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| - The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. The space is ingeniously outfitted, the furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's own acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal sleeping niches, with each empty bunk module containing a bed with built in cabinetry and storage lockers. Forward, a fresher unit is located portside, while to the starboard is a simple kitchenette. The room is softly illuminated, gentle light floating down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing. The deckplates are sturdy and and diamond gridded, providing a sturdy utilitarian finish to the space. Aadzrian, the violent Timonae, is of course doing what violent Timonae do best... making himself a cup of tea. He swirls a little spoon around in his teacup carefully, fishing out the teabag and depositing it in the trash with a cheerful whistle to himself. Razorback seems to have stepped out for the moment, but nonetheless the Timonae looks around to either side sneakily before he grabs the bottle of whisky nearby and tops off the tea with what's left. The grin that comes to his face as he sips the resulting beverage says one thing: ahh, satisfaction. Aadzrian This Timonae male looks to be, at a first glance, a somewhat unusual representative of his race. An inch or two beyond six and a half feet, he's slightly under average height for a man of his kind, but his frame is noticeably broad to the Timonese eye- perhaps close to two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle. By human standards, however, he remains mostly lean, with broad shoulders and long, graceful limbs, a body lacking any unnecessary weight. Skin of a smooth uniform brown shade covers the small bit of exposed flesh he shows, cut by a facial scar that's hard to overlook- a shiny, taut ribbon of pink tissue that slices up from the left side of his jaw, over prominent cheekbones in a slightly hollow face, and curls in a deliberate lazy spiral around his swirling, opalescent green left eye. Heavy brows of a dark, almost tarnished shade of silver match his head of incongruously fluffy hair, a wild mess that hangs past his ears. A small, neatly groomed beard clings to just his chin, strands bearing an identical metallic sheen. He's clad simply at the moment, but in a fashion that might gain attention for what it reveals. The fitted plain white t-shirt and ordinary black shorts are not particularly immodest, but they display two things: both the physique of someone perhaps overly obsessed with exercise, and the fact that his facial scar is not unique. Bared arms and legs both are marked with shiny pink burn scars in the form of a swirling, curliqued pattern, undeniably intentional and a vivid contrast against his brown skin. They disappear upward under the shorts with no sign of stopping and can be faintly perceived through the shirt, making it unclear if there's anywhere the Timonae isn't marked. The handle of a stun gun in one pocket and simple running shoes complete the ensemble, swirling scars running downward into the area covered by socks as well. "Teabags are trash," opines the whirlwind known as Jay, who breezes through the aft passage with a quick stride and a PDA in hand. "Ye want th' loose kind an' mesh infuser. When th' leaves can't 'xpand, ye lose up ta eighty-percent antioxidant strength." Once a tea dealer, always a tea dealer. Tossing her datapad onto the tabletop with a noisy skitter of metal on metal, the piratical former captain folds her arms and squints her good eye at Aadzrian. "Good 'nough ta man a tow cable or two, mate?" Reilly Built like a bird and maybe fifty kilograms soaking wet, this rangy young humanoid female looks as if she's seen better days. One vibrant green eye sparkles like the waters of Regreb beneath butterfly lashes, but the other would appear to be missing altogether, replaced by a simple black eyepatch. The better part of the left half of her face is marred by a series of grotesque scars which tear several brutal, blackish-brown lines from mid-forehead to nostril and from ear-to-ear along the apple of her throat, combatting the soft features of her squarish, freckled face. Spilling to the small of her back is her glossy auburn mane, straight as nails and bleached ever-so-slightly by the sun. Both ears bear a ladder of three studs which descend to a single gold hoop dangling from either lobe, and her hair is tucked behind them, bound in place by a solid black headscarf whose tails flutter to the small of her back. Her top is scoop-collared and sleeveless, its ebon hue broken up by the glint of silver dogtags strung around her neck and the dusty olive field jacket slid lightly about her slight frame. Low-slung cargo pants show wear about the knees and pockets, and her boots aren't much better, the black leather scuffed and stained and laces frayed. Her left arm is wrapped from the elbow down, tight enough for security but comfortable enough for long fingers to move freely. At a glance, she appears to be armed. A holster housing a small firearm is strapped just above her right knee. Sinopa hobbles into the crew quarters, her knee not quite as stiff today, although she leans a bit heavily on her cane just now, and winces with each step. "Eveing," she says to the room in general as she stops, shifting her weight to her right leg. "How everyone?" she asks. Sinopa You see before you a young Qua girl of about 15. Her thick straight black hair is cut to just above her shoulders. Her dark hair and the copper color of her skin enhances the color of her jade green eyes. Her face is of an oval shape with sharp strong features and high cheek bones. She stands about 5'5" and is of a medium build, not terribly slender, but not heavy either. She is not wearing any makeup and her hair is down and brushed straight. Sinopa is wearing a t-shirt that is a bit long on her, coming to just below her hips. The t-shirt itself is of a midnight blue color with a picture of a wolf on it. Below this she wears a pair of tan shorts which come to about mid thigh. The shorts have more pockets than a pair of shorts should, but each is full with the various gadgets of her trade. There are two in the back, two in the front, and two on each side, these are a little lower than the others. On her feet she wears dark ankle socks with a pair of dark tennis shoes. Aadzrian lifts his head from his tea to stare blankly down at Reilly, wide eyes in a stupefied face as the Timonae tries to figure out just what these mystical 'antioxidants' might be. Eventually he just gives up on the question, helplessly shrugging and gulping down that hot tea. "I jus like tea," he states blandly, setting the cup aside for the moment, "and I's t'inking I good enough for anyt'ing. Wat you need?" Sinopa gets a friendly half-smile and a cheery wave. "No half bad," he informs the Qua, "no half bad at al." Jay casts a glance over her shoulder at Sinopa, gives her a brief once-over, and quirks her brow. "Well, I don't need a bloody cane, so that's a point in me favor," she drawls, letting her jaw slack and scratching at a scar with her forefinger. Letting the great tea debate drop, she gives her head a toss and regards Aadzrian again. "I needa go pick up some things on Mars. Might be ye'd get some dirty looks there, mate, but I'll flip a few sterlin' yer way if'n ye share th' load." Sinopa smirks at Jay, "Hopefully I won't for much longer...I did pretty good most of the day...I just...got sore toward evening," she explains. With this she hobbles the rest of the way to the table where she flops uncerimoniously into one of the chairs and sighs softly, a frustrated sound. "You is do great, Sin," Aadzrian says softly, flashing the girl a gentle smile. He gulps down the rest of his tea and sets the cup aside heedlessly on the nearest flat surface, indulging himself with a catlike stretch before turning on a booted heel to Jay. "I gets dirty looks every-where," he notes casually, "so I no gives a damn any-more. And I gets bored easy, so I is your man." This wins one of those lopsided half-grins from the young humanoid woman. "Great. I'd ask Razorback, but I can't bloody find 'im, an' Redtail would jus' get us all shot," Jay explains. "Jus' let me know if it gets ta be too much on ye. C'mon up to th' bridge. We can take off within th' hour." Before making her way forward again, she collects 'pad and touches stylus to screen a time or two, and apparently satisfied, she pockets the device. "An' you there, with th' cane," comes a call from the corridor. "Come fly th' ship." Sinopa pales a bit, "I don't fly the thing...I just fix it," she says. "Swifty does the flyin' around here." The apparently unfindable Razorback Cliffwalker ducks in from the corridor, apparently having gone back to the cargo bay to make certain that his recent kill is secure. His ears are quirked forward, his brow furrowed tightly. "Captain Tachyon is looking forrr me?" he asks of the room's current residents. Razorback You see a tall black spectre that resembles, on closer inspection, an immense (over seven and a half feet at least), bipedal panther. With the exception of a dark red line that runs from snout to tailtip, this Demarian is jet black; his mane is grown long, down past his shoulders, impeccably combed and tied back with a wrapping of leather. Grey eyes contrast his fur color with a grim intensity, seated in a chizeled leonid face. There is a proud, but not haughty air about the felinoid, showing in his gait and his bearing. His massive frame and powerful limbs are encased in a billowing pale yellow shirt that gathers at the wrists and a pair of dark red trousers which tuck into his footwear. His heavy, digitigrade boots each seem to have three evenly spaced holes cut in the front of them. Over this is a floor-length, velvet coat that flairs out at the knees, adding to the Demarian's feline grace when he moves. His clothes are manufactured from expensive, but worn fabrics, somewhat faded and threadbare in places. Only their excellent quality has allowed them to last as long as they have. The clothes covering his upper body seem far more tight than they should be, indicating some kind of bulky garment beneath. "Aw hel," grumbles Aadzrian, glancing between Sinopa and the retreating Jay. Shaking his head, he pushes himself off the counter- leaving that teacup forgotten- and starts making his way after the irrepressible woman. "C'mon, Sin, I is bet she no heared you. And I no can fly damn t'ing eit'er." As Razor appears, the Timonae waves a hand at him, ordering without explanation, "You comes too also bridge." The name 'Captain Tachyon' brings a decidedly confused expression to his face... but it doesn't stop his progress forward. "That's not me NAME, fuzzball," Jay's voice offers as mildly irritated reminder, from somewhere further down the passage. Her only response to Timonae and Qua are the clank-clank-clanks of her boots on the metal decking. The hatchway opens up to a small metal platform, which overlooks a compact command center. Light filters out from hidden coves, providing an even illumination across the bridge consoles. A rainbow of telltales and monitors add a touch of color, breathing life into the functional and utilitarian space. A few steps down, the bridge workstations are arranged in a rough semicircle, following the shark nosed form of the ship's bow. Two stations face forward and are centered beneath the main canopy. The other two workstations face the port and starboard, one on each side of the bridge. The space is tight, with arely enough room to move when all the stations are occupied. By the time the others have arrived, Jay has taken a place at the main navconsole and is popping earbuds into place, her bandaged hand resting lightly on the yoke as the systems warm up and terminals blink out of sleep mode. A crackle of static escapes from a speaker on the commstation; is silenced when the rogue flips a switch at her own position, and within a moment she is speaking to whomever is on the other end. Aadzrian strides in not far behind Reilly, surveying the surroundings outside through the viewscreen idly... a slow, decidedly evil grin curls his lips after a moment, and the Timonae abruptly strides over to the intercom on the communications console, finding *something* out there of note enough to pick it up and address a message to the landing pad at large. Business, for the moment, seems to be forgotten. >> Outside the Ship: "Hey, bitsh," Aadzrian's gleeful voice comes over the landing pad, echoing from the Streak's intercom system, "I seeeeee you. You any good at dodges pulse cannons? To understanding t'at I asking only in a... sense of deep, abiding personal curious-ness. Is entirely hypo-t'etics. Probably." Razorback ducks in through the hatch, supporting Sinopa with an arm. "You wisshed to ssee me?" he asks of the woman at the controls. Sinopa walks in, Razor support on one side, cane on the other. She says nothing for now, but does take a look at the view screen to see who Aadz is addressing. >> Outside the Ship: Franceza was enjoying a quiet evening. Just her, a bottle of something, the colours up above and a very content grin to her lips. Until that voice booms. She nearly drops her bottle, startled by the sudden sound. She looks around, her eyes before too long coming to rest on the Streak. A moment of nothing, then a shrug. And was she rolling her eyes? "--destination Sol via Intersys Five-Eight-Three, estima-- what? No, we are not engagin' in any 'ostilities with--" And Jay breaks off her exchange, suddenly peering back at Aadz wearing nothing on her face but outright disapproval, a finger darting up to mute her mic. "Stop engagin' in 'ostilities, ye bloody lunatic!" She, too, rolls her eyes, muttering to herself a bit before re-entering converation with flight control and beginning the preparations for take-off. A quick glance goes over to the general direction of Razorback and Sinopa, and wordlessly, she indicates that both should have a seat at one of the remaining stations. Aadzrian makes another sing-song, deeply amused comment into the intercom before replacing it, sliding his tall form into the seat at the weapons console. He doesn't power them up, but he *does* swing the turrets around with a careless touch that belies the exactness of their aim- pointed at Franceza on the ramp. "Fifty creds says I can shooting t'at bottle out of her hand," he tells the bridge at large, take off or not, but then does repent at least enough to aim the turrets somewhere not likely to get anyone arrested. >> Outside the Ship: "You no answer my questions, I has to engaging in empirical testings!" the intercom chirps. A momentary pause, and then the Streak's turrets swing exactly Franceza's way... thankfully, for all of a couple seconds, before they return to a neutral position. Silence. Razorback helps Sinopa to the engineering station before moving to the comm console himself, strapping his massive frame into the seat with little difficulty. >> Outside the Ship: If he expected a reaction, he may come home from a very cold shoulder. The woman just sits there, owning the ramp, maybe feeling secure in the thought that he might just not blow up another ship. Frank lifts the bottle to her lips, slowly raises the middle finger of her free hand. Sinopa takes her seat at her station a smile to Razor before strapping herself in. She smirks at Aadz antics but is smart enough to keep any comments to herself. >> Outside the Ship: Oh God, Aadz really IS going to blow up another ship! No, wait: the rumbling from the Streak is just the massive capship creaking to life and slowly beginning to taxi from its berth and into a departure lane, its path checked by a number of brightly-dressed dockhands with glowing batons and communications headgear. There is a low whummm as the jets come to life, and a whirr as the thrusters turn and rotate into their proper position. >> Outside the Ship: "Good riddance!" Franceza finally yells. With something close to glee. It would seem that Jay Reilly's familiarity with starships extends to more than simply the artificial gravity that has put such a roll in her spacer's stride. While she is hardly a top gun, having to pause and hunt for certain controls and dials now and again, wonders of wonders -- she knows how to operate the damn thing, and indeed fits seamlessly into bridge operations. She doesn't have much to say, her attention still focused largely on getting the bird off the ground. It seems that if Franceza is counting on Aadzrian's logic to keep him from blowing anything up, she might just be making too much of an assumption that the Timonae's playing with a full deck. One of his big brown hands sneaks towards activating the guns, stealthily crossing the console, but pauses right before the necessarily controls as the ship starts to move. With a plaintive sigh, staring at his hand, Aadzrian laments, "One day, I *wil* kils t'at bitsh and putting her body some-where no one *ever* gonna finds her." And then he folds both hands, politely, in his lap. Sinopa watches the antics outside and can't help but snicker a bit at Aadz comment, but her attention quickly goes to the engineering console where she starts going through her preflight check stuff. "Since sensors don't really work well here, ye want me to forgo the scan?" she asks Reilly. "That is enough, Aadzrrrian," Razorback says quietly from his seat, as out of place on the bridge as Reilly is at home. He watches the world outside move about as the ship lifts off, his ears swivelling about the bridge as he attempts to remain aware of his surroundings as much as possible. It isn't until the Silver Streak is off the ground and breaking orbit that Jay ends her chat with the control tower, trading her earbuds for the traditional headset. Steering with one hand and a knee, she fits the device about her ear, looking first askance to Aadz and then to Sinopa. "No," she replies to the latter. "Never. Th' li'l it tells us might be th' li'l bit wot stops a crash. Buckle up fer th' jump, kids." Aadzrian leans back in the weapons console's chair, saying rather flatly to Razorback, "Is no enough for wat she didded. I tells you about it, sometime, maybe. But is safe t'ing to say t'at in t'is galaxy? Is some people for who deat' canno coming fast enough." He handles the takeoff without hardly paying attention to it, with the comfort of someone for whom space travel is decidedly routine. Sinopa nods and continues with her checks until they are safely in space and into jump. She too seems completely unbothered by the take off, but she is belted in already. "Yeah, wouldn't want ye to run into a meteor or an asteroid accidently," she states, "That'd have me busy for weeks tryin' to fix everythin'." Razorback nods slowly, before turning towards Aadzrian. "Fuming will not help matterrrs," he says, "And may even hurrrt them." He sighs quietly before turning his attention to the pilot of the vessel. "Sso," he begins, "Might I assk wherrre we arrre going?" "You an' me both," Jay returns offhandedly to the engineer, guiding the hulking vessel into the outbound spacelanes. "Forgot was it was like, 'andlin' a bird this bloody big. We're goin' ta Sol, Razorback, ta Mars," she adds with more volume, peeling her gaze from the Qua's scans to meet the Demarian's eyes for a brief moment. "Jus' fer a li'l while, so I can get some things. Ye guys gotta be on yer bes' b'havior out there. Buncha lunatics, Martians. Stay onna ship if it makes ye uncomfortable." Fuming may not help matters, but that doesn't keep Aadzrian from fuming nonetheless. That is, until Jay mentions best behavior- and then an angelic half-smile comes to the Timonae's face. "Oh, I wil being real nice," he informs the erstwhile captain with perfect sweetness. "Promise no to start no a single figh'. Only finish t'em, if has to." Sinopa smirks, "I ain't uncomfortable," she says. "An' I'll be good until they try to start shit," she states, "Then I'm right there with Aadz on finishin' it." A snort of laughter crops up from Jay's direction. "I like ye guys," she admits with some amusement, queueing up a translucent blue three-dimensional globe, representative, at closer inspection, of the Orion Arm; another dance of fingers across the keypad criss-crosses it with a grid and scatters a number of points about its circumference. Further manipulation of the controls isolates two points, hilights them in green, zooms in, and traces a bold, bright yellow path between them. This completed, waves of data rain down upon the main nav and engineering console. "Buckle in," Jay reminds again, just for the benefit of anyone who hasn't. Aadzrian secures himself with an absent blink, having forgotten to do so earlier. "Of course you likes us," he remarks easily, smile shifting to an amused smirk that dances about the left side of his lips. "Sinopa is so very cute and I, I is a hand-some devil beyond compares. You could hardly askings for better company on t'is little trek across stars, yes? Oh," he adds after a moment, "I supposing Razor is al righ', too." Sinopa giggles and since she's strapped in already decides to check her weapons. "I'm all ready to go," she says as she checks energy cells, and safties on both her weapons. "What'd ye expect to find there." Reilly's good eye rolls, ever so faintly, more a sly flutter of lashes than anything. "I like me men a li'l more rugged," she informs the cocksure Timonae, double-checking her own harness. "An' me women, I like--" Her words are either broken off or flushed out by a sudden thrust of a lever and a flurried fingertips over a series of knobs and dials. There is a hiss from the artificial gravity, the slightest, near-imperceptible change in pressure, and then suddenly the jump point appears on the viewscreen. Right hand on the grip, Jay jerks the lever back toward her, and spindrive flares into action. There is the sudden feeling of one's foot being caught in the undertow... ... the sudden sensation of falling, falling, falling... And then the ship LURCHES, normalizing again, the rainbow of realspace a blurry, smeary mess on the viewscreen. The pilot is unfazed, simply riding the waves and settling back when all the rocking about has concluded. "--I like me women fat an' ugly an' makin' me look better," she finishes. Aadzrian sits through the ruckus mostly stoically, though he starts looking faintly grey by the end of it in the manner of one who might have had a little more whisky before that tea. Still, a swallow and a quick shake clears his head, and he inquires of Reilly rather indignantly, "Rugged? Fuck t'at, I plenty 'rugged'. I punsh giant boar in face last nigh' and eated its liver raw, wat more do you womenfolk wanting from me?" The Timonae harrumphs, sprawling back in the chair with long limbs all akimbo- a wide gesture of one hand through the air conducting his helpless disgust. Sinopa looks to Jay, "Well...I guess that leaves me out," she says leaning back in her chair nonchalantly. Then looking to Aadz, "Where'd ye go huntin'?" she asks curiously, "An' no fair not takin' me with ye." "A *BOAR*?" Jay cries in disbelief, as if boars were some sort of mythical storybook creature. Peering over her shoulder at Aadzrian, her scar-sketched face inked over with bewilderment, she presses, "TELL me yer jokin', mate!" "A boar," Aadzrian agrees solemnly, holding up a hand to his midchest. "Boar t'is high. We wented Quaquan- no be mad, little bird, we wil has to goed again when meats run out from t'ree hungry Demarian-" that's a side comment to Sin, paired with an apologetic grin- "I wented along jus to watsh, and, uh..." He pauses a second, biting absently at the corner of his lips, brow furrowing as he searches down a word. "Mind-ride Razor," the Timonae settles on after a moment, nodding uncertainly. "But boar hurted him a bit, so I jumps out and cracks it one across face for him. When he kills it he gives me liver to be tried, and I t'inkinged, wel, why no?" Sinopa smirks, "It's alright," she says, "I just...can I go with ye next time? I miss home," she adds with a wistful expression. "It'd be fun to go with ye guys." She giggles then, her hand going to stiffle it. About midway through this little tale, Jay's bony little shoulders begin to shake with muted laughter, and thin lips eventually part to give it voice. "Kee-RIST almighty," she hoots, turning herself back around to monitor the status and trajectory, but seeming more concerned about the story than any dangers that might exist outside the spindrive's energy field. "Is THAT was was in them sandwiches las' night? Bollocks an' bloody 'ell, I was 'alfway to th' 'mergency comms, mate, I KNEW that wasn't no normal piggie-meat. I tell ye," and she sends another look back, left hand with all its wrappings lifted solemnly, as if taking an oath, "What I did to th' shitter is illegal in seven bloody systems. Completely blinkin' CRIMINAL." Aadzrian cackles with laughter of his own at Jay, deep, booming peals of it. "Do no blames me, Razor choosed te boar!" the Timonae objects, waving his hands in hasty denial of responsibility. "All I dids was whack it good one and livers tasting fine to me! But hey, t'at explain te *smel*, I t'inked Rkagar getted into t'at damn canal water again." The laughter pauses for a second, the shudder that sweeps his frame decidedly not feigned... and then he goes right back to grinning, wide enough to crease both sides of his face. "You stinks up ship so heinous illegal again, I arrests you like te good law-abiding cops I is and turns you in in first system wit' air freshener t'at wil taked you." Sinopa just about dies laughing as she just about falls out of her chair, all but for the straps holding her to it. "Spirits, Aadz," she cries out once she takes a breath, "Ye two are killin' me!" "No, what'll KILL ye's th' blinkin' pig chunks blowin' out yer tailpipe," Jay corrects, wagging a finger. "THAT will KILL a man. 'and ta God. An' ye ain't smelled FOUL," she tacks on for the boar-puncher's benefit, her attention beginning to divert back to her navigational duties, "until ye've smelled th' piss'oles on Cairo. Ain't nothin' like lizard shit an' vomit, bollocks. Christ, I am NEVER goin' ta Grimlahd. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. I dunno 'ow they BREATHE there. Might be why they suck down all that ditch water." "As Maza is witness- and she were definite witness t'at nigh- I drinked it, once," Aadzrian swears quite solemnly, a hand going to his heart. "Whole bucket. Back, oh- eh..." He pauses a moment to count on his fingers, "sixteen year ago during my mis-spent yout', someone say "Aadzrian Axbovi, I gots a whole bucket here of Zangali canal water and you saying you can drinks anyt'ing in whole damn galaxy, righ'? Wel, you drinks t'is." And I is too stupids to even asking for money first, 'cause Aadzrian Axbovi, he no turns down a dare. I takes te bucket and I drinks it al. And t'en I t'row up for TWO DAY straigh', no lie, I t'ink am die at begin and wish is haved at end. Oh, I knows foul, I do." Though quite busy at the helm all of a sudden, Jay still indulges in a broad grin and a hearty chuckle for Aadz. "Well THAT sure 'xplains a lot, don't it," is her quippy response, delivered with a wink that the Timonae cannot possibly see from his location. Her fingers close about the knobby, ridged handle of the jumpdrive's primary power switch once more, and she gives it another swing forward, her free hand undoing all of the changes it had previously made to the cabin's atmosphere. Ears pop. "'ang on, bucketdrinker," she warns, before throwing the switch once more. And where there was the uneasy sensation of free-fall before, now it's quite as if a crashing wave had broken over the ship itself, washing away the kaliedoscope of colors and leaving nothing but the glitters and twinkles of the Milky Way. "Stay off comms," she warns Aadzrian. "They'll lynch yer kind fer that kinda shit, 'ere." With a shattering of silver starbursts, the spindrive field collapses, returning the ship to normal space. The Milky Way sweeps across the starfileds like a river of diamonds on a black field, a soft glow along the galactic ecliptic. Here, a pair of stars shine, one a golden point of light, the second a smaller companion in orbit, that is in turn shadowed by a ring of rubble. Sol, the home system of the humanoid races. The jumppoint breaks into normal space high above the ecliptic, the system below laying out as if an illustrated in a basic astrogation text. The system's innermost orbits are claimed by the system's primary and the orbits of two planets. Midsystem is bounded by the dull red sphere of Earth, accompanied by Mars and the system's asteriod belt. The outer system is held by the system secondary, a young white star circling Sol. Keeping it company are the system's three gas giants and the eccentric orbit of Pluto. This far out, the only company is the system navigation bouy, steadfastly broadcasting basic system and approach information. Insystem, both the com and sensor scans are a chatter of merchant traffic, centered between Luna and Mars. Like little stars, insystem drives flare and sparkle, meeting the continuous demands of system commerce. >> Outside the Ship: A streak of crimson strikes across the darkness like a fiery lightning bolt, ending in a scattering of silver starbursts, leaving only the DCV Silver Streak in its wake. Aadzrian does indeed hang on, with just the mild, resigned shudder of knowing exactly what's coming. He looks decidedly queasy as the galaxy unfolds itself before the ship once more, a little groan escaping him before he swallows back hard and forces himself upright. "Nnrgh. I no t'reatens shoots jus any-one, you know," he informs Jay, voice just a tiny bit shaky. "I saving t'at kind of talk for my special friends. No worries, I been Mars before and is know to behaved. Ace would no keeps me around if I was stupids as I looked. ...Like hel if know why she do anyway, but hey!" He shrugs, dismissing the question with easy cheer. "Here we is." Sinopa giggles, "We keep ye fer comic relief, Aadz," she states with a quirk of her lips, "Besides...yer down right handy at times. And that girl that was on the pad back there...she deserved that shit, that's fer sure." Reilly recoils slightly at the sudden burst of chatter on her headset, the static and crackly voices audible, if barely, from the other stations around the bridge. Twisting the dial, she kills the volume a hair, bringing it down to a more tolerable level before she announces the Streak's arrival and intended path. As her terminal transmits the necessary data to the authorities, the pirate takes the yoke in hand again and angles the lumbering starship down into the inbound lanes, guiding them midsystem. "They've got space fer us on th' surface," she tells the other two over her shoulder. "Stellar. That'll make our lives easier. An' God knows," her brow crinkles; she is troubled, "this needsa go smoothly as bloody possible so we can get th' fuck outta 'ere. Next stop, Mars." The Streak banks for the red planet. "Comic relief," Aadzrian parrots at Sinopa, dryly, "great. Wel. Is better t'an not'ing, eh, little bird?" He stretches slowly in his seat, extending long limbs and getting the circulation going again before focusing those swirling green eyes on Reilly. "So. Why is you so nervous 'bout t'is? Would to be t'inked, if is simple pick-up of supply, should no being problem. I comed to Mars wit' no more t'an occasion stare and dirty word plenty time before." Sinopa nods and leans forward in her seat, "Yeah, why're we here? What's goin' on?" she asks bluntly. "There'll be problems if I'm recognized," Jay responds just as bluntly, maneuvering the thrusters so they gently -- ever so gently -- ease the Streak into a tight berth after breaking atmo. Where they land, it should be noted, bears no resemblance to the Hesperian spaceport; it's in fact military in appearance, with a sprawl of ordered chaos taking the form of a Vanguard salvage yard. "They will bloody 'ang me. I killed a Fleeter, an' after I killed th' Fleeter... uh, was some things in me pockets, an' might be th' ship I left in wasn't mine." Once the vessel powers down, comfy on its spidery landing gear, she wriggles out of her harness to stretch and yawn and -- most importantly -- grope her holster and boot for the butt of a gun and hilt of a knife. "I bought a ship. Gotta get it on th' Streak, then we can leave." Aadzrian unbuckles himself, a low and faintly amused chuckle escaping him as he climbs to his feet. "Wel, t'en. I is to hopes you no be recognize, t'en. T'ey gonna takes our weapons when we getting off?" There's not really any alarm in the Timonae in response to Jay's words... more a wary sort of tension that settles over him subtly, not a unnecessary twitch of a muscle from his lean frame. Casually, he turns on his Midvyet to let it charge in the holster at his side. Sinopa unstraps herself and stands, getting her cane and preparing to head for the hatchway, "I hope so too...I don't think I'll be runnin' fast or anythin'," she states. Wariness is a good word, Aadz, though Jay is trying hard not to project it. Whether that's to protect her ego or her neck isn't entirely clear, but she does not let her steps falter as she moves toward the boarding lock. "They might take yers," she confesses, though her shoulders shrug in a more honest estimation of her certainity. Appearances are not deceiving. Once the trio has disembarked it becomes plainly evident that this is, in fact, a military installation: not a missile silo or anything, but a military installation all the same. Countless vessels of all makes and models, along with planetary vehicles and other mechanical oddities, lie in various states of disrepair as far as the eye can see. Jay had described it as a salvage yard... but up close, the distinction between "salvaged goods" and "garbage" becomes blurry indeed. A small, barrel-chested man with a broken nose and cybernetic arm is steadily approaching the Streak, a large datapad tucked under his arm. He's in undress greens and sporting a ballcap proudly embroidered with the Vanguard's seal, and is nothing but prim disapproval when he spies the motley crew disembarking from the Silver Streak. He exchanges a few words with Jay -- and Jay alone -- before eyeing Aadzrian and Sinopa and turning about with a brisk, impatient, "this way," and crossing the debris-littered field. "'er name's th' Noble Cause," Jay explains, keeping more in step with her associates than the soldier if they decide to follow. "She was a rescue an' recovery vessel, back in th' day. She coul' use a li'l work, bollocks, they bloody found 'er somewhere off o' Luna or somethin', but she'll fly again." Again. There's the word, AGAIN. Apparently, she cannot fly NOW. Aadzrian extends an arm to Sinopa in a wordless offer of support, the Timonae for one demonstrating he has half a brain in his head by not even attempting to speak with the curt small man he towers over. Instead he just ambles along with his crewmates, staring down at Jay as she elaborates. "Noble Cause? Noble... Cause." Those lips twitch with the effort of holding in a grin. "To leaving aside irony... how is we gonna gets her on Streak? Wil she at least to rolls?" Sinopa raises a brow, "Again?" she asks. "That word usually means more work fer me," she states rolling her eyes as she accepts Aadz arm and leans on him at least as heavily as she does her cane. "And that name sounds Sivadian. They like to have all that noble and rightous and some such in everything they do." "She rolls," Jay confirms. Then, with a knit of her brow, she backpedals: "I think. Christ, mate, this is why I asked 'bout th' tow cables. But don't worry." Don't worry, she says. Don't worry until you see the ship itself, is what she means. The Noble Cause is not unlike Faux in size and shape, though the mottled blues of its hull have been scorched and punched through and seared, its starboard engineering outrigger reduced to an unservicable wreck, and the delicate lattices of its moebius drive torn apart as if by the claws of some feral, space-roving animal. The serviceman takes no pride in presenting the vessel to them, nor does he express any sorrow -- nor would any sane person alive. Jay, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas tree. "Aww, look at 'er! She looks even BETTER in livin' blinkin' color!" the spacer howls delightedly, clapping her hands together once in rapt appreciation of the junker before her. Aadzrian stares at the ship. Then stares at Jay. Ship... crazy woman. Ship... crazy woman. "Fuck," the Timonae laments in quite plaintive eloquence, "you gonna makes me *push* it over to Streak cause it no holds toget'er for anyt'ing else, is you no?" Finally his gaze settles on the ship, with all the resignation of a man who's doomed and decidedly knows it- whether it be from whatever effort is necessary to move the hunk of junk or, even more horrifying, the possibility of eventually riding in it. Sinopa gazes at the ship, "Does it have a shield generater...are we takin' it fer parts, cause that ship...is gonna take a miracle fer it to fly /again./" she states with a shake of her head. As the protests roll in, Jay gives her head a fierce shake, and keeps shaking it until the pair has said their piece. "Nuh-uh, no, no, no," she says, radiant and glowing there in the Vanguard salvage yard, gazing up at the totalled starship she is about to purchase. "Ye don't see 'er like I see 'er. That bird," she declares, indicating the Cause with one finger, "is gonna save our 'ides from th' Phyrrians. C'mon 'board." God, a grand tour. This is apparently what the serviceman was dreading, and with a hiss and whirr of servos he unfolds his cybernetic arm from the other across his chest, takes keycard in hand, and leads the way up the ramp. "Wel, maybe she has better guns t'an te Streak or, Maza forbid, te Blue..." With that unsure quasi-hopeful statement- and a look of dread that really doesn't abate- Aadzrian pads along after the serviceman to approach the near-wreck, continuing to lend Sinopa the support of his arm. "...could being somet'ing..." The Timonae does not sound convinced. Swiftfoot stalks down from the Silver Streak at that point, her brow furrowing as she takes a look around the landing pad. One ear cants halfway back, rather thoughtfully. That expression's easy to read - that's confusion. The Demarian spots the little knot of her crewmates and starts over that way, catching up relatively quickly despite that slight limp. "Uh... what in Brrakirr's name...?" she inquires of herself, seemingly only just noticing the condition of the Noble Cause. "Wait, you all go on a salvage job and not tell me orr something? I miss all the fun." Swiftfoot Swiftfoot is a fairly typical Demarian in both appearance and stature. That is to say, she's a bipedal felinoid, closely resembling the common domestic cat, and is approximately seven feet in height. Her exact build is difficult to ascertain, as she's covered by about eight inches of fluffy cream and white fur. Her dark pink nose is framed on either side with long, white whiskers. Eyes as bright as molten gold are set admist a series of barely-visible pale orange stripes, laid out in a classic tabby pattern -- markings on the forehead, and at the outside corners of the eyes. The rest of the visible orange fur is similarly striped, with her paws, throat and chest being pure white. A thick ruff surrounds her head and shoulders, lending itself to her fluffy appearance. The very tip of her orange-striped tail is just as snow white as her paws and chest. A long scar, obviously fairly recent, runs up her left cheek, and her right ear is notched and somewhat battered along the outside edge. Tailored black pants with more than a few pockets in evidence cover Swiftfoot's legs to the ankle, where they are tucked into a pair of black boots. A long, black coat conceals some sort of body armor underneath it, though it seems tailor-made to cover it, even having a high, almost Mandarin-style collar. The coat is fitted through the torso, and flares dramatically out at the waist to create long, flowing folds of fabric that fall to just below her knees. Along the hem, collar, and sleeves, fine gold thread has been used to create a glittering, abstract pattern of scrollwork. Two rows of rather large, shiny gold buttons, one on each side, hold the garment shut. Around the big cat's waist is a fringed golden sash, and not one, but two plain black holsters, both empty, sit down a bit on her hips. There is a golden bracelet around her left wrist, and a pair of tiny golden earrings dangling from her pointed, feline ears. Around the ring finger of her left paw is a steel ring, set with a polished, jet-black stone. Sinopa looks the ship over, "Lady, you must be crazy. That ship will not fly without some costly repairs, ye see?" she asks. "And time consuming...one thing we ain't got on our side," she says as she follows, continuing to keep ahold of Aadz arm. Hearing Swifty she glances back over her shoulder, "The crazy lady just bought a ship," she states. Whatever tensions exist between Jay Reilly and her former pilot melt away as Swiftfoot approaches, and the onetime captain whirls about, regarding her with open enthusiasm and beckoning for her to follow. "Ladycat!" Jay calls, drowning out Sin's pessimism and Aadzrian's forced optimism in favor of sharing her joy with the Demarian. "Come LOOK at this!" She motions grandly with one arm, then practically frolics in after the Martian. While the quartet snoops about inside, the official remains posted at the top of the boarding ramp, perhaps giving silent indication that he wants to be no part of any wanderings around decrepit, dilapidated junkheaps. Jay does not even seem to notice his absence, donning the cocky, lopsided grin that had once graced her features so easily and so often, in another lifetime. As she walks along the corridor to the hold, trailing the other three, she drags her fingers along the dusty and ripped crash padding. "I'm a salvor," she informs Sinopa, stepping into the disaster area that passes for a cargo bay, with its cobwebs and tumped-over shelving units and frayed wiring. In the center of the yawning hold is what would appear to be the wreckage of an even smaller vessel, the fractured remains of a Rockhopper, finished black and blown even blacker in some forgotten explosion. "An' I was meant to 'ave this ship." "Hey, Sin, and you no knowing how bad really are until you look at engines and.. t'ings, righ?" Aadzrian inquires of the Qua girl with hopeful cluelessness. "It migh no being as bad as looks under al mess. Maza know t'at Streak is no ship for battlings in. Can you standings wit'out me? I want to be go to bridge." His green eyes dart all around with hungry curiosity, as if trying to assess what secret treasures might lie under the wreckage. "Or may be you is comes too and see wat bits turning on." He turns around and starts marching out- releasing Sinopa if she doesn't seem inclined to follow, helping her along if she does. Swiftfoot shakes her head a bit. "Don't turrn anything on yet," she asides. "Not until we've had a chance to look herr overr rreal good, make surre nothing's gonna, y'know, explode orr spontaneously combust orr something equally fun." She stalks along after Jay, ears flicking uneasily as she comes to a stop behind and slightly to the right of her. The Demarian blinks and eyes the wreckage in the middle of the cargo bay, reading the name painted on the side. "What's Anubis?" she inquires after a few moments. Sinopa looks the ship over, "Then I'm sure ye'll have the ship, but ye still ain't said how yer planin' to get this rusty junk to work on it's own again," she states. "Ye don't seem to be listenin'. Yer /drive/? It looks like a space monster took a bite out of it, and yer hull is shit, and who knows what little surprises yer thrusters have. So unless yer hidin' a team of miracle workers somewhere..." she trails off. Jay slowly eases herself into a crouch, one arm draped across a knee, and licks at a thumb to scrub away some of the dirt and grime from the plaque adorning the busted 'hopper. "Shut up about me drive," she requests ever-so-politely of the injured Qua, tossing her head and giving the bay around her a good hard appraisal before choosing to answer the Demarian's question. "Anubis was some sort o' Terran god. 'is father was th' sun, an 'e ruled th' land o' th' dead. Anubis," and when she looks up at Swiftfoot, a fire is burning in her green eye -- and all the angst and hate and sadness of Jay Reilly has melted away, leaving only Mika Tachyon and her Cheshire grin under all the scars, "was a jackal. A jackal that could not die."
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