Albanian Warlords: Chronicles of Blood
In the black abyss of space, there were no laws but those of violence, no gods but the gods of war. The FDLs screamed through the planetary rings of Puppy Rocks, their engines snarling like wolves in the throat of the void. And the rocks, cold and ancient, turned in the dark like the bones of forgotten giants, uncaring and eternal.In the cockpit of a ship, a pilot's hand gripped the stick like a man grips a knife. He knew the Albanian warlords, knew their names like curses whispered in the dark, their eyes like the eyes of wolves, cold and full of hunger. They had sent him here, to this graveyard of metal and flesh, to fight and die, or to kill and survive, and it made no difference.
He saw the enemy, a shape in the black, and he fired, plasma scorching the void, the silence of space shattered by the scream of energy meeting metal. The other ship bucked and twisted, a wounded beast, and in that moment, the pilot saw his own face in the reflection of the cracked canopy, saw the hollowness of his eyes, the emptiness that mirrored the stars.
The rocks turned, indifferent, and the Albanian warlords watched from their thrones of iron and bone, their laughter a soundless echo in the mind. They were the kings of nothing, the rulers of dust, and they sent men to die in places like this, places where the light of the sun was a distant memory and the cold was the only truth.
The battle was over before it began. The FDLs twisted and turned, their movements sharp and brutal, and then it was done, and the silence returned. The debris of the dead ships floated among the rocks, forgotten, just another part of the endless dance of the void.
The pilot drifted, his ship scarred and battered, his heart empty as the space around him. And in the distance, the warlords smiled, their teeth like knives, their eyes like pits of black fire.