- Oliver -
Blood dripped steadily from the ragged stump of Oliver's arm as they hurried toward the hospital nestled among the towering spires near his ho. Each scarlet droplet left a stark trail on the polished obsidian pavent, a visceral reminder of the uncontrolled power he had unleashed.
The General moved with purpose beside him, his usually composed deanor tinged with urgency. He had acted swiftly—alerting Pallas's elite dical team and dispatching engineers to repair the devastated sublevel of the house, which had been nearly obliterated by the catastrophic blast.
"That was a close one," Wiz remarked with a wry smile as they approached the hospital entrance. "Good thing the whole house didn't co down."
But Oliver was in no mood for humor. Pain seared through his arm, each throb synchronized with the frantic beat of his heart. He clenched his jaw, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
Inside, the dical staff sprang into action. A nurse administered a potent analgesic, and a cool numbness began to spread from the injection site. They guided him to a treatnt chamber where his injured arm was gently subrged in VAT.
It was eerily similar to the last ti he'd lost an arm. Back then, he had been fully imrsed in the VAT for days, suspended in a dreamless sleep while his body regenerated. This ti, only his arm required the treatnt, allowing him to remain conscious throughout the process. It was a small rcy; at least he wouldn't lose himself to the void of sedation.
Operating his gauntlet with just one hand, however, proved to be a frustrating endeavor. The device was designed for dual-handed input, and while it had ocular interface capabilities, the calibration was off, causing screens to flicker and commands to misfire. Oliver sighed, resigning himself to the temporary limitations.
Despite the discomfort, the three days passed swiftly. The dical team was efficient, and soon he was discharged, his arm fully restored, but his mind weighed down by the mory of his blunder.
After being released, Oliver began to adapt to the new routine. Unlike the other recruits, he lacked a standardized training schedule. His days were unpredictable. Sotis, Wiz would appear unannounced, offering personalized instruction that challenged his physical abilities and understanding of his powers. The General's lessons were intense, often pushing Oliver to his limits, but also invaluable.
Most of the ti, though, he trained alone. The training facilities were at his disposal—a labyrinth of holographic simulators, gravity modules, and combat drones. He spent hours honing his skills, determined to control the power of the new Z Crystal.
Occasionally, he accompanied Wiz to high-level etings. Seated at the periphery of opulent conference rooms, he listened as military leaders and scientists discussed strategies and technologies that could alter the course of worlds. It was daunting, but it offered him a glimpse into the broader implications of his role as a Ranger.
"This is one of our primary facilities," Wiz explained as they walked, "though it isn't focused so much on technological research as it is on Ork knowledge." He glanced at Oliver to ensure he was following. "Everything from biology, linguistics, history—any type of understanding about their society."
Ahead of them stood a colossal white building, its sleek exterior punctuated by black windows that shimred under Pallas's artificial lights. The structure lood over the surrounding buildings, exuding an air of importance. Oliver noted its striking resemblance to the research block at the Academy, but there was sothing distinctly different about it.
As they stepped inside, a network of long corridors unfolded before them, each lined with countless rooms where active research was being conducted. The air was filled with a quiet hum of activity, conversations murmured in hushed tones, and holographic displays flickered with data streams. The most significant difference Oliver observed was the absence of darkened windows that had once barred recruits from glimpsing into the research labs at the Academy. Here, transparency seed paramount; each project was conducted openly, inviting scrutiny and collaboration from all Blue Rangers.
One of the first rooms they stopped at featured a long tallic table scattered with dozens of books and assorted papers. Around it, several Rangers were engrossed in a heated discussion, gesturing animatedly as they made notes.
"It doesn't make sense," one of them argued, frustration evident in his voice. "The translation of this phrase doesn't align with the ones we found at the other outpost we attacked."
Above the table, a holographic projection displayed an array of floating symbols—complex and unfamiliar. Oliver couldn't decipher their aning but recognized them as elents of the Ork language.
Wiz and Oliver paused, observing the debate unfold.
"What's the issue here?" Wiz asked, his curiosity piqued.
The Rangers turned, acknowledging the General's presence. "General," one of them began respectfully, "we've received new Ork texts, but they don't seem to make any sense. When we apply what we already know about their language, the translations co out as gibberish."
"I see," Wiz replied thoughtfully. "And what do we know about this text?"
"Not much," the Ranger admitted. "It was found in one of the logistical bases we recently secured. We hoped to uncover so plans or strategic information, but this isn't making sense so far."
Wiz seed to contemplate this, then turned to Oliver. "What do you think?"
Oliver wasn't caught off guard; over the past few days, the General had frequently sought his input, pushing him to think critically and share his reasoning.
"I assu the Rangers have already considered this," Oliver began, "but I'd question the docunt's authenticity. We should check how long it's been there, who might have written it, and the possibility that they're starting to use so form of encryption."
"Why focus on those aspects?" Wiz prompted, encouraging him to elaborate.
"Well," Oliver continued, "the Ork language likely evolves similarly to human languages, but their society is much older. The docunt could be an ancient text—sothing obsolete that doesn't reflect current language use. Knowing who wrote it might indicate the level or faction of the Ork, especially since, from what little I've heard, their speech patterns vary significantly based on skin color, which might correlate with different tribes or social classes. Perhaps their writing varies accordingly. As for encryption, it's logical they'd anticipate us eventually deciphering their language and might be taking steps to secure their communications."
"Interesting," Wiz mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "How much do you know of Orkish?"
"Not a lot," Oliver admitted. "Only what I overheard and learned during my imprisonnt."
"Even so, you seem to grasp more than so of our specialists," the General noted. "You're not wrong, though there's also the possibility that we're encountering different dialects or languages from other Ork colonies. Until now, we've primarily intercepted texts in what appears to be their official language, but it's quite plausible they use multiple languages or codes."
The Rangers around them exchanged glances, so scribbling down notes, others eyeing Oliver with a mixture of curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of envy at his rapport with the General.
Oliver and Wiz erged from the previous chamber and continued exploring other laboratories. The afternoon stretched as they moved from one lab to the next, with Wiz evaluating each one. By the end of their journey, they found themselves in one of the last labs.
This particular laboratory was shrouded in dimr light. Two Rangers—a man and a woman—stood near a central tal examination table. However, the greatest shock to Oliver was the subject of their study: A massive, ash-gray Ork lay strapped to the table.
The two Rangers appeared to be dissecting the creature, conversing quietly as they worked. Wiz entered, already speaking with the Rangers, while Oliver lingered by the doorway, his gaze fixed on the monstrous figure.
Suddenly, the Ork roared in Oliver’s direction. For the first ti, the boy could almost perfectly understand what it was saying.
[Kill ! Please! By the heavens, grant peace!] the Ork bellowed, begging for rcy.
Oliver felt his heart grow heavy. Even if it was an enemy, it was surreal to witness a living creature being dissected alive on a cold tal table.
“Sir, we’re rapidly uncovering how the Orks’ immune system works,” one of the Rangers explained to Wiz. “By next year, we should have so viruses ready for testing.”
Oliver kept his eyes on the Ork, the sight troubling him deeply.
“What do you think, boy?” Wiz asked.
“Barbaric,” Oliver answered, managing only that single word. “I believe we are better than the Orks precisely because we don’t repeat the sa cruelty they commit.”
Wiz stroked his beard, pondering. “You wouldn’t use biological weapons?”
“If it were the last option, maybe,” Oliver admitted. “But does that justify keeping the Ork in pain?”
“Interesting. For many, Orks are seen as animals—lower than animals, in fact. That’s why conducting experints like this isn’t considered unethical,” Wiz explained.
Oliver shook his head in judgnt. “How far are we willing to sink, making ourselves more like the evil we’re trying to destroy?”
Wiz countered, “How far would you be unwilling to go to end this war?”
The boy grew quiet, conflicted. He wanted to eliminate the enemy and might even resort to torture if necessary, but there had to be an apparent reason, a dire necessity of war. He found himself torn.
With that question lingering in the air, they left the research wing, heading for the day's final eting.
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