One week earlier, somewhere in the Gal-kiderax System, Theomachy of Galia.
“I’d kill a soph in a fair fight.” The black-cloaked figure paced in circles, long stride carrying him from wall to wall. “Hells, even before I left my dear stuffy cousins behind, I’d kill a soph in an unfair fight, or better yet in no fight, ’cause Taliní Sarathos didn’t raise her favorite grandson to be stupid. I’ll haggle at blast-point, make free with what’s not mine, and even work with appallingly tasteless people like you.”
The person he addressed, sprawled on the floor in the room’s center, made no reply.
“But I won’t kill one for no reason, I won’t torture, and I won’t deal with slavers. I may be a renegade, but I do have standards.” He shook his head, slowly. “What did you imagine would happen when you picked those degenerates to team me with? Or are they just growing them stupid on Gal-kiderax these days?”
The sprawled figure appeared to sigh, slumped, and deliquesced into a spreading puddle of goo.
“At last. Well, farewell, dear Misent. I trust your accounts will recompense me adequately for the inconvenience of the hunters this little fracas has called down upon me.” He flourished his hat, and faded into the darkness.
“But first, I have a naval dance to attend.”