Scrapyard Dogs: The First Casualty

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  1. Sen never did understand her motivations. She knew why she was out here, yes. But why become a Scrapyard Dog? She could have been an honest merchant or a mercenary. She could have been a vigilante or a bounty hunter. But why a Scrapyard Dog? A scavenger cross anarchist with a reputation for being psychotic. She didn't pretend she had the answers. She didn't pretend she needed them. She knew what she was doing, even if she didn't know why. That's all that she needed. That and her crew. As the ship's pilot expertly stopped them just short of an abandoned scrapyard, Sen activated the ship wide intercom.

    "All Skirmishers, get your TRS' on and get ready to reclaim some tech. Hangar opens in five and closes in ten. Whoever ain't out there gets fed to Aideen."

    Sen smiled. It was an empty threat and they all knew it. But she had fun making them anyway. Still, she knew that they would get it done. They always did. And that was all she could have asked for.
  2. It had been a week or so since their last stop and the anxiety caused from being stuck in this godforsaken ship hulk was getting to Helium. Sure, playing strip poker with the crew could be entertaining enough, but after a few rounds of slam-dunking them in it and seeing half of them butt naked, it lost its charm. After a while, she just switched to re-reading old books in the ship's storage and playing around with Shiela's gears to improve performance but she wasn't an engineer, and neither did she have the desire to go mingle with those who were. In any case, the sound of the Captain's voice over intercom was a welcome noise. Sure, she wasn't a skirmisher and she'd still be sitting tight for a few hours, but afterwards she'd have the merry pleasure of fighting with the Engineers over whatever they retrieved. Hopefully it'll be something worth while this time, these bills aren't going to pay themselves.
    Helium made her way to the lockers, grabbing her chips and making her way to the mess hall. It was relatively empty now with the excitement of the crew, most if not all the Skirmishers making their way to the hangar now. Lucky me, the merchant thought as she pulled up a seat and popped open the bag of chips, humming under her breath a little tune.
    "hmhmmm..ain't nothin' but a hound dog..."
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  3. Jace Adamant

    The Crew's Clown was laying on his bed, one leg hanging off and swinging to and fro as he stared blankly at the ceiling. It had been a while since their last stop, and Jace was getting bored. He sighed heavily, still unclothed from the last strip poker game he lost against Helium. Yesterday. Clothes were restricting, Jace was comfortable with himself, and he got a good kick from the crew yelling at him to at least put pants on. But right now, he was alone, bored, and not in a good mood. I'm going to scream. he thought. He mulled over the idea another minute or two, confirmed it with himself, built up his most ear-shattering, dead-waking, hell-raising screech, took a deep breath, and

    "All Skirmishers, get your TRS' on and get ready to reclaim some tech. Hangar opens in five and closes in ten. Whoever ain't out there gets fed to Aideen."

    "Thank all the fucking gods that ever were!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Jace rolled off his bed, quickly zipped into his undersuit, and sprinted to the hangar, putting on the heavier parts of the gear he kept over there. He was the first one there, surprisingly to him. He didn't question it. He checked his weapons, put on his helmet, and waited for the others to get there.
    #3 Thomas McTavish, Aug 16, 2015
    Last edited: Aug 18, 2015
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  4. Alexei Stukov

    "Fascinating, fascinating, most excellent indeed! The fans are fully operational, should reduce the weapon heating rate by a fair margin, and increase overall speed of cooldown..."

    One of two resident engineers was sitting at the work bench in the armory, the oversized autocannon the man worked on resting on the table, although there were various small parts and soldering kit pieces laying about where he had been working. He was hunched over the barrel of the cannon, soldering iron in hand and prosthetic eye zoomed in to ensure he was on the precise points necessary to secure the last bit of electronics that the fans needed to operate in concert with the autocannon, while every soldering spark caused his eye to auto dim, a strange sensation to most who implemented such things but it didn't even register on a subconscious level in the mad engineers mind. Alexei Stukov sat back, eye resetting to its normal level of zoom, as in no zoom, and looked over his labor of love. She didn't have a name, but had been with him since he first walked the stars as renegade, pirate, murderer and, if the IMPF was to be believed, terrorist. Well, they wouldn't be entirely wrong, but the man felt no guilt over those old days, it had all been part of the job. People tended to think madmen had no sane thought processes, but Stukov would highly disagree since, after all, wasn't he having one now? Or was he simply thinking he was and it was making no sense to the rest of the world? After some thought, he laughed in a giddy manner just as the announcement came over the intercom about salvage. He jumped up, any previous thoughts gone at the prospect of new scrap to build with.

    "Salvaging time is good for the weapons projects!"

    Stukov jumped giddily and all but knocked all the parts scattering into a damned mess again. There was no idea if trouble would be had, beyond the usual problems caused by salvaging long since dead things, but that danger didn't even resonate with the man in the slightest. Instead he checked his gloves, which sparked rather disconcertingly, to others that might be watching, and he grinned as they worked just as they should and grabbed the autocannon, grunting as, even with his augmented strength, the beast was heavy to lift as he slung it across the room, loading a box of 20mm ammunition and grabbing the armory comm to the bridge, resting the weapon at his feet as he spoke.

    "Expecting trouble more so than usual, Boss? I just finished the latest modifications to my autocannon and NEED someone to test it on!"
  5. Levi Merrick

    Levi crawled out from under his old but trusty X-Wing after reinstalling the new port stabilizer that got fried the last time he fought an IMPF snubfighter. Damn thing got a lucky shot. Just then, he heard the captain come over the comm:

    "All skirmishers, get your TRS' on and get ready to reclaim some tech. Hanger opens in five and closes in ten. Whoever ain't out there gets fed to Aideen."

    Already being in the hanger, he climbs the ladder up into the cockpit of his X-Wing and pulls out his armor and starts putting it on over his grease stained jumped suit, hooking his chainsword on his back with its clips and holstering his antique Desert Eagle from Old Earth on his right hip. He sees Jace jog into the hangar and jumps up and yells "HEY JACE!!!!"
  6. Clang.





    "God damn it, Stukov. What happened to 'oh, oil totally gonna help you comrade, oil fix those there mechanical servos in yer TRS. Yes, yeu can trust me, comrade.'" Isaac said in a faux Russian accent over the comms to the man as his suit of power armor collided directly with the wall of the hangar bay, repeating its assault on the wall over and over again. "Сука Блять," he said, cursing his own luck. "Its been two days, Stukov." He groaned as his helmet smashed into the wall violently, not agreeing with his commands in the slightest. Just his god damn luck they'd be going on a sortie and he wouldn't be prepared. His own TRS had started acting funny a week ago. He would've gladly ignored the engineers in favor of fixing it himself, but he just didn't have the correct instruments to fix his servos.

    "Ah, wait." He said, twisting his leg suddenly. "Ah-hah!" He grinned wildly as the TRS began to sluggishly accept him rather than walk into a wall. He jumped up and down, sending reverberations throughout the hangar. "Your attempts to undermine me have failed, Stukov. I would've tried a Scorched Earth tactic, but that's just me." He looked up and around the hangar, having been to preoccupied in getting in his suit to notice the other inhabitants. He sighed and grabbed his 'Elephant Gun' off a rack holding most of the weaponry. The weapon was as perfect as it could get, using Gauss properties to send slugs at vast velocities, useful in space and in infantry combat. The other good thing about it was that he could use the weapon in and out of his TRS. He lined up near the hangar door, sending another diagnostics check throughout his system to make sure everything else was running at maximum capacity.

    "And no, I ain't gonna ask the shortie to fix it," he paused for a moment, looking around wildly before remembering he had a secure channel with Stukov. "She'd probably throw a wrench at my nads again. You remember the first time."
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  7. Minrah’s luminescent eyes looked up just as the intercom buzzed into life, her body pausing as the captain’s voice came through.

    "All Skirmishers, get your TRS' on and get ready to reclaim some tech. Hangar opens in five and closes in ten. Whoever ain't out there gets fed to Aideen."

    An almost unperceivable click followed the end of the message, the subtle whine of feedback going with it. Secure in the knowledge it hadn’t been anything dire, the Morino resumed her task: taking stock. She could address the ‘call to arms’ when she was done.

    “Hmm, we’re going to need more Aztmec soon, as well as some more Doraphim. Well, hopefully no one gets a cold before we get to a pit stop.”

    Minrah’s pen tapped against the clipboard as she thought, grey-teal features drawn into a frown. They always seemed to be lacking something in the medical bay, whether it be medicine, bandages or a clean surface. Hell, they lacked the fancy-schmancy data recorders most other ships had, though this line of work didn’t exactly beget high class technology.

    With an annoyed grunt, Minrah pulled the med-bay cabinets closed, the various metal accents and doodads attached to her mossy green poncho tinkling as she did so. She ran a hand across the top her head through the strip of spine-like hair, going all the way to the tentacle like feelers at the very back of her skull. She breathed a sigh of relief as she gently brushed along the appendages, the rubbery surface of her skin felt oddly relaxing against the porous surface of the feeler. Sufficiently de-stressed, Minrah took a glance at the cabinet.

    I guess I’ll just have to ask Miss Sun for a restock when we have the funding for it…though, that does mean I can’t really do anything about it for now.

    Her inventory sorted for the time being, the doctor’s face fell into another frown.

    That message over the intercom can’t mean anything good. Sure, the captain makes it SOUND simple....

    With a resigned breath, Minrah about faced; bare feet slapping against the tiles of the med-bay as she made her way un-eagerly to the door, grabbing her bag of medical supplies on the way. The thick door obediently slipped aside as she approached, and it wasn’t long before the Morino was slowly plodding along to the hanger, features sullen.

    The captain may not have called for a medic to be on station, but in Minrah’s experience, every order warranted her to be close by, ESSPICALLY if the order was a ‘simple’ one…
  8. Mable had been loudly snoring on the hammock she had installed into her and Q's room. She had spent the long lack of action making sure everything was as good as she cared to make it, then she was so bored she made it safe. Another hobby of hers was commenting on the many reasons that doomed whatever or whoever wielded Stukov's beloved auto cannon. Before the announcement the more sane arguably less dangerous of the two engineers flopped out of her resting place, dragging herself up and slowly making her way to her dresser. Then the captains message came on and she quickly moved out of the way.

    Q's eyes instantly snapped open and flickered on. She flew out of her bed and dressed in a second. She grabbed her duel swords, sheathed in a double scabbard and quickly slung onto her back. "Snowcone's in the armory. Good luck buddy." The skirmisher zipped out of the two's bedroom and into the armory, pausing to give Stukov a sign language hello before grabbing her her sniper rife and running down to the hangar. When Q arrived her blur of a run ended and she went to examine her ship.

    After dressing and taking a five second glance at the mirror Mable made her way down to the armory. With her robot arms folded behind her back she looked like a female Napoleon. Looking in she saw that lunatic with his self-destruct cannon once again promoting it to the captain. "Is that the same auto cannon that I told you several times would have to be mounted to a massive destroyer ship just so it would only rip off the armor plating it's attached to?"
    #8 Crono, Aug 17, 2015
    Last edited: Aug 22, 2015
  9. Crowe had been awake and in a seperate part of the ship. He was watching fat larvea writhing and wriggling in a large tank being fed rotting left overs. He sipped some martian brewed whiskey and smoled a fat cigar as he watched the most reliable source of food for just about anyone. Animal meat was nice and all but insects like the ones in the massive tank were easy to farm and could be grounded down and processed into protein bars or even paties for sandwiches. Not the tastiest but cooled right with the right condoments it could be quite tasty.

    Aideen was in a corner, gnawing at an old bone. Her hide and scale were blue as she was calmand docile but it soon changed to more purple like color when the captain's voice came over the intercom. "Guessing it is time for work" Killian said as he capped the booze after one last sip and began to run briskly to grab his TRS. Aideen grabbed her bone and ran after him but soon took the lead.

    Killian's quarters were close to his bug farm and there he had his TRS in a rack in the small cabin. He had already been in the bodysuit needed for the rig and putting on the exo skelleton took less than a minute. He extinguished the cigar, placing it inside of a capsule which he placed in a chest pocket. The skeleton hummed as he turned on tve system and it took him less than 3 minutes to run from his cabin to the hangar. He had the helmet under his arm, Aideen running there ahead of him and once at the hangar let out a bark that was similar to that of a large dog and a snake. Killian placed the helmet on as he approached his Lancer, the PDA on his wrist flaring to life and so did the helmet. The visor of the helmet was dark when it was off but when activated his face would be shown as a blue skull. His rifle and blades were on the Lancer in nylon holster. He checked his gun, looking down the sights, the scope working as usual. It was all working well so he checked his cleaver. He twisted the hilt in an odd way and the spine of the blade ignited into a beam of red colored plasma. With another twist the beam was gone.

    Aideen barked and growled, her way of demanding the salvage to be successful sinxe thst could mean fresh meat for her and she was a greedy bitch.
  10. Levi Merrick

    Levi watches as the hangar doors start to open. Settling in his seat, he slides the viewport closed and powers up the gyros, taxiing to the launch strip. Pushing the throttles to their stops, he shoots down the launch strip and out of the belly of the Dawson's Christian.

    Easing back on the throttles, he works the rudder pedals so that the slag fills the viewport. Hearing a beeping, he looks at the holographic monocle on his helmet that is synced with his ship. What he sees has him worried. He keys his comm,"This in Levi Merrick aboard the starfighter Snow Tempest, hailing Captain Sen aboard Dawson's Christian. Come in, Captain."
  11. Jace, Scrap Pilot

    Jace looks over as he hears his name yelled. Dammit. Levi beat him to it. He waves as Levi climbs into his fighter, jogging over and climbing into the cockpit of his own fighter. He closed the entrance, sliding into position as he enjoyed the hiss of the airlock activating and the thrum of the air recycler already beginning to turn Jace's exhaled CO2 into breathable oxygen, storing the removed carbon for dumping once in space. Maybe one day he'll find a better processor that will turn that pure carbon into diamonds. One day.

    But for now, engines on, radar and targeting activated, weapon warming up. All systems go. Already in front of the hangar, Jace waits a moment, before shuttling out and heading towards Levi's ship. "Not liking the tone of voice, Levi. What'd you find?" he asked over the TRS com, not yet within sight range of whatever had the man sounding so worried.
  12. Stukov, as soon as good old Isaac came over the intercom to the armory and began berating him in a faux accent, lost it and began laughing his ass off. He could imagine that TRS just running into the wall over, and over, and over again thanks to the success of the jamming fluid he had pawned off on the skirmisher as 'oil' for the joints. It was an experimental mix, intended for short term advantages to be gained from a suit mounted, or hand held, device that would gum up and leave the enemy helpless for capture and experimentation. It would even leave more scrap from their TRS salveagable too, which was a win win for ALL parties involved! Not counting the captured enemy, they didn't get a say in the matter. Sure, it wasn't very long lasting and still apparently allowed movement, which he would have to fix, but he had already repaired the servos while Isaac was not paying attention. That had been an easy, and all too boring fix to implement. Hence he was absolutely giddy over the fact his jamming solution worked so brilliantly! "Isaac, thank you so much for testing the jamming solution! Undermining was never the case, no no no! After all, we are not going after fortified positions! Your servos are fiiiine, they'll be completely operational once the last of the solution leaks off. Should be good before any fighting starts, sadly. Hearing you dry hump that wall was priceless!"

    As Stukov responded in glee to the man, he waved cheerily at Q as she ran through, signing at him as she grabbed her weapons and cleared on out of the armory to go deploy with the rest of them. Not long after the other half of that pretty little enigma came strolling in like she owned the place, a gender bent conqueror of some old nation that was all too well known for running away from everything and all their problems. Positively boring, just running away all the time! But he grinned and laughed at the mention of his insane autocannon, Shortstop refused to believe the fact that he would and could get the thing working to the point that it would be a reliable man portable weapon of devastation. "Oh be calm ye of little faith! The only reason it failed last time was because it didn't have heat sinks! I assure you, my dear, it will be the forefront of infantry portable heavy weapons! For ME at any rate!" After rebutting her, on the side so Isaac would not hear him talking to anyone else, he had deliberately failed to warn Isaac about the fact that Shortstop was now listening and had heard everything he had said about getting wrenched in the nads and was gleefully willing to let him dig himself in deeper.

    "Oh please, Isaac, I am sure if you can't handle my brilliant designs, she would LOVE to help you out!" Stukov was laughing still, apparently unarmed beyond the autocannon sitting on the work bench he had finished the latest adaptations on, the cooling fans should let the thing operate without too much concern, as he had thought before. Walking over, he was still listening for Isaac on the intercom as he hefted the weapon, grunting as he made sure it was loaded and had a 20mm round chambered, heaving the thing around and showing Shortstop with a grin, explaining his modifications now that he was not going to get picked up by Isaac, since he had to depress a communication button to respond while all he had to do was listen to hear incoming traffic in the armory. "Last time the barrel melted, so I fixed that problem, in theory! Cooling fans, vent off the heat and, in a pinch, make it a most excellent superheated bludgeon! BURNS AND FRACTURES! It's the best of both worlds! If the fans work, I need a bayonet I can vent the heat to, wouldn't that be just all sorts of awesome?"
  13. Sen sighed as Stukov contacted her, brushing her red hair out of her eyes. "I doubt there will be trouble at all. It's a big field and I want maximum coverage. That's all. If we find any IMPF, I'll be sure to have them taken to you." She cut the communication off there, noticing Minrah entering the hangar over the cameras. She sighed with relief, switching her comms to that part of the ship. "Good to see you still as cautious as ever. I have a bad feeling about this site..." She looked over the holographic representation of the scrapyard, complete with a to scale Dawson's Christian and little arrows representing the Skirmisher's individual ships.

    "There are way more ships than usual. There was a big fight here. Problem is, almost all of them are of Terran design. Almost no Gronus or Morinus ships. Does that stri-" She was cut off by Levi's communication attempt. "A moment..." She opened a secondary com line and played old world elevator music over the hangar line to signal that their conversation had yet to finish. Opening her side of the coms channel with Levi, she answered his concerned hailing. "This is Sen. What seems to be the issue?"
    #13 Daws Combine, Aug 19, 2015
    Last edited: Aug 21, 2015
  14. Levi Merrick

    "My sensors are picking up some high energy readings. It looks like there was a major battle here, about sixteen hours ago. These signatures are fresh, less than two hours. I'm sending out a probe now." Levi watched as the probe shot away from his ship, then turned his attention to the holo display of the live feed. He pushes a button and sends the feed to the battlecruiser. He turns back to the screen, catching a glimpse of a huge ship, then static. "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! Warhsip two miles distant behind the slag! Classification: Interdictor-class Heavy Corvette. Designation: Sun Racer. Owner: the Intergalactic Military Police Force. What are your orders, Captain?"
  15. As Stukov spun his tales of 'jamming solution' and 'necessary tests' Isaac could feel his heart shrink three sizes that day and form into a black hole. His hatred of Commies doubled its already considerable bulk.

    He clenched his mechanical hands as he waddled over to his glorious ship, still trying to shove the kinks out of his TRS' legs. "Think about guns, Isaac..." he muttered to himself as he began climbing the ladder to the Lapsed Pacifist. Around him, other ships were already launching off into the black of space and he would be damned if he was the last man into the sortie. Isaac expertly threw himself into the entry hole, dropping to the floor with a thud. He'd entered the ship a thousand times, so its tight quarters were nothing to him.

    The inside of the Lapsed was black, its double reinforced glass having been replaced long ago with actual metal. A few flipped switches and the inside of it lit up, the inner panels replicating the outside world perfectly and giving him a nice view. The Lapsed hummed as he flipped switches, pressed buttons, and shoved a copper colored key into a port, twisting it and activating his fighter ship. Its exhaust ports glowed red as his nuclear engine warmed itself up, dumping heat out through the thrusters. Sure, Isaac didn't have a degree in nuclear theory, but his dials and readouts all reported the system was A-OK. Man had mastered nuclear power a long long time ago in its attempts to create safe power. His engines totally weren't going to break down anytime soon and fill the ship with nuclear holocaust. At least, that's what he hoped. He couldn't be one hundred percent sure with a machine as old as the Lapsed Pacifist.

    Triple wheels spun as Isaac gave them the gas, steering it forwards and into the airlock, making sure his ship was fully inside. He'd seen bad things in his days as a IMPF pilot. Idiots who'd left their tail ends outside and watched as their machines were crushed. Soon enough, the rear door closed, the air and pressure being sucked out of the new room. After a moments time, the front ones opened, revealing the sheer darkness of space. He appreciated the view for a few seconds, enjoying the distant lights and galaxies. Isaac gave a little power to the engines, zipping out of the bay and into the vast deep.

    It wasn't hard to see their target, a field of twisted scrap metal and slag, drifting in the void. His allies were white pentagrams, highlighted by the Lapsed's computer systems. The Dawson slowly dwarfed in size as the distance increased.

    Radio chatter interrupted his silence as his fellow pilot Levi spoke, telling them their scrap field had some unwanted company.

    "Well, hell! Isn't it obvious what we're supposed to do?" Isaac asked as he keyed the intercom, simultaneously activating the Pacifist's weapon systems and opening its missile button covers. "We'll be fuckin' their day up with explosions and bullets. This is our pile of scraps and I reckon six of us can take on their big corvette. So long as we don't, y'know, suicidally charge the bastard." He paused. "Do you?"
  16. Q had taken her time in making sure that the Flicker was fully functional. After a solid minute the little female was ready to join the others. She swiftly slid into her TRS, holographic windows for messages or warnings lighting up in the corners of her vision. She hopped into the sleek white ship, glowing blue controls rising and positioning for her and specifically her. The tinted cockpit lowered, robotic eyes adjusted for perfect vision, and the Flicker zipped of into space. Q's spacecraft was beside Isaac's in a instant. Skirmisher missions were often like this, Q would travel with another to avoid her team loosing the church mouse, since her coms were basically useless. She had the option to send a signal of either 'I found something' 'Yes' 'No' or 'I'm in trouble.' She awaited orders from Captain Sen, ready to flip the switch that would unsheathe the Flicker's deadly sting.

    Mable's metal palm met her face. Ow, she had to remember she couldn't do that anymore... "You tested a jamming agent on a crew member? And a skirmisher at that? You are aware that they are-" Did she hear shorty? Mable immediately connected to Isaac's coms and proceeded to explode into them. "SHORTY?! YOU SON OF A BITCH ILL CUT YOUR NADS OFF A FEED EM TO CUXIT EELS!" After venting into the coms the engineer turned to Stukov, advertising his cannon like that ancient human Billy Mays. He had vents for the heat, damn, Mable really wanted to see the louse burn and die in his own liquidated auto cannon. Soon Mable turned and begin to work on her flamethrower, still listening to the lunatic's ramblings but pretending not to care, until a certain point. "If you vented heat to a bayonet it would melt. But... If you made the heat vents so they would expel heat forwards... I suppose you could make a form of heat ray on your auto cannon.
  17. Helium Sun;

    One of the things, the crafty merchant had learned over the years, that you needed to be good at what she did was gut instinct. Trustworthy, infallible, always-there-and-never-wrong pure gut feelings. Sure, no one was right a hundred percent of the time, but she wouldn't trade her gut for anything in the world. Well, perhaps one thing... in any case, when it came to guessing and falling blind on things, Helium was rarely wrong.
    And something was definitely wrong. Not in the "damn these chips are stale" way, even though they were, but looking out through the heavily shielded, worn windows that let the visitors of the mess hall look out into the unending space, Helium felt suddenly like a child. Vulnerable. And a chill crawled up her neck, like a ghost had suddenly started clawing at her nape.
    Putting down the chips on the table and getting up, curiosity drew her ever closer to the reinforced windows. Curiosity killed the cat, a small voice in her head whispered, "but satisfaction brought it back," she replied, as if she was talking to someone other than herself. She cupped her hands, wiping away a bit of the dust that liked to settle in the old ship. The first thing she noticed was a slight red light that blinked on and off, almost hearing the "beep.. beep..beep" noise that accompanied such things in old vids. The second thing she noticed was how the red light narrowed, becoming a beam, it's target- the ship. And it wasn't alone.

    "Ah, fuck-"
    She hit the floor quicker than gravity should've allowed, the attack shaking the entire vessel. The red emergency lights flashing bright, bright, bright. Why is it always red?!
    Luckily, the attack hadn't opened a hole in the bridge, and for that the merchant was thankful. Not so much so, since they were-
    "UNDER-A-FUCKING-TTACK" Helium yelled into the comm system, punching the button so hard it was a miracle it hadn't broken.
    She definitely did not get payed enough for this.
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  18. Jace, Funny But Not Stupid

    "Unless they still have half a skilled crew, Cowboy. Remember last time we underestimated a corvette? My Jackal took a hit, Sigs died, and I coulda sworn I saw a frown- yes, an actual emotion- on Q's face when we got back to the hangar. I say we send a drone to analyze it proper; They might be dickbags, but they're well-armed dickbags." suggested Jace. He took a moment of silence to remember Sigs, a late crewmember with an iron stomach and steel balls, that could drink anyone under the table. Ultimately, his ship was too damaged for him to get back alive, so he kamikaze'd into the corvette to give the others a chance at taking it down without having it's cannons chasing them.

    But that was the past, and this was now. And now, they had a corvette of unknown firepower sitting pretty to deal with, and Jace was not about to die today. No sir, Jason Adamant was not prepared to- "UNDER-A-FUCKING-TTACK!" screamed Helium. "Warning- Jackal targeted. Incoming fire." droned the voice Jace had given his ship's computer.

    "Attack? Targeted? What do you- OH SHIT EVERYONE SCRAMBLE IT'S A TRAP, THE DUCK IS NO LONGER SITTING!" Jace roared, full-blasting his throttle and rocketing in a down-and-around motion as a missile zoomed past where his ship had been, and several more hit the Dawson's. Several of the ships that had been floating aimlessly in the wreck roared to life, zipping around and beginning an assault. The corvette's engines began to glow as it made its slow journey within range of it's guns. The IMPF forces had been waiting there after the recent battle to see if anymore Dogs would come to pick at the wreckages.

    Jace whipped the tail of the Jackal around and began firing his cannon at everything that his targeting system highlighted in red. Thirteen highlighted, four more indicated offscreen, unknown docked on the corvette, and the corvette itself. This was going to be fun.
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  19. "SHIT!! SCATTER!!!" Levi barrels out of the way of the ion blast from an incoming fighter. Locking his S-foils in attack position and quadding up his lasers, firing as he goes. He had to mention Sigs. He dropped his aiming reticule onto the corvette. He glanced at his holo. He watched as the gravity cone from the corvette got bigger and bigger. "FUCK! They have gravity well projectors! We can't make a run to lightspeed!"

    Arming his proton torps, he dives at the corvette, watching as the proton heads atomized sections of the hull. Jumping from his ship, he whips out his chain sword and cuts a hole in the roof of the hull and drops through. His boots instantly mag-lock to the deck as men, papers, and equipment are sucked out in the vacuum. He zooms in down the hall on a figure that was approaching wearing purple power armor...exactly like his? No. It can't be. She's DEAD!! Suddenly, he was thrown backward as a bolt from a lasrifle blasted across his chestplate. "SHIT!!" He yells into his comm.

    "Hello Levi. It's been awhile," the figure in armor says. Removing their helmet, he sees that it's a woman. "Anira?" He replies.
  20. Stukov laughed loudly at Shortstop as she went to start ranting at him for testing his newest solution for disabling TRS units on a skirmisher. Way he saw it, why not test it on the units most likely to be up to snuff, maintenance wise, to not be affected by such devices. After all, if a TRS at top condition would succumb, obviously one which is already undergoing some level of mechanical or other such failures. Why test it on scrap and work up when he could test it on the best and not waste time with all that mucking about in the middle? He was grinning as he set the autocannon down, tweaking its current weight balance as the small Mable lost it at Isaac, which brought more sounds of amusement from the madman as he hefted the autocannon, nodding to himself at the new weight balance. The idea of a heat ray was rather fascinating, but what fun was there in not seeing the blazing hot death coming at someone? That was far too subtle for Stukov's taste, and he effectively told her as such as he set the weapon back up, now rebalanced properly and began drawing up plans for a bayonet attachment. And by bayonet, a casual glance would think it was a meat cleaver from the shape and obvious design purpose for it. "Heat ray is clever, but they can't see or hear that coming! It's just, 'oh boiling innards oh gods whyyyyy' and that is that! Far too boring! They see that super heated blade come down on their noggin, well, they KNOW their day is just about to go from bad to dead! I just need a material that won't melt that readily....Or....a rotary saw blade could be affixed, the serrated saw blade could..."

    Thankfully for all parties involved who happened to be listening, Stukov was interrupted by the sudden assault and cries of attacks on the Skirmishers and the ship rumbling from coming under fire shook the mad mechanic around a bit, and he began laughing like a madman as he swung open his gear locker, which he kept in the armory alongside an, as of right now, folded up sleeping mat so he could practically live in the space. All he had to really leave for was food and hygiene, both of which were necessary. The former, damned organic requirements, the latter, he had to work with people on a regular basis and it was far too much trouble listening to them bitch and complain about something so readily fixed. But in the locker was Stukov's TRS, a massively over armored affair that took the stereotype of the Heavy class and blew it out of proportion. He wasn't going to win a footrace or dodge anything, but he was far too concerned with putting 20mm rounds out in the right direction than his own safety. And the good Doc knew that all too well, his regular visits to the medical bay got his ear talked off typically, but it never changed. Suiting up, he sealed his gloves up to the armor, demonstrating to his coworker that he had been, once again, working on projects with his shock gauntlets on. The helmet remained retracted on its own, and the man was grinning at the chance of doing something. After all, not like with all this shaking he was going to get any delicate work done. He sent off a message to the Captain that, when she decided to review it, would say along the lines of "So much for no trouble, not so quiet on the western front, eh? When do we start putting holes in these stupid fuckers? I could use the scrap for a new project!" Turning to Shortstop he grinned, hefting the autocannon off the table, locked and loaded as he ensured a 20mm round was in place and ensured the feed wouldn't jam, again, once he got to start shooting. "What are the odds we get to shoot something this time, you think? I really need to test the heatsinks!"
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