"Useless, useless, useless!" 

If given enough time, Calhoun likely could have punched his way into the door control panel and worked the actuator manually. In fact, a similar course of action was ultimately what was decided upon. He had gathered a team of his exo-marines to break the destroyer free of its crippling bind, and even though the breachers might not be working, a broken actuator and some elbow grease could have a very similar effect.

The General rubbed at his battered and bleeding hand. The appendage was blossoming with deep purple bruises and spattered with the curious maroon-violet of Krazoran blood that mixed with his own that flowed from cuts made by the door control.

"Cut the damn box open and break the insides. Crowbar the door with your combat knife."

Gross misuse of a good knife, he was certain, but to Calhoun there were few material losses that couldn't be chalked up as acceptable.

As his team worked at the door, cursing, grunting, and stabbing away at the subpar metal of the interior wall he turned around to watch the entryway. Something tugged at his gut the way an anxious dog might tug at a leash. He took off his cap and inspected for stains across the black felt, correcting it in places where it had been warped during the fighting.

"Sergeant Kira," Calhoun turned just enough to put one eye on the delegating squad leader, "Do you know if anyone was assigned to the power plant?"

Kira tapped her chin and scowled, "Other than the crew that was in there anyway and their garrison? Probably not."

"Do you think they were sealed in?" The General pulled his sidearm from its holster and dropped the magazine, loading in a fresh supply of ammunition and racking the slide with a metallic sound.

"More than likely."

Calhoun turned completely now, "How many were in that garrison?"

"I don't know sir, that--"

"What the hell, Sergeant? How are you supposed to organize your subordinates if you don't even know who's assigned to what?"

The Sergeant bit her lip. She hoped it was just the heat of the moment, the pressure of the situation that gave Calhoun the idea that she and not Master Sergeant Paulo was the one in charge of personnel aboard KNIGHT ERRANT. 

"I would consult with the Master Sergeant sir, but communication is...tied up at the moment."

Everyone who had ever worked with Calhoun--and everyone who would work with him--knew that these interactions were ultimately fruitless, so Kira turned back to the door.

Calhoun threw his cap back on his head and corrected it as best as he could without a mirror. He huffed and snorted, then began to walk down the corridor toward the near-endless backup stairwell.

"Once that door's open n' you're out there you know what to do. Blow up the glowing shit, y'all've played video games." He said over his shoulder before leaving his team to work.

As he moved through the dark rooms and hallways that led to the stairwell he kept his weapon squeezed in his grip. Even he himself wondered why. The identical hallways contained only identical bodies, and transferred only the distant sounds of his team shooting the shit while the poor bastard with the knife performed door surgery.

He stopped at the landing of the stairwell and cast the chemical-reaction flashlight's beam toward the bottom. He shined it as far down as his vision and the winding spiral would allow. The beam still didn't hit the bottom, swallowed up by a beast made of the inky dark below.

And down he went.

Down he went, bringing each foot down a little louder than usual. The resounding stomps asserted his presence, his position, his dominance, to whatever might be hiding around one of those bends of the steps.

As he crossed around one of the final landings before the reactor control chamber he thought he caught something. He held up his pistol, supported with the flashlight held in reverse-grip beneath it. He took aim at what appeared to be nothing, a set of pipes near a supply closet door. A set of pipes with a curious shimmer in the air.

A few curious steps closer, and a lean in for closer inspection revealed the true nature of the shimmer. A fist, translucent like the purest still water, struck Calhoun in the bridge of his nose. His eyes slammed shut and he dropped the weapon and the flashlight as pain exploded in his face. A stream of hot blood flowed from his rapidly bruising nose.

He spat blood at the outline of a figure, spraying a mist of red that stuck where eyes should have been. The light from the downed flashlight cast a hollow shadow of the figure on the wall of the alcove that denoted the closet entrance.

Krazoran. Calhoun's thoughts growled as he watched it appear to melt into visibility, like watching water pour through a stack of paper towels from underneath. The figure was lean, skinnier than the harsh strike to the face suggested to the General, and dressed in ballistic armor that seemed like something that a motorcyclist from the future might wear if they moonlighted as a ninja. It reared back for another harsh haymaker, and the General took a step back, kicking his pistol backward. The weapon skidded across the landing, resting against the railing with most of the barrel hanging over the edge.

The assassin whiffed the punch and Calhoun capitalized by tugging their scrawny arm with his meaty hand. Their whole body went front-first to the metal of the landing and their helmet bounced more like a bowling ball than a basketball. Hoping to have concussed the poor bastard, Calhoun whirled and bent for his pistol. The assassin was already up on their feet and kicked Calhoun, flat-footed, square in the ass.

The General took his turn hitting the dirt. The assassin reared up a boot and a short blade extruded from the heel. Calhoun rolled toward the railing to dodge the incoming stomp, which broke the shining piece of steel clean off. 

That's useless! Dumbass! Calhoun's arm shot out and his hand wrapped around the grip of his pistol. The assassin backed away, arms outstretched behind it to try and find the railing. Calhoun watched himself in the visor that covered almost the entire faceplate of the masked helmet as he levelled his gun and fired nine times.

Each hit from the ultrasonic projectiles jerked the assassin backward. No blood, but sparks spurted from the wounds, an observation with made Calhoun grit his teeth. When the barrage was finished the assassin staggered and flipped backwards over the railing. Calhoun lunged for his flashlight and shined it down the stairwell after them. 

The light cast jail-cell shadows of the bars that supported the railing on the floor below. A heavy metal sound howled up the stairwell, but Calhoun couldn't see anything. The General growled and wiped blood from his mouth and chin. 

The rest of the way to the reactor control center was filled with quiet inspections of each normally-ordinary corner of the ship's halls. The bleeding stopped eventually, assisted by the red silk handkerchief his last personal assistant had purchased to match the new blacked-out uniforms. It might have been the least-useless thing about them.

The pressure-doors to the reactor antechamber were open, which was great. One less problem for the bruised General to figure out. The heavy blast doors that protected the rest of the ship and its crew from potential meltdown however were shut tight. Useless.

Calhoun shook his head and took the time to reload his pistol. When he got around to entertaining the idea of pounding his already beaten fist against the door, as though commanded by God, the lights came back. He shielded his face against the sudden harsh glare, and he was lucky to have done so.

Because if he didn't the other nostril would have been bloodied to match.

As the antechamber door closed, his invisible foe made their move. A whirling kick with a half-present shin from the far corner connected with his arm and knocked him off balance. The assassin had returned, their visor spiderwebbed with cracks.

The Krazoran drew a long sidearm from a hip-holster and tried to level it with Calhoun's head, but he forced the weapon away. A spray of fully automatic fire crackled away next to his ringing ear, singing his face with the artificially shaped cross of the muzzle flash. 

The Assassin dropped the gun and Calhoun threw his hips to pivot for a punch. His opponent retaliated by running a fist along the same path of the General's outstretched arm. A thin dagger with an icey blue-tinged edge extended from beneath their wrist, closing the couple of inches difference between their fist and Calhoun's cheek.

 As the knife left its signature in the General's scrapbook of scars, he leaned in and tripped the assassin with one foot. Then in a fluid motion he tugged their arm and smashed their head into the wall of the antechamber. Their visor shattered in a rain of shining polycarbonate, black plastic, and maroon-purple blood. 

Calhoun leaned over and picked up their pistol, taking a short moment to admire the intricate writings and perfect linear engravings on the side of the barrel. He wagered that this was the part where Jax would have lit a cigarette. When the enemy was on the ropes, only the force of defiance keeping their body struggling to get free from the wall. 

Then he squeezed the trigger, and emptied the magazine of the high-caliber automatic pistol into their back. 

He dropped it and swaggered into the light of the corridor, his uniform glistening with the blood of two master fighters. The General rummaged in his breast pocket for his handkerchief and his communicator. He cleaned himself up and turned on the local channel, then cleared his throat. 

"Attention all Blackwatch personnel, I want every pair of hands at work sinking that fucking brick. I'm on my way back to the bridge. Someone from R&D should come check out the mess down here, send it back to Nepton right away."

His men confirmed in unison, and he began the slow walk to the elevator. Smiling as the music of began once more, beating in his bones, setting his soul to dance.