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Note that this is a repost from a Rapid Fire Challenge, hosted by Race Bannon. It is reproduced here for example, and for further refinement and critique beyond that of the scope of the RFC threads. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the beat of my mind, thoughts streaking down until they slam into the ground of my conscious, just as the metal comets rain down onto my city to disgorge the warriors within. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The snap and crack of synapses as I drink in the information on the holosphere, the angles of attack, the formations, the patterns all familiar, as known to me as the crack-bang of bolt rounds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the rap of my fingers upon this throne, high-backed and thick with hides of lion, tiger, and other furs draped over the alabaster and albor-granite, knotted filigree threading wicked thickets of thorns through lattices of gold. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the drip of our forces moving in response, leukocytes, as the Corpse-Taker says, flooding into tunnels below this very palace, the mountain passes rivalling the heights of my battlements, the corridors of the ships that even now drop payloads of genhanced curs upon us. Curs who would slander us for prising open the gates of hell, time and time again. What is our reward, for taking and holding by force what the galaxy would deny us by deceit and betrayal? By weakness? Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the cadence of magazines being loaded in my throne room. Light pouring in through the vaulted arches and sculpted marble windows, gleaming from beautifully polished steel and azure warplate. The gilded pauldrons and shields of my Retributors, as bold as the brass shells they prepare to slaughter my foes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is the sound of the big guns, ceaselessly firing without slumber, muted to the dull drum beat of a planetfall by our enemies. Those who we called ally, brother. Who even now spill the blood of my Legion. As my First Centurion approaches, he speaks, the words an intrusion into my rumination. My fingers cease their unbidden tattoo. +Lord, the Star Phantoms come. Your orders?+ The Ghost Razors slide free smoothly, slowly. It is the deadly threat of a Lion’s talons flexed into full draw, ready for the tearing out of throats. I stand, the great white pelt of a jungle king adorning my shoulders as the upstarts burst into my throne room, with shock and fire, my men rushing to crush the interlopers to my demesne. In return, I fill my lungs and bellow in defiant roar. “Kill them all!" +++++++++++++ Have at it!