their capacity (for some reason, Terrans liked quoting dead languages to reinforce this). All of a sudden, Hydra felt a dreadful urge to speak. The walls had somehow inched forward and the air had acquired a foul tinge.

“Ahhh, you needed this to beat MMA?”

Nothing. Not a word. Only the slight twinkle of an upraised eye.

Shit, how did he land himself into this mess? Metzennala was none of their business anymore. Even if the rumors about Life and Dream were true, what did it matter? Let the scavengers fret over the scepter. He didn't know anything about kingship but being a former pirate, he had had plenty of time to observe how it was so much less than advertised. No, Hydra liked ruling his territory and staying alive. A king could only do both tenuously at best.

“You say that like he was a nobody. He was a somebody back then. More than that. Don't you remember? The SlayerS clan laid claim to almost every territory back then. MMA terrorized us.”

Hydra let out a brief snort. “Remember what? Back then, I was raiding La Mancha and running circles around Stork.” God, what fun times. Not exactly the thrill of raiding cities on his own terms, but there was a certain allure knowing you had the mighty CJ machine behind you. It took a long time to mourn over its loss once he set up his armies in Oegugin. Here the infighting was less fierce and lacked the powerful identities so prevalent back home. Only here could Hydra savor a conquest without guilt over not preparing for the next one. It was a feeling he was learning to enjoy.

“Remember what? Back then, I was raiding La Mancha and running circles around Stork.” Hydra paused, giving way to unadultered snark. “You want to talk about downfalls? That poor bastard is running messages for Solar now. He's worse than nothing now. He's a shadow of nothing. Nothing grinds its heel in his face when he steps out of the door in the morning.”

“Well, it was bad. Everyone underestimated Boxer. We thought the old dog had no teeth left in him. SlayerS was going to be a novelty at best.” The soft yellow of the lamp was slowly shifting into neon red. “Maybe MMA was his true son. It runs in the blood, you know. That kind of power. Soldiers know when someone is born into authority. They can smell it.” Polt's voice, sharp and attentive like a chickadee just a few minutes ago, was now mellowing out. One of his hands had slid off his chest and was hanging off the bed, still repeating its orbit around whatever idea he was trying to figure out.

Sigh, still nothing. This whole recreational charade was a bad idea. Zergs couldn't get high anyway, unless massive amounts of toxic waste were involved. Hydra imagined Polt was having the time of his life, but all Hydra could feel was a dry throat. He feebly coughed in hopes Polt would believe he was getting something out of it.

He loathed that opaqueness more than anything else. He knew Polt said that with a smile, one of those inscrutable ones that could only be read into. For any other human Hydra would have labeled it a put-on, some misguided attempt to bring an air of mystery into every single encounter. Terrans were always so concerned about such things. But such things didn't work on Zergs. No matter how much they postured and inflected their sentences, Hydra could still smell the cortisol pumping through them. They couldn't help it if their bodies told the truth.

Except...their initial meeting defied all expectations. When Hydra strode into the initial talks, he was fully confident that Polt would cede to all his demands. After all, his opponent was on the back foot and called for parley in the first place. It was Polt who was on the losing end of two huge battles, whose army was exhausted and longing for home. So when the Terran general arrived for negotiations, Hydra looked for the signs. Surely he would strain to keep a straight back; obviously he would maintain a flat, aggressive tone to hide his fear. But Polt turned out to be unnervingly cool in the face of what should have been his greatest humiliation. Not a drop of unintentional sweat, a flicker of eyelids betraying his true feelings. With the typical wry smile and keen eyes, Polt conversed as if he was an invited guest to brunch. And without warning, he extended his hand in friendship. “What use is there in squabbling over small towns and dying fields?”, he claimed. “We would be like all the arrogant savages back home, desperate for glory and recognition at all costs. Surely there was something better.”

An elongated sneer jolted Hydra out of his memory. “Well, it was bad. Everyone underestimated Boxer. We thought the old dog had no teeth left in him. SlayerS was going to be a novelty at best.” The soft yellow of the lamp was slowly shifting into neon red. “Maybe MMA was his true son. It runs in the blood, you know. That kind of power. Soldiers know when someone is born into authority. They can smell it.”

Yeah, sure. If heritage was the golden goose, then Happy would have been Mvp's successor. “Legitimate, illegitimate, does it really matter? You broke him and you beat him.”

“Took a while. I couldn't decipher his plans. His troops were executing maneuvers that our clan never saw before. Simulations didn't give us jack to work with either. Good old Choya,” he grinned. “I knew he was getting all those crazy ideas from somewhere. He was eager to share.”

“And what, exactly, did this wonderful substance tell you to do?”

“...'Go and kill him. That's what he's vulnerable to.'”.

“Vulnerable to what?”

“Dying.”

“Nice. Really nice.” Hydra leaned backwards in his chair and slightly tilted the pipe, letting the bottom half disappear into the darkness. “What grand revelations is it telling you right now?”

“Relax. Give it time.”

“So you're clutching at straws again”. Hydra's eyes glimmered mischievously.

“Time.”

“Straaaaaaaawws,” he drawled.

Surely there was something better. When did he, professed pirate with no yoke on his shoulders, choose to believe that? After all Oegugin was conquered under their rule? When his so-called ally stopped razing the earth as a declaration of sanity? When he assured Hydra that yes, Lilbow could be dealt with, and his crazy tactics were simply that? Crazy gambles by a leader who knew he couldn't win in a traditional fight? Unconsciously Hydra started scratching away at his temple. None of this made sense. They shouldn't have been friends, let alone allies. Polt ran hot and cold at what seemed like a deliberate pace. When he wasn't dazzling those around him with deft charm, he was oddly inert like a rock. Apart from general strategy, Polt shared everything else at his own whim. He had even cajoled Hydra on this secret mission, based on nothing at all. No one knew if Life was alright. No one knew if the scepter was up for grabs or crushed underneath the debris of a mountain. And that was the oddest part of all. His ally might be maddeningly blank in most aspects, but he never made a move without calculating the possibilities. This risk was no risk at all then. It was an opportunity with a great chance to succeed and a clear way out.

It didn't take an expert to see Polt was gone. All his careful diction had gone out the window. He now struggled to convey his thoughts in a tone that suggested he wanted to speak to ants and comfort a child simultaneously. “I don't need to know that. We know what we know, and we know what we don't know. And we know Life's got to meet granddaddy Fruitdealer in the great garden in the sky.” Polt paused, realizing the great error he committed. “Uhhhh...under the ground. Whatever.”

“He couldn't have been beaten! He was too good to get surprised by a greenhorn.” Hydra was surprised at the defiant passion overlying it. When did he care so much about that snotty brat?

“Eh? Who?”

“Life. That kid is a cockroach. If Armageddon came down on our heads tomorrow, he'd crawl out of the dirt. He wouldn't roll over and die to a stripling.”

“Why not? Unknown factors are always the most dangerous. He took the throne when competition got soft and exposed their hands. No one thought it could happen with Mvp and well...he's gone for good.”

As he spoke, Polt slowly rose up and hunched over the side of the bed. He looked surprisingly frail in the ambient glow of the lamp. With his dead eyes and blank face, he could've been mistaken for a china doll. Only now did Hydra notice the humming of the ship, as gentle as the murmur of a congregation after Mass ended. A smile slowly formed over his face. This time it was thin-lipped, and it turned his face into a ghoulish mask.

“So...how is it?” he whispered. “I mean...” He gestured flippantly at the pipe Hydra cradled at his side.

Hydra shrugged. “Sore throat. Slightly nauseous. Not much else.”

“Hmmm, curious. Different physiology, I guess.”

Hydra shifted his weight subtly, just enough so Polt could only see his left side. He slowly slid his hand down his leg, lightly brushing against the concealed dagger. He tried his best to remain dispassionate. “Well,” Polt grumbled. “You've been wonderful company. Maybe I'll invite a magpie next time.” With that he slowly reclined, pressing up against the wall with arched spine. Hydra watched uneasily as Polt then started to crumple into a ball, falling into the bed in slow motion. He had never seen him defenseless before.

The gentle hum of the engines had disappeared; the ship must have been arriving at the shore. With a choked grunt, Hydra stood up and wobbled toward the bed. The weight of the blade felt irresistibly heavy. If he didn't pull it out of the lining, it would burn through his leg. It would definitely burn through his leg.

A phrase exhaled out of Polt in a faint wheeze. “Ahhhh, I finally understand.”

“Understand what?” Hydra whispered.

“It. The whole thing. How to take Metzennala. It's so simple...”