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| - ISS Orphic - Amusements Segment - Penumbra's Roaming Cavalcade of Mysteries ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Built within the hull of cargo-hauling module, this portion of Penumbra's Roaming Cavalcade of Mysteries is predominantly taken up by a carnival midway featuring fortune telling, games of skill and chance, and thrill rides and simulators. The air is often thick with the smells emanating from kiosks tended by food vendors, from the pungent vinegar that douses deep-fried potato wedges to the stick sweet odor of puffy bear claw pastries. Hatches lead to the interlocks that connect to other portions of the carnival ship. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A pair of orange-suited PHS workers armed with stunsticks stand posted just outside the secured entryway to the small containment cell built into the cargo bay. When guests near, in the off-chance that they do, they are kindly advised to move along. Torr strides into the amusement section. As usual, he ignores the amusements of the section, steps carrying him instead toward the all to familiar containment box. He frowns slightly as he nears it, coldly eyeing the orange suited figures. Torr This man is fairly tall, broad in shoulder and deep chested. He has green eyes, which always seem to be sharply attentive to the situation at hand. His hair is fairly short, and rises in dark spikes over his forehead. His face is tanned to a golden tint, and it is marked with a few scars which never saw enough medical attention. The most noticable scar is thin, though runs about two inches down the side of his face from below his eye to just above his chin. He wears a blue button up shirt on his torso, the top few buttons left undone. It reveals his well tanned skin, as well as a silver chain - about a centimeter wide. Over this shirt he wears a heavy black jacket, which appears to have metal plates woven into the thick fabric. Hanging from an eyelet at the shoulder of the jacket is a sheath, utilitarian knifegrip protruding. Attatched to another eyelet is a holstered gun. Around his waist is a leather belt, a few compartments hanging off of it. Slung low on his left hip is a black holster, the butt of a gun sticking from it. He wears gray pants, they look tough and descend down his legs. On his feet are black combat boots. When his sleeve rises or his arm is bared, a tatoo of a Jackal's head can be spotted on the bottom side of his wrist. They recognize Torr, but they do not permit him entry. Or, well, they don't look willing to. Both suited figures step aside to allow him a look into the windowed partition. Torr smirks slightly as the guards move aside, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, stay the fuck away," he mutters. Then eyes glance into the partition, and eyebrows shoot upward. "Shit. Uh...babe." Before Torr can get a very good look, Mika has ducked into the tiny refresher unit, hiding as best as she can from the eyes of her partner. When she speaks, it's with a voice much more ragged and raw than the usual melodic cadence of her East Enaj working class accent. "Hots-s-s-s-shot," she hisses nervously, trying to remain out of sight. Mika At one time this was a human, although few trademarks of that particular race remain. Now we have a disfigured lump of rippled flesh, about five and a half feet all told, with naught but a scattering of freckles and the final rogue strands of a sunbleached mane indicative of a happier life under the warm rays of Ikeopo. Its voice is but a raw, gravelly hiss, and its eyes are cruel, red-orange beads set above narrow nostril slits and a maw full of nubby teeth. Long, slimy fingentacles sprout from devolved, stumpy blobs that may have once been hands, but are now mere knobs at the ends of lanky, jellylike arms. When it moves, it does so on a slick trail of ooze. What truly betrays its former identity is the instinctive need to preserve modesty, despite no outward indicators of gender. A gunk-covered tank top of pure white cotton is pulled over its torso, clinging to its sticky, pale skin. Around what could be considered its neck is a gold chain from which a small sapphire and diamond promise ring dangles, and illegible smears of colored ink that may have once been tattoos embellish the creature's left wrist and lower abdominal area. Torr snorts softly. "Shit babe, get fucking throat cancer. Damn," he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. "C'mon out babe, don't fucking hide. Can't be lookin' much worse than you were with your fucking skin melting off." Mika, however, doesn't budge. Her cruel sunburst eyes dart sidelong to where she hears the voice of her favorite person in the world coming from, and she swallows hard. "There ain't nothing here worth s-s-s-s-s-seeing," she replies sadly. Torr shrugs. "Probably not," he replies. "But that fuckin' refresher must smell like ass." He takes a drag from the cigarette, enjoying the smoke. "But fuck, your call. Ace is comin' with the cure, supposedly. Fucking Marlan left without helping you. Fucking bitch." "And what're you doing?" Mika inquires of him, settling herself against the cool steel wall of the compact unit. "Where is-s-s-s the s-s-ship? What's-s-s-s-s the bloody s-s-s-status-s-s?" "What am I doing? Oh, I'm having a fuckin' blast. Sittin here with my thumb up my ass courtesy of the fuckin' PHS is just a blast," Torr replies, shaking his head and taking another drag from the cigarette. "Ships here too, its a real joyfest, waiting for those assholes. At least I bought the materials needed for our expansion." Mika's slimy head nods with a sickening squelch of ichor, and the corners of her mouth tug downward in a thin, rippled frown. "That's-s-s-s-s-s... good, hots-s-s-shot. That's-s-s-s... that's-s-s real good," comes her eventual response. Sticky tendrils wrap around what approximates her upper arm. "I really mis-s-s-s-s you, bollocks-s-s." Torr smirks slightly. "Yeah babe, miss you too. Miss bein' out there, having a good fucking time. Tempted to just take off, get the fuck outta here. Think the RNS assholes might shoot me down though. Shit." He takes a drag, looking over his shoulder at the guards. "Yeah, thats right. You and all your fucking friends are cocksucking assholes. Christ." He looks back toward the containment area. "So uh, hows shit?" We find the mutated rogue tucked away in the darkness of the cell's small 'fresher, out of sight of her partner, who stands outside. Mika Tachyon, insecurity springs eternal. "S-s-s-so maybe you s-s-should jus-s-s-st take off," she tells the Martian, resigned to her fate. Torr snorts. "Oh that'll be a blast. I fuckin' crashed in a sim, you think I can dodge a fucking destroyer or whatever the fuck that piece of shit is?" He shakes his head a little, then takes another drag from the fast burning cigarette. "Look, I'd be dead. I'm not fucking stupid, thanks. You're the better pilot." A resigned sigh (or at least, whatever passes for such among seven-foot slugs) escapes the former Demarian as she blinks her beady red eyes. "He'sssss probably right, you know. In any cassssse, locking yourssssself in the refressssssher issssn't doing anyone any good. He'sssss not going anywhere without you. I'd put money on it." Swiftfoot This seven foot tall, jellylike mound of flesh may indeed have been the Demarian known as Swiftfoot at one time. The only real indicator of such is the sodden tendrils of orange and white fur which remain, plastered in the slimy ichor that covers its skin. The being's most noticeable feature is the pair of piggy, deep set eyes staring out from folds and ripples of the fleshy face. Below these dull red motes lurk a pair of crooked, misshappen nostril slits and a cruel slash of a maw, filled with squarish nubs for teeth. Thick arms, covered in slimy folds of flesh. end in fingerlike tentacles. The huge mound of flesh wears, strangely enough, a slime-covered grey shirt on what could be called its torso. It wears nothing on its legs, because it has none. A single appendage, like a long, thick tail, has taken their place. A golden bracelet and a pair of tiny golden earrings are worn on a chain around what passes for its neck. "What els-s-s-s-se can we blinking do?" Mika retorts, finally sticking her grossly disfigured head out of the washroom hatchway and scowling grotesquely at the now woefully furless pilot. "Go after Ranix-x-x-x-x-x ours-s-s-s-selves-s-s-s?!" "Yeah, why not. Ace found her. We find Ace," Torr replies, leaning on one hand against the partition separating him from his partner. "And fuck, yeah. Gettin' drunk off my ass all alone is only fun for so long. Then it gets old." Swiftfoot snorts, a wet, disgusting sound if there ever was one, and shrugs in the general direction of the 'fresher door. "Why not? What'ssss to ssssstop ussssss? When hasssss sssssomething asssss inconssssequential asssss a quarantine sssstopped you?" The heavy eyelids of the Jackal's malformed captain blink with a heavy thump. "Good point," Mika concedes, slithering into plain view, though she most certainly does not make eye contact with Torr as she does so. "A-c-c-c-ce s-s-s-aid the las-s-s-s-st reports-s-s-s-s plac-c-c-ced Athena on a cour-s-s-s-s-se for Demaria. We will s-s-s-start there. Hots-s-shot: s-s-s-send the Faux a mes-s-s-s-sage informing them of our bloody departure." One warped hand extends so fingentacles may open the hatchway, and she mucks her way into the decontamination shower. "Athena's orbiting Demaria, according to Ace," Torr replies before taking another drag from the cigarette. "So fuckin' shouldn't be hard to find that shit." Eyebrows shoot up as he spies Mika, but they quickly fall once more, hiding his slight dismay. "And I'll get in touch with Ace once we fucking depart." At that sound of that final word, one of the suited PHS sentries standing outside turns to face Torr with what can only be assumed is alarm, given that his expression is well-hid behind the faceplate. "Depart?" he parrots, stepping forward and waving one hand as if shooing off the very notion. "You can't bloody depart! What the devil do you think you're doing?!" Swiftfoot blinks heavily, nodding to nobody in particular. "Sssssssoundssss like a plan to me." She waits patiently for her turn in the decontamination shower, finger-tentacle-things waving absently. It takes several minutes for the chemicals to work their magic on the ridged skin of the slug-human hybrid. The outer door, of course, is locked -- it doesn't do much good for the quarantined patients to be able to escape, now does it. The sound of her gunk-covered fist banging on the door can be heard from outside. "The blinking hell we can't!" shouts Mika, her nubby teeth bared as she peers angrily through the viewport. "Let us-s-s-s-s-s talk to your bloody s-s-s-s-superiors-s-s-s-s-s! We've already bloody trans-s-s-sformed, goddamnit!" Thud, thud, crash. Someone's angry. "What the devil do I think I'm doing?" Torr remarks sarcastically to the PHSer, shaking his head slightly. "We're departing, thats what." A hand drops to the weapon at his side, flicking it to charge, a quiet hum emitting threateningly from the device. He doesn't draw it yet. "So how 'bout you open the fuckin' door so we can get on our way, huh?" Swiftfoot snarls in frustration, pressing her slimy bulk against the inner door. "Funny, I could have sssssssworn that we were told that we'd be let out of here, becausssssse we're no longer contagioussssssss." She eyes both Torr and the PHS sentry in turn before continuing, "And honessssstly, I'm not ssssssure if you want to argue with him," she finishes, indicating the irate Martian. A slot in the door opens, and a commlink is rolled into the cell by one of the PHS officers, tuned to the Sivadian frequency. *Thunk* goes the commlink at what would be Mika's feet, if, well, she actually had feet at the moment. Her sluglike body bends and suckerlike fingentacles scoop up the device, effectively covering it in muck as she manipulates the dial to ease the static. "Who the Chris-s-s-s-st is-s-s-s this-s-s-s?!" she demands into the receiver. "This-s-s-s is-s-s Captain Mika Tachyon of the IND Jackal! We are reques-s-s-sting permis-s-s-sion to bloody leave this-s-s-s-s ces-s-s-spool and blinking rendezvous-s-s-s with the Athena!" Torr smirks slightly at Mika's words. He doesn't speak, rather he flicks away his burnt down cigarette. Cold eyes remain on the PHS sentries, stolidly staring them down. A crisp, thoroughly aristocratic voice comes over the Commlink in response, as cultured and even as Mika is foul mouthed. "This is Lord Cochrane. Captain of the Indefatigable. How can His Majesty's Navy help you, Captain?" Swiftfoot mutters vaguely to herself and removes her body from the inner door of the cell, backing into the cell slightly. Dull red eyes are trained on Mika and the goo-covered commlink. "I jus-s-s-st bloody told you, Lord. Er, Captain. Lord-Cap... bollocks-s-s-s," Mika cuts off, abandoning her attempts at correctly parsing the snooty title with a puzzled shake of her bald head. "We s-s-s-simply want to catch up with Doctor Ranix-x-x-x-x. We'll bloody s-s-s-s-stay off any and all blinking planets-s-s-s this-s-s-s time, wot. S-s-s-send a bloody es-s-s-scort if you want, but bet a s-s-s-sterling to a shitbrick that I am leaving." Torr remains where he is, crossing arms over his chest. The smirk still lingers on his face at his partner's request. He does remain silent, letting Mika talk for now. Negotiating isn't exactly Torr's strength. Swiftfoot settles back on her haunches, or at least she would if she had any. In any case, she settles into a position that somewhat resembles sitting down. She blinks slowly, watching Mika's outburst over the comm. "Nobody is holding you aboard the Orphic, Captain." comes back Cochrane's polished tone, "You can board your ship and leave as soon as you like. Though I suggest that you not land on Waldheim. As for leaving the system... You know I can't allow that, Captain." A vein sort of bulges in Mika's forehead and a drop of the chemical bath runs down her pale face, catching in a wad of ooze. "If Waldheim is uns-s-s-safe, and we can't leave the s-s-s-s-sys-s-s-stem, then where the Chris-s-s-st els-s-se do you s-s-s-sugges-s-st we go, Cochrane?" she retorts. "My crew and I have done nothing but as-s-s-s-sis-s-s-st S-s-s-sivad, from s-s-s-supporting the bloody war effort to bloody returning Minis-s-s-ster DelMarenno's-s-s s-s-ship to god-damned-blinking infecting ours-s-s-selves ass-s-s-s-sis-s-sting your PHS-s-s. What do you bloody want from us-s-s-s?" "Right," Torr mutters beneath his breath. "We're fuckin' leaving the system. PHS refuses to let us leave, so fuck them." He uncrosses arms, eyes narrowing slightly. His already tense bearing tightens a bit more. "I understand your frustration, Captain. We have troops on the way here to secure Waldheim as we speak, armed with psi-blockers. Until then, I suggest you not land on the planet." There is a pause from Cochrane, and says, "There is no way we can guarantee that you wouldn't spread the infection. And if Dr. Lind is lost, then we'll need to start all over again with the cure." "I'm with him," the frustrated pilot agrees, waving her finger-tentacles vaguely at Torr and snorting softly in spite of herself. "What, do they want usssss to jusssssst sssssstay here and wait for the cure to find ussssss? I'm all for getting our collective assssssesssss out of here." Mika sets her jaw, which only serves to make it appear as if she's got a weird bulbous knob growing out of her cheek. She glances over her shoulder at the mutant Demarian, then shifts her red-orange eyes to Torr for the first time since she came out of hiding. "The bloody RNS-s-s-s-s will blas-s-s-st us-s-s-s to s-s-s-spacedus-s-s-st," she notes, before pressing the button again and speaking into the comm again. "Is-s-s there a way a s-s-s-sample of that cure and a trained technician could be s-s-s-sent to tend to thos-s-s-se quarantined here within the nex-x-x-xt day?" she suggests. "Funny thing is, cure already found us. Fuckin' Marlan was here with it, and she left," Torr replies, shaking his head. "Jesus. Fucking incompetant. We don't even want to go to fucking Waldheim. Who the hell would." "We don't have the cure." Cochrane says through the commlink, "Captain Ranix made off for Demaria with it before Admiral Lind could share his results." Swiftfoot emits a bubbling growl of frustration, "I'd sssssssswear that'sssss preccccissssely what we were trying to tell them. Why the hell elssssssse would we want to go to Demaria?" She shifts her bulk uncomfortably and blinks heavily at Mika's back, watching and waiting. With a flick of one elongated finger, Mika clicks off the comm, but not before a final word to Cochrane: "Unders-s-s-s-stood, Captain. We hear you loud and clear. Tachyon out." Her head swivels back to once again regard Swiftfoot, then jerks toward the showers. She is still intent on leaving the Orphic, it would seem. She passes the comm back through the slot, and, if the door is indeed opened, she squishes her way out of the cell. If not, well, she resumes banging on its surface and yelling. "Anyway," Torr levels his hard gaze once more on the PHSers. "You wanna do me a favor and open the fucking door. Really, that'd be doing yourselves a favor." Swiftfoot shifts her red-eyed stare to the PHS sentries and waits soundlessly for their reaction. And the guards - who aren't PHS officers, incidentally - let them pass with nary a word. Once she is out in the open, Mika is again overwhelmed with a sort of self-consciousness not unlike that which she was faced with when her fiance first came to visit. She lowers her gaze as she inches along, her eyeridge knit as she tries to lose herself in thought, avoiding eye contact with anyone as she threads her sluggy way through the knot of booths and bodies -- the latter of which mostly part in ghastly horror -- toward the interlock and landing facilities. The command station of the freighter is cramped enough when one is dealing with solely human bodies, let alone some misshapen slug. It takes a little bit of effort for Mika to make her way through the corridor and down the platform to take her place at the nav controls. She has not yet situated herself when she starts barking orders in her grainy Thul voice. "Hots-s-shot, man the s-s-s-sens-s-s-sors. S-s-s-swifty, you're in the s-s-s-starboard turret," she orders, eyes on the menacing RNS fleet patrolling the Panzer system. "Buckle up. We are going to find the bloody Athena, or we are going to blinking die trying." Torr smirks slightly as he takes up his designated station. "Yeah babe, you got it. I watch shit, thats my fucking skills up here." He snorts, kicking back a little in the seat as he fixes his eyes on the readouts. "Lets do this shit." Swiftfoot nods her misshapen head, slithering over to the starboard turret. After several attempts to get herself situated, she seems to have achieved a position that almost borders on comfortable. Almost. >> Outside the Ship: The IND Jackal lifts off and departs the docking bay. >> Outside the Ship: Waldheim Orbit >> Outside the Ship: - Waldheim Local Space ZMO - ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ While the system itself is quiet, the skies above Waldheim are populated. Two sets of satellites orbit the dark green planet. The lower orbits are claimed by native satellites, mostly dedicated to weather and communications duties. The higher orbitsare held by Sivadian survelliance and survey sattelites. A Royal Naval Service picket ship maintains a patrol of Waldheim's orbit, monitoring an governing traffic to and from the planet's surface. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ >> Outside the Ship: The RNS ships hang mute and imposing in the void, sleek and grey, each with a floodlight illuminating the ship's name on the bow. The Indefatigable, the fleet's huge flagship, quietly orbits some distance away, her fighter compliment turning to look at the newest launch. The comm crackles as it is scanned, "IND Jackal, this is Flight Lieutenant Jefferies of the RNAS. State your intentions and destination, over." >> Outside the Ship: When she is cleared for takeoff, Jackal clips on out of the Orphic's landing bay just as clean as can be, easing into the rather sparse RNS traffic that hangs in Waldheim orbit. "Tachyon to RNAS-s-s-s-s Control. We are on a trajectory to the Demar s-s-s-sys-s-stem," replies the matter-of-fact voice representing Jackal. >> Outside the Ship: There is a somewhat surprised noise from the RNAS officer. "Negative, Jackal. Turn your vessel around, you are not permitted to leave the system." When her long slimy fingers prove to be a gunky mess on the controls, Mika settles for utilizing the ship's daemon. "Bandit, plot a cours-s-s-se for Demaria," she requests. And indeed, a split-second later the navcomputer displays a holographic sphere detailing the coordinates and estimated flight path. Emphasis on "estimated". The slug captain frowns at the looming ships and sends a nod to her two crewbies. "Well there goes my fucking job," Torr mutters, nodding toward the obvious presence of the RNS ships on the external vidfeeds. Eyes flick toward Mika at her words. "Subtle," he comments, smirking. He taps a few of the buttons in front of him, sending a knowing grin toward his slug partner. >> Outside the Ship: With a sudden shimmering, the IND Jackal raises its shields. Swiftfoot nods and exhales, eyeing Mika's progress with the ship's controls before turning to her own console, looking vaguely uneasy. She observes, "Thisssss ssssslug crap sssssuckssss," before setting her slimy finger-tentacles to the gunnery controls. >> Outside the Ship: "There's-s-s-s only one bloody teatipper the Jackals-s-s-s take orders-s-s-s from, jack," replies the crackly hiss of the smugglers' vessel over the insystem network. She is engulfed momentarily in a flickering orb of bluish-white which instantly disappears, and once her pilot has decided on a route, her thrusters kick on the speed to zip like a needle pulling thread through the patchwork quilt of assorted milspec ships. "And that's-s-s-s me, bollocks-s-s-s." >> Outside the Ship: There is only a moment of pause as orders presumably fly back and forth between the RNAS officers and their controller. Then there is a flash in the void as a warning shot is fired against the Jackal's shields. "IND Jackal..." the comm crackles, "You are ordered to heave too and prepare to be boarded. This is your final warning." Slender, pale tendrils wrap around the leathery yoke just in time for the propulsion units to kick in, and the roaring power of the mark-five gravitic drive sends the ship blasting forward. As the shot connects with the shields, Mika's grimy lips spread into an echo of the grin she once donned so easily. Her response over the comms is quite clear: "Fat chanc-c-c-c-ce." "Suck my cock!" Torr's words are shouted over the comm, a wild smirk flashing over his face as the shields come up and the ships springs forward. "Fuck yeah," he comments to no one in particular, looking to be enjoying himself. >> Outside the Ship: There is a pause of a few seconds more. More orders back and forth in the void. And then, the destroyers that hang nearby turn towards Jackal as well, gunports opening. The RNAS fighters, a flight of them, close in on the freighter, guns blazing. Apparently they have been ordered not to let her go. Swiftfoot snorts in amusement and cracks a seriously ugly grin, showing her nubby teeth, before turning her attention back to the gun turret, licking her lips with her slimy tongue. >> Outside the Ship: The Spitfires close in on Jackal like avenging angels. Their cannons roar, tearing through the blackness of space. As she evades, the deadly dance begins, coherent light contacts the Jackal's shields. Two shots barely skim the shield, but one pilot gets briefly behind her, stitching a neat line down your shields, causing them to bubble. They hold, but the destroyers are now awake. Tarry too long with the fighters, and the larger ships may catch up. >> Outside the Ship: As the shots come ringing in, Jackal is utterly hammered from all sides, her disc-like form bucking and canting wildly in an attempt to evade whatever spray she can and hopefully shake off a couple of those pesky fighters. She dives into a twirling corkscrew, arcing at an upward angle to sweep over and around in dizzying loops. Mika grits her nubby teeth and winces in a very strange-looking expression for her flabby face. "Hots-s-s-shot, how many are on us-s-s-s-s?" She cannot spare a glance at the HUD. "S-s-swifty! Work your bloody magic, furball!" Torr grips the arm of his chair as the ship shakes and quakes, his eyes flicking to the readouts in front of him. "Fuckin' four of 'em," he calls out. "The Nall were better than this. Fuck 'em lets go." Swiftfoot growls to nobody in particular as the ship bucks and heaves. "Ssssscrew thisssss. They aren't playing around, sssssssso neither are we." She sets her finger-tentacles on the controls, the Jackal's starboard turret blazing at the nearest target. >> Outside the Ship: Unfortunately for the Jackal, the Spitfires are sleek, deadly, and piloted by pilots with an even more reckless disregard for their safety than Mika. They easily follow the little black starship through the evasive maneuvers this time, and while one shoots pitifully out into open space, the other three manage to get a lock. More beams of light lash out at her shields, this time punching through to the armor, causing nasty damage to the new paint job and causing the ship to buck and writhe. >> Outside the Ship: Mika's horrified shriek can be heard over the comms as she witnesses the bolt just sliiiiide the red paint off of her beautiful bird's nose. Jackal shudders in a most disconcerting fashion as the white-hot blasts connect, banking uncomfortably before putting on the heat again to punch through toward open space and the jumpoint. She's not looking for a fight -- it's looking for an escape route. Nevertheless, its captain continues to bark instructions to her crew. "Hots-s-shot -- keep me pos-s-s-s-sted on who's-s-s-s coming where, bollocks-s-s-s! S-s-swifty, doll, jus-s-s-st hold them off!" "Christ, babe, lets fucking go!" Torr looks over to Mika, his usual smirk still on the man's face, though it is waning a bit. He still grips the arm of the chair, his other hand darting to his cigarette pack. One is lifted to his lips, then sparked to life as he holds on through the twisting and shaking. "Its still the fucking fighters...not long before that shit kicks in, destroyers I mean." Swiftfoot snarls as the sleek fighter she was aiming at darts easily out of the way of her initial salvo. "Sssssssstay sssssstill, you..." she says to nobody in particular, as slimy tendrils dart over the gunnery console, firing at another Spitfire that veers into range. >> Outside the Ship: Right now, it's looking as if she never even had a chance. The Jackal's guns go widely awry, and the ship manages to swerve directly into the path of the oncoming fighters. Their weapons lock on and they fire, ripping through shields and armor. The lights dim as the ship bucks and consoles explode. Armor vaporizes under the unimaginable heat of the incoming attack. Its crew can feel their craft slow as the engine output drops, and the sensors fill with static. But the hyper limit is right ahead, if she can just get out of the way of the fighters long enough to make the jump, she might make it away. If she doesn't, that destroyer which is now bearing down on her is likely to settle her hash. >> Outside the Ship: The Jackal's navigator desperately tries to make sense of the spider's web of ships she's gotten herself entangled in, her beaten and battered frame charging as fast as her strained engines will allow for the finish line. It's right there... right... there... Angry beeping and a flurry of red and amber warning lights illuminate the consoles, but the slugified rogue pays them no mind. Sticky, slimy sweat trickles down her forehead. She tunes everything out to play the last card in her sorry hand. "Fuck fuck fuck," Torr bites out. "Fucking Sivad. Fucking Christ they're fucked after this." He takes a long, hasty drag from the cigarette, the thing quickly bruning down as he looks at the scanners. "Fuckin' destroyer closing," he states coldly, his momentary panic settled into cold resolve. "Fuckerssss!" Swifty snarls, as her shot again goes wide, burning its way out into deep space. She nods to herself as it becomes clear that the captain intends to make a break for the jump point. Sticky tendrils dance again across the controls as she sends another shot sizzling at the nearest fighter. >> Outside the Ship: One of the RNAS Fighters' shield flares and it takes a few hits from the the lasers of the Jackal. It breaks off, but the others continue their attack. >> Outside the Ship: And the fighters close in, their pilots darting and twisting with skill that seems, for the moment, almost unbelievable. Their lasers lash out, and the Jackal shudders as compartments are vented to space. Armor sloughs off in whole panels as it bleeds air. Warning klaxxons howl and the ship seems to scream in protest. But it holds together, and the FTL drive might be the only thing on the panel still green. And now, the navicomputer tells the crew they are clear to jump. "Bandit!" barks Mika, her icky hands having covered the yoke she is gripping so tightly in noxious sweat, "lockdown and s-s-s-seal the damaged compartments-s-s-s-s!" There is no verification from the AI, however -- likely because the mainframe is spitting sparks and smoking heavily. The captain only glances at it a moment, however, before turning her eyes to the jumpoint... and the sundresses and Vernelli heels floating through space before her. There is a moment's confusion. "Are... are thos-s-s-s-se Harmony's-s-s-s-s?" It is the last remark the Jackal's captain makes before the wounded ship lurches into transition space.
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