Post by tzanbestgirl on Apr 25, 2024 14:28:27 GMT -5
Current PL: 7,000
WC: 425
Lychee was a challenge to hold. Its jungles, metropolises, and wastelands gave plenty of nooks for terrorists to hide in, and each cell was radically divergent in ideology and tactics, appearing at once disconnected and highly coordinated. Resources deployed for peacekeeping were few, enough to keep insurgents from regaining territory, but little else... Mostly, the Kingdom turned inward, restructuring according to the new Queen's wishes instead of putting down fires set by those recent, numberless Kings. To Tzan it made some sense, however depraved -- what danger could a hundred or so subversives pose to a Kingdom so full of Super Saiyans? Let them cull their own! Whatever Saiyan lives lost to them would be deserved, so weak, so foolish...
It was almost too grim to watch, Tzan thought, firing one last staple across the dribbling gash on her belly. A hypodermic tube ran from her broken shoulder to the Tuffle body hanged above, an impromptu blood bag. Her comms devices were shot, backup radio included... As for her blaster, its charge was spent. The Labourer Vanguard For Tuffle Self-Rule was no more. Another successful mission... And yet, Tzan cared more to keep herself awake, not wanting to pass out in some dingy shack in the Fruut Flats, so far away from civilization (that is, Saiyan civilization, as Tuffles could never be counted to aid their overlords).
Head resting against the tarp and zinc wall, Tzan fought thoughts of the paperwork that'd come from this. How would she explain to top brass that the intel for this operation, vetted by herself, was so wrong? Her opposition was not six Tuffles, but ten of those and two Saiyans. Their arsenal was not Arcosian run-off, but second-generation Tuffle-tech. Their shack was not just a shack, but a shack and a garden, with a shed, and a bomb. Made of fertilizer. An explosive so rudimentary that Tzan had only connected the dots as it exploded in her hands, nearly blowing her apart.
It had taken the better part of the morning to crawl the ten feet from the atomized shed to the shack, and some more hours to prop the body that now fed blood to her exhausted veins. To pass the time, Tzan cultivated an absolute state of thoughtlessness. To picture Tulse, or Yacai, in her mind would only excite her heart and accelerate blood loss, thinning her odds at surviving. Disciplined to a fault, Tzan instead ran in her head the different uniforms worn by modern Saiyan squads, and the little breaches in regulation that each adorned themselves in.