RENS
BRUTOR TRIBE BUREAU

General Mako sat heavily behind his large mahogany desk. His mood was sour. The General was a patient and calculating man, but not one accustomed to being made to wait. He tapped his massive fingers against his desk, a scowl on his face, as he continued to wait. He was a mountain of a man, standing at 6’8″, with a shoulder span of nearly three and a half feet. He was solid, through and through, with a healthy layer of body fat covering his strong muscles. He was also a second echelon Blademaster, an accomplishment that would leave nearly any Brutor gaping in awe. Yet he was more than strength of body, will and purpose. He was crafty. He was enduring. 

To look at him one would think him in his early fifties. Truth be told, he was quickly approaching his nineties. He had served the Republic his entire life. He had watched how things from within, as well as without, had changed over the decades, and never for the better, in his opinion. And it was his opinion that carried weight with those that mattered. Let Shakor engage in his pitiful “Heroes of the Republic” promotions. It was blatant nonsense. Heroes didn’t win wars; real heroes created them for profit. 

Mako had no interest in being in the public eye; his tasks were best performed from the shadows. He enjoyed watching his invisible orchestra perform, with him the master conductor stringing every note together. He knew the power and influence he held over many of the key players in the Republic. It had taken him a lifetime to achieve such standing.

And it was all because of Colonel Roc Wieler. 

He chuckled to himself at that. It wasn’t this arrogant pissant of the current war he referred to. That boy was green behind the ears, with not a wit about him. No, Mako was referring to the original Colonel Roc Wieler, a man he had served under briefly nearly three generations before. Mako was just a boy at the time, two years too young to enlist in the military, but due to his size even then, he was able to lie to gain admission. 

He chuckled at the memories. To say he learned much from Colonel Wieler was perhaps not entirely accurate. He had learned much in spite of Colonel Wieler. Looking back, the man was a buffoon. At the time, he was an idol to all those around him. That was one of the first lessons Mako had learned; Those who can’t do, stand in the spotlight. It made sense really. If you were too busy out doing, how would you have time to accept accolades from your peers? Militia life was about doing, not posturing. Posturing was done by weak men. Real power was achieved behind the scenes, and real power came from never letting others know who held the strings. 

The buzz of his comm unit pulled him out of his reverie. His contact was precisely 32 seconds late. He made a mental note of that as he answered the incoming call.

A female voice initiated the conversation. “He’s settled in Evati.”

“And you’ve made all the necessary arrangements for his brief stay?” Mako asked, his voice sweet as honey.

“I have. Everything is in place.” said the female through the comm.

Mako disconnected the conversation without a farewell. For the amount he was paying her, every word cost. He leaned back, sinking into his luxuriously cushioned leather chair, resting his hands on his stomach, noticing it was a little larger than only a few months ago. He would have to do something about that. 

Roc Wieler stood in the spotlight. Roc Wieler was a dolt. He would tear Roc Wieler from his lofty pedestal, and profit from it immensely, both financially, and in power gain; for the glory of the Republic.

A faint hint of a smile crossed his lips. He loved betrayals.