Kami remained in the Harlot long after Jegora had left, her gaze fixed on the untouched whiskey glass sitting on the table before her. The urge to drown herself in the warm haze of alcohol had been almost overwhelming since her return to the Locker, if only for the temporary wave of comfort which it offered. A single thought held her back from tipping over the edge, a thought that niggled at the back of her head in every single waking moment, and rose up in her dreams to assault her until she awoke with a thousand possibilities bursting at the seams of her mind.  The thought of the silver briefcase…locked securely away from the masses in a location in which only she knew.  Of the value it held and the opportunities it represented. It was too much for her alone to deal with. She had known that from the very beginning, as had Tanus who had not spoken a word about the case to anyone since the vault. Snipes must be the one to determine its fate. And the only way in which he could do so was if he was back on home soil with the Company. The pieces were falling into place. The time for action was at hand. She would no longer leave her friend, and King, rotting in the cells of a cult of psychopaths.

“So I hear we’re going after the Mad King.”

Angel’s voice caused Kami to look up and away from the whiskey glass to the heavily stubbled face of her lover. Amber eyes regarded her calmly for a moment, slipping briefly to the tumbler of whiskey on the table before her,

“Thirsty?”

“No.” Kami rose to her feet and turned somewhat awkwardly to face him, “Not anymore.”

Angel visibly hesitated, then moved forward to wrap his arms about her slight form. Kami trembled in his grasp before allowing herself to be held and letting her head fall onto his shoulder. Mind numbing fatigue swept throughout her body as she attempted to garner strength as she had once done from her lover’s presence. But her legs gave way in a pathetic sign of weakness, her breath turning into short, jagged spikes that tried ineffectively to help her regain control.

“You are pushing yourself too hard,” Angel’s voice drifted down above her as one of his hands stroked the tendrils of her black hair, “You have not stopped since we returned.”

“I’m fine.” There was an utter lack of conviction in Kami’s voice as she replied automatically.

“Of course you are.” Angel humored her, pulling away slightly so his eyes could search hers, “Why now? With the Company in chaos from the last venture, why now to go after Snipes?”

“Is that not reason enough?” Kami answered him defensively, battling with the screaming voice in her mind demanding that she open up about the vault find on Sketan II, “We need our King now more than ever.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed slightly, “The Kami I know would ensure that the Locker and the Company were in working order before undertaking another seemingly impossible task. You must know about the conspiracies, the talk of mutiny. You have eyes and ears everywhere here.”

“Rumors, nothing more.” Kami pulled further away from Angel’s grasp, a defensive anger sweeping to the fore at his intrusive probing, “They would not dare to challenge us now.”

“A fool’s words and you know it!” Angel bit back at her, his own anger rising in the face of hers, “The Company is hanging on a knife edge! Your failure at Sketan has them questioning why they’re even sticking around!”

Kami grew still, the words hitting their intended mark with full force. A thousand comebacks flashed into her mind but she remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. How could she? Angel spoke only the truth. Her spies had confirmed everything that he was saying to her, in fact they had provided multiple reports of those who sought to take advantage of the Captain’s loss of faith and subvert her tentative position of leadership.  She could have sought out the scum plotting against her and the others but time was now a luxury that she no longer had access too. The safety of the case was everything. Nothing else mattered. She would draw eyes elsewhere and seek to save Snipes at the same time. Even if that meant lying in order to do so.

“Look…Kams,” Angel sought to pull her close once again but she recoiled in his grasp and moved free of his hold. His face contorted momentarily as open hurt flashed across his features, “Look. I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear that now.”

“No.” Kami forced her legs to stay locked into place, when all she wanted to do was cast herself back into his arms, “No I didn’t.”  Without waiting to risk her shaky control over her emotions, she span on her heel and stalked from the Harlot before he could reply.

At her back Angel remained in the center of the empty room, his amber eyes sliding back to the untouched glass on the table. Kami had never been much of a poker player, and for someone like him, she was an open book even when she was trying to bluff. There was much more to this all than the rescue and return of Snipes to his restless Company. And he would be damned if he didn’t find out exactly what it was.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

She found Raziel in the hangar, his expressionless mask of a face turned towards the mechanics scrambling about the exterior of his battered ship. After the crash landing on Sketan II the vessel had been barely recognizable as his home, and it was only because of the extensive damage that he had even given in to Kami’s persistent offer of help and allowed others anywhere near it.

“It looks as though it will fly.”

Kami moved up behind the dangerously still figure of a man, well aware that he tracked her movements despite having his back to her. She examined the emerging curves of the courier ship before speaking again, “They’ve made good time.”

“It is a semblance of its former self.” Raziel finally answered her, stating a fact as opposed to wallowing in any degree of spite, “Those upgrades cost more than the ship itself.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Kami countered smoothly, seizing the opportunity to speak business, “I may be able to help you in that regard.”

Raziel’s empty gaze slid to her, “That is not in keeping with the rumors I have heard. They say that you are credit-less, and that the Company exists only now through sheer force of will.”

“A rumor-monger now are we?” Kami refused to be cowed, “I thought you above indulging in such petty talk.”

Raziel offered a shrug of his shoulders, “Perhaps. But when a business deal looks shaky logic dictates that it is no longer a profitable venture.”

“Then humor me,” Kami crossed both arms across her chest and added strength to her tone, “I have not defaulted on any of the payments promised thus far and I do not intend to start doing so in the future. In fact, the proposal I have for you would more than help you cover the necessary upgrades to your ship if you agreed to sign on.”

Raziel seemed to consider her for the moment.  The Pirate Lord was a woman of strong will, but even he doubted that she could speak with such conviction if she was as broke as his sources told him. There was a trump card perhaps. A hand that she held close to her chest so no other could see. And she was right on one account. She had not yet betrayed him. Though generally not one to let emotion enter the equation he was also somewhat indebted to her for her help in retrieving and re-shaping his ship.

“Alright.” He finally said, the first flicker of interest showing in his eyes, “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Your doing what?!”

Bastard ignored the statement and went about his business, throwing the last of his clothes into his duffle before zipping it closed.

“Any particular reason for the sudden departure?” Ragnar asked as he paced about Helo’s cabin. “What’s so important that your turning us around?”

Dropping the duffle by the ladder Helo moved quickly to the far wall next to the bed and punched in his code to the hidden weapons locker built into the wall, which promptly swung around revealing several weapons, both blaster and slug thrower alike.

“Look at it this way,” Helo began. “You and your sister and going to stick to the flight plan. When you meet our contact, tell him the upgrades are still a go but he’s got more time to get it done.” It took him a few seconds to decide what he wanted but he settled on his m-13 shotgun rather than one of his fully automatic weapons.

“Expecting trouble?”

“Only if everything goes according to plan.”

Look here,” demanded Ragnar now more than slightly annoyed. “What the fuck is going on?  We are two days out from Osk already, on a trek that will hopefully lead us to Snipes and your just going to go frolic among the stars?”

“If the Intel is accurate then we won’t need to find him.” Helo stated as he donned his brown trench coat. “I received a subspace message from Osk this morning; Looks like the Pirate Lords know where he’s at so the fleet is mobilizing to go after him.”  Swinging his duffle over his shoulder, Bastard made his way up the ladder and onto the main deck, Ragnar right behind him with the m-13. Leaving his equipment just outside the bridge, both men entered the room where Lauren sat behind the controls.

“So what’s the point of these upgrades then if we aren’t going after him?” Ragnar continued. “I’m sure we could use the coin for something else.”

“Just wait until you see the equipment getting installed. I’m sure you’ll approve.”  Helo felt Lauren’s eyes on him as he moved back to the rear bulkhead and punched the intercom. “You all done out there Knut?”

The intercom crackled with static momentarily before he heard a reply. “Um…yeah. Everything seems to be in order.”

“Excellent, I’ll be right down.”

Swiftly exiting the bridge and grabbing his gear he made his way through the bowels of the ship until he came to one of the ships two small shuttles where his mechanic was gathering his tools.

“how are we looking?” he asked, tossing his bag inside and placing his shotgun just inside the hatch.

“Everything is good to go. The only thing you have to worry about is your jump calculations. Even if your off by the tiniest degree…”

“I know, I can appear in the middle of a sun.”

“Right.”

The man continued to stand there even as Helo stowed his gear and began the preflight sequence. “You know I would liked to have had time to run more simulations… I don’t like using untested equipment.”

“I appreciate the sentiment but we are kinda low on time… besides I’m sure you would rather oversee the upgrades to the ship.”  Behind him the man nodded, then quickly dug into his pocket.

“Shit I almost forgot this,” he said, producing a small two pronged object from his pocket and tossing it to Helo. “It’s the key for the jump drive. Just turn it after you’ve made your calculations and the jump clock reaches zero.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well I best be going.”

The mechanic nodded then stepped out of the shuttle only to be replaced by Ragnar and Lauren. “Plan on leaving without as much as a goodbye?” the prior said. “No words of wisdom or well wishes?”

“I’m usually not one for ceremony.”

Ragnar nodded in agreement. “Well that’s true. Just be careful,” he said as he extended his hand. “You know Knut isn’t the greatest drinking buddy.”  Helo smiled briefly as he shook his friends hand.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Breaking their handshake, Ragnar turned and left the shuttle, leaving helo and his sister alone. For what seemed like eternity they both just stood there in silence, neither of them moving, uncertain of what to say. Finally Helo broke the silence.

“You don’t seem to have a lot to say…”

She shrugged. “Nothing that hasn’t already been said several times over.”

Helo nodded. Obviously she was still pissed about the past few day’s events and was going to be stubborn until he had long left the ship. “Look Lauren…” he began but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Just be careful.”

Again her eyes met with his as if she could see right through him. The thought was uncomfortably strange, almost as if he was defenseless. But at the same time it felt peaceful and reassuring, as if everything was going to be alright. When the moment was over she broke eye contact and swiftly left the ship, leaving bastard alone with his thoughts.

Still highly unnerved but the sudden enchanted moment he moved back into the cockpit and seated himself in the pilots seat. With the flip of a few switches the door sealed with a hiss and the engines roared to life. Over the intercom Ragnar’s voice crackled through.

“Comm check….Bastard this is Hope actual, do you read?”

“Solid copy Hope actual, engines are green and the airlock has cycled.”

“yeah everything looks good on our end.”

Helo pushed the engines to neutral and waited until he felt the shuttles docking clamps disengage, causing the shuttle to shake ever so slightly. When it stopped he slowly pushed the throttle forward until he was just barely going faster than the Forlorn Hope. As he passed the bow of the ship he could barely make out Ragnar sitting in his chair, waving as Helo passed by. Again the radio crackled.

“Oh yeah… so I may or may not have left you something under your seat.”

Reaching down Helo could barely reach what felt like a full bottle, and finally grasping it pulled it out revealing the label-less bottle.

“Thanks…” began Helo. “What is it exactly?”

“They call it the Kraken…Top shelf rum I found awhile back in a shop on Coruscant. I figured since we are pseudo-pirates and all that it was appropriate.”

“Thanks again Ragnar. I’ll save some for when I get back.”

“Nonsense. Open it when you find Snipes. I’m sure he would love to share it.”

Helo chuckled. I’m sure the first thing Snipes will want is a drink. On the Shuttles HUD he brought up the local star charts and began plotting the jump coordinates in the ships computer.

“Helo….Knut is up here on the bridge waiting for you to make the jump and frankly he’s driving me crazy. Any chance you could speed it up?”

Almost as soon as Ragnar was done speaking the computer beeped twice, signaling the accepted coordinates.  “Ten seconds,” Helo stated as he inserted the jump key and pressed flipped the last switch. “I’ll send a subspace message after this jump,” he said as the FTL began to whine and hum.

“Good luck.”

As soon as the jump clock reached zero Helo twisted the key. Instantly there was a flash of light that blotted out the surrounding star system, and a few seconds later disappeared. Helo quickly checked his instruments and determined that he was no longer anywhere close to his ship, nor even in the same star system. Sensors showed several ships in the vicinity but none were small enough to be a firefly. Again the Nav computer beeped but this time the HUD showed the distance traveled between the shuttle and the Hope. Amazed to find that his trip to Osk was over a third of the way done, he quickly sent a subspace data burst to Ragnar, detailing his position and that everything worked the way it was supposed to. Ten minutes later the Nav computer was ready for the next jump, and as the clock reached zero, Bastard turned the key.


***



Within two hours of reaching Osk bastard was back on the Corellian Hound, however due to the lack of living space and the plethora of extra’s running about the ship he felt it best to live in the shuttle for the time being. With his gear and weapons stowed save frontier model B and his katana he made his way through the corridors towards the bridge. The ship itself was lively, even more so than when they were preparing to retake Osk. Helo knew why…Snipes was the living breathing heart of the company. Retaking Eyesore and the Locker but losing Snipes in the process hadn’t been a fair trade. Though it had been a great and costly victory, it still seemed empty…And Helo knew he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.  It was time to put the company back together.

This would have to be faster than he had planned, Raziel realised as his ship was swallowed up by the cavernous hanger of the Crusader flagship. With all the unfinished repairs to his own ship he had almost jumped right into the middle of their fleet before the passive scanning picked them up. It had taken nearly a whole day to plot a course around them so he could approach them head on. The robust Crusader ships were mostly quite plain to look at, he reflected, what stood out were the great spires built from the upper decks to mirror the cathedral cities of their home world. He took that deep diaphragmatic breath that controlled his nerves and mentally steeled himself for what was to come. It was time to begin the act.




Two Crusaders stood waiting, Pikes shouldered, as Raziel strode down from the Inquisitor’s ship. He had no idea on protocol at this point; he would need to wing it. He could tell from their body language that they were not here as honour guards, or to lead him anywhere. They were there to assess his purpose.

“In-quisitor?” One of them asked incredulously, looking down at Raziel. He barely contained his expression of cynicism at seeing Raziel’s unimpressive stature.

“‘It is not the place of the unworthy to question’” Raziel quoted. “I am here on behalf on the Triumvirate to assess to level of your failure on His mission.” He fixed the Crusader with a stare, holding his gaze. He briefly flashed a hint of a snarl that the man would notice, at the least, on a subconscious level. They had to be convinced that he was someone genuinely offended at the notion of having his loyalties questioned. An
Inquisitor’s actions could not be judged by any but the highest ranked Crusaders.

“‘And then, did He declare the Triumvirate and the elected Voice as the arbiters of His will on the plane of mortals.’ You make claims above your station, an Inquisitor may only deem individual commitment to the cause unworthy,” replied the second guard, clearly the more intelligent of the two. He bowed low in deference and waiting for Raziel's reply. Raziel's mind raced for a reply, the time he had spent with their texts had been limited. Using a mental indexing technique he had memorised large portions of the text, but he needed to work out which section of the text and mental association he needed to recall something relevant.

“You are of course completely correct that my remit is the judgement of personal commitment. Your diligence is noted, I am of course here as an observer, my duty on this matter is to report, not to judge.” Raziel replied.

The Crusaders turned to each other and exchanged a small nod. “You will be taken to begin The Cleansing of the Three”

“My Body, Spirit and Will are open to Him” Raziel replied automatically. This part of the procedure he had prepared for.




The next six hours were spent enacting the rituals required of any Crusader who had spent some time away from a consecrated ship or established community. When the fleet returned to the home world Raziel knew all the members would need to undergo an even more strenuous version of the ritual. First came the cleansing of the body; a relatively simple affair. Raziel was stripped and laid in a mildly acidic bath, the top layers of his skin were slowly stripped off and all foreign matter dissolved.

Next came the cleansing of the spirit. Four hours spent, with his raw pink skin, taking part in group chanting whilst inhaling sacred fumes. He had thought the game up after making one blunder, but the young Crusader who had pulled him up for repeating the wrong phrase was quickly ushered out of the hall by an elderly priest. Apparently Raziel had slightly overestimated the Crusaders by basing his act on the Inquisitor on Sketan II. Questioning the faith of a superior cleric was clearly frowned upon to allow failings in the leaders that should not, in the strictest sense, be tolerated.

The final phase came upon him then; the test of will was the most arduous phase of the cleansing trials. Strapped to a rack the cleansed had charged needles inserted into the soft tissues of his body. The pain was slowly ramped up over the course of an hour and the individual being cleansed was expected to show no response, either maintaining an implacable façade or reciting sections of the holy text. Where wits failed him Raziel chose to cheat, having dosed up on pain killers prior to approaching the Crusader fleet.




“Inquisitor Kaildur the Modest for an audience with Inquisitor Rothgard the Immobile,” Raziel was announced as he strode onto the bridge of the ironically named Crusader flag ship Immortal Victory

“I am told you are here on behalf of the Triumvirate?” Rothgard announced, slightly tilting his head as he looked Raziel up and down. “Yet High Inquisitor Magnus the Pious himself has already been here on their account, you bear the markings of his order on your ship do you not?” he continued before Raziel could answer. Raziel recognised the name immediately, it was the man who had confronted them on the asteroid. Now it was clear why the giant old man was so much more impressive than the Crusaders he had met so far. The High Inquisitor was supposed to be able to channel the divine will himself and was the arbiter of all Inquisitorial matters.

“The High Inquisitor never returned,” Raziel replied, moving uncomfortably close to Rothgard. “I would like to ascertain why!” Rothgard looked uncomfortable for a moment, so Raziel pressed on. “In his place I must also make a report on your failure . . .” he let the word hang in the air for a moment. “or success.”

“The High Inquisitor was entirely thorough in his investigations, but there was an incident on our voyage. He saw fit to investigate that personally,”

“Please do carry on,” Raziel prompted. He was already sensing a deep insecurity in this man. Clearly he feared for his tenuous position in charge of the battered fleet.

“Something was stolen from us, from the Righteous Fury before it was lost to the maze. Magnus decided to investigate personally.” Well that explains the attack Raziel thought to himself.

“The Righteous Fury probably felt His punishment for their failure. We must assume the High Inquisitor is still tracking the culprits, more than any of us he knows His will.”

“Culprit.” Rothgard corrected. “The High Inquisitor was quite clear on the matter, since the incident we have been vigilant for more threats in our weakened state.”

“Your fleet seems well organised, for what little is left” Raziel lied, it had been too easy to get around them unseen. “You claim to have succeeded in your mission?” he asked, allowing a tone of disbelief to creep into his voice.

“Well of course The Paladin set out to punish the daemon and that is exactly what we have done.” Rothgard replied, he glanced to the side in what Raziel read as a clear sign of uncertainty. “We suffered many losses and The Paladin himself fell in battle, but . . .”

“If His will is done, no losses are too much,” Raziel cut him off in a reassuring tone this time.

“The Triumvirate will be pleased at his return?” Raziel sensed a clear opening here. Again he had expected to be tested by an Inquisitor who had the strength he had seen in Magnus, the man who had beaten himself, Kami and Corrie to a pulp. This man was flawed in character, desperate for power. Such men were easy to manipulate.

“If you have brought the daemon back, his final confession will be performed for all to see. You may even be allowed guide the ritual personally.” Rothgard made a poor attempt at remaining impassive at this.

“It was much work, but any of His servants would have put in as much effort as I had to,”

“I'm sure if my report is favourable you will be rewarded,” that final word above all others provoked the most reaction from Rothgard. “I take it the prisoner has been properly broken?” At this Rothgard paused, turned to the Lord-Captain at his side. “I'm going to assume not. Have a full report prepared for my perusal, in the meantime I will be taken to see the prisoner as soon as possible. I may be able to assist in this matter,”




For the next few hours the remaining Crusaders leadership submitted to his whims whilst also delaying his visit to Snipes. He went over reports from the battle of Osk in great detail, he noted with interest the parts that didn't match up with the events reported by ICS staff. he pandered to Rothgard's greed, whilst dropping hints about rewards for his service. Eventually he was told that he could see the prisoner.

Snipes had clearly been cleaned and prepared for his viewing. The dishevelled and malnourished individual sat alone on a plain wooden stool in a plain room. Surrounded only by the endless religious scrawlings that covered the walls. Raziel reflected that it was not unlike the room he had been briefly tortured in on the Righteous Fury before his escape with its databanks downloaded.

“I will speak to him myself.” Raziel said in his guise as Inquisitor Kaildur. There was a sharp intake of breath from those around him.

“But to do so, would be in invite the taint of madness!” whispered a Crusader.

“I will not suffer your ignorance,” Raziel snapped. “I have dealt with worse than this. On my return I will have to undertake much cleansing before seeing the Triumvirate,” he added the last bit and looked poignantly at Rothgard.

“Quite, be gone from our sight,” he shouted at the Crusader. Raziel had quickly established his position of control over Rothgard. The thin façade could not last for long, he knew, but he just needed a moment with Snipes and the plan could be set in motion.

“It is clear to me that you have focussed too much on the body. It is his spirit that must be broken.” Raziel picked up a bag from the floor next to him and moved into the room with the King, guards maintained their positions at his side. A stool was brought forward without request for him to sit on opposite Snipes.

From the bag emerged a packing of cigarettes, much to the bemusement of the other Crusaders. Then a bottle of drink.

“You understand don't you? You will never see these things again.” He carried on with the items after placing a blaster back in the bag, he pulled out a small crown forged from simple wires. “You do understand don't you? Everything you ever had has gone. If you are repentant in His eyes, there may be salvation.” Raziel read the confusion in Snipe's eyes for a moment. Then the King stopped attempting to stare him down, letting his gaze fall to the floor. “Embrace Him, for you have nothing else.” Raziel dropped the crown to the floor and stoop up. He crushed the crown beneath an armoured boot and left the room.

Outside the bars Raziel tossed the bag to the nearest guard. “Have these incinerated, their taint cannot be tolerated any further!”

“Quite so!” added the Lord-Captain who had remained to observe the previous events.

“I have done you a favour here,” Raziel said at Rothgard. “When you arrive he will be properly broken. Now I must go if I am to report prior to your return.”

“Wait, you're leaving now?” Rothgard asked. The announcement distracted him from what Raziel had been doing. It had been a risky move, bringing the items on board. The items, suggested by the Osk captains had been to test just how much of Snipes remained. In a way he had never lied to the Crusaders on this matter, he had been establishing how broken the King's spirit had been, but if anything what he had just done would strengthen his resolve rather than weaken it.

“It is necessary.” “Inquisitor Kaildur leaned close to Rothgard. “I must tell them of your achievement,”

“Very well,” the commander of the Crusader fleet announced.

“I know the way back to my ship.”  As everyone's back was turned, the King leant down and picked the broken toy crown from the floor and held it up to look at.

The moment Raziel was out of sight of any Crusader he stopped and pulled out a small device from a compartment on his armour. He took out a metallic black disk, roughly the width of a palm and an inch thick and placed it against the wall where it stuck. Raziel charged high fees for his work, but a lot of it was used for expenses. A series of micro turrets to place along the route from the cells to the hangar was not cheap.

Moments later he reached the hangar, his work complete. Rothgard watched on the monitors as “Inquisitor Kaildur” approached and apparently entered his ship. His gaze stayed fixed to the screen until the ship lifted off and left the bay. Whilst not a tactically astute man Rothgard had some sensibilities about him, feeling that he was far better off with Kaildur off his vessel and far away from the fleet.




The King sat in his cell, his eyes never leaving the lone guards. The Crusader took his change in temperament as a sign that Inquisitor Kaildurs methods had succeeded in breaking his spirit. He never suspected the truth. The King drew his attention with a wicked smile, the Crusader leaning forwards as he regarded to gesture with confusion. He never noticed the shadow detaching itself from the walls behind him, his throat was slit in one graceful motion.

The King stepped out from his cage, grinning madly. He took the blaster pistol that was offered, snatching it from Raziel's hand. “Take this and put it on” Raziel said, passing the King a small bracelet. Raising an eyebrow at the abrupt command Snipes wrapped the device around his wrist. The device beeped in confirmation of being active, a small transponder that would stop the micro turrets from firing on them.

“You mean for us to sneak off the ship I assume?”

“That's not exactly the plan. No.” Raziel replied, unslinging a compact smart grenade launcher from his back and shouldering it with a smile of his own.

OOC:

If you havent seen what I have written on the nameless man and the last Osk story, basically Raziel stole a bunch of information from a Crusader ship, before being chased across the galaxy by the High Inquisitor

The King was buffeted by one of those rare moments of clarity. Wounded pride poured from him as his bars once again rebuffed his assault. A sense of intense loss and the ever present knot of anger. It replayed again in a flash, his drunken merrymaking, standing astride a swinging chandelier, waving about a bottle of whiskey in one hand, the other clasped around the chain as he screamed an old drinking song at the top of his lungs before plummeting to the ground, a table breaking his fall. The four men who helped him up and out the door as he continued his ballad of rum and wenches. He didn't recognize any of them, but that wasn't unusual; since Kelevra's death it had always been strangers who dragged him towards his throne or his ship.

Kami had attempted to burden him with a couple of lackeys for protection; but they were not Kelevra, they were not his friend. He missed the gruff soldier dearly; Snipes had few friends, few real friends; and thanks to him most of his friends were so steeped in Company business that they always ended up talking shop. Kelevra had been free of it, so he had been truly fun to have around.

Snipes regretted his loss again as the arm wrapped around his neck, shutting off the blood flow to his brain. He had roared, and tossed the man from his back, but the other stabbed him in the neck with a hypodermic and Snipes vision had dimmed, his shotgun had seemed to fly into his hand, firing a single shaky round before it dropped from his hand to the ground just ahead of his body.

The King screamed again as the image played in his head and his subconscious, sensing he couldn't take much more, locked it away again, his sanity retreating again for the time; leaving just the beast repeating a single mantra.

Damn me. Damn me. Damn Me.

* * *

Hours were wasted throwing himself against the bars of his cage, hours and days and weeks, or maybe minutes; time had long lost meaning as even a vague concept. The life and galaxy outside his cage would eventually catch up to him, pulling him from the darkness with iron hands to be thrust before the water spickets again and chained to a stool.

Rage had made him test the chains, test them until his arms bled. The King would not be bound, above all things he hated to be bound.

The King cast his eyes about when his body had finally finished testing his bonds, his body was slumped forward, his hair hung dark and wet over his head and as the men entered the room he had fixed them with a glare that would make a wild animal turn and run.

His ears heard them speak, but his mind ignored it as two remained and the others left. The King watched the alpha, the one in charge, pull things from a bag; cigarettes, his mouth watered and lungs itched for them, but The King could not have said why, the beast entangling his thoughts. A bottle of dark liquid made his mouth seem afire and the consciousness locked away shudder.

It was a crown that brought the coherent part of his mind back, back to scream at him, to yell inside his head and cause a deafening cacophony; The Kings eyes left the man holding the crown and concentrated on the wireframe; a poor and shoddy construction, but inside in, in the wireframe was a symbol that meant something; it made him stir, it made him hate, but it made him aware. Aware of what was happening; and as the crown dropped to the ground his eyes followed it.

He paid the others no mind, he was distracted, and something at the back of his head was moving; as they stepped away The King stretched his bonds, picking the crumpled crown from the ground, studying it. He knew he had seen it and some part of his locked away mind could trace the wires that had made it; it had been there. A skull, deformed one side; a symbol of freedom to some; death to others.

* * *

"I'll kill them all," Snipes breathed.

Or at least the body and mind of the man who had once been and would be again Snipes. His former arrogant swagger and stride were replaced by a bestial stalk as he half ran through the corridors. He followed the shadowy figure on bare feet, his wild hair streaming behind him like the tail of a predator, his face creased with a maniacal grin.

They ran, running was one of the only options really available; The Kings muscles, unused for so long, screamed at him; but adrenaline fueled him, instinct fed him and hate sustained him.

When the first Crusader entered his path The King's hand lashed out on it's own, gripping the mans exposed throat; The Kings large frame should have towered over the man, and his time in the bowels of the ship had robbed him of the large muscles that had once bulged under the battle scars littering his body; but what was left was wiry muscles that relied on the adrenaline coursing through his body to lift the Crusader from his feet.

The King recognized the man as one of the healers, his blind eyes unblinking as Snipes fingers closed around his throat, dug into his skin; and the only sound he made as his throat was ripped from his body was a faint gurgling.

Snipes roared in rage; it was unsatisfying to kill him. All it did was stir his bloodlust and it was only the hand of his enigmatic guide on his shoulder that kept him from charging into the ship to hunt; to feed his hatred and bloodlust.

One Week Ago

Havock stared at the asteroid looming in front of her newest transport. The E-9 Explorer smelled of new plastic and cleanser. It was that smell that always seemed short lived in newer vessels. Usually it was the one thing she looked the most forward to when visiting shipyards, now it made her want to vomit. The smell only reminded her that Aeos had given her the transport and was the major reason she was heading towards the turmoil filled asteroid.

Part of her knew that Jaenna and Zasati were somewhere on Osk91, in some place the nameless whispers called the Locker. Havock needed to find them, even if she couldn't exactly pinpoint why. She could handle the fact that both her sibling and significant other needed their space. In fact, Ayme needed hers with everything that had been going on in her life. Still, she needed some idea of where they were or the nightmares would continue to rule her life, and she would be useless to everyone that depended upon her.

A feint beeping on the control console of the E-9 brought her attention back to her current reality and its new vessel smell. "Oh alright." She uncrossed her arms and poked the comm button. "Yes?"

"Unidentified vessel, you have entered a zone that enjoys target practice. Identify or give me a challenge."

Havock blinked and had to smirk at that greeting. "This is the Zeon, and I know where I am, I also know the brand of missiles I have locked on your tower. Request permission to land."

"Its you're funeral, lady." Havock shook her head and steered the large vessel towards Eyesore.

As the landing sequence engaged she let her eyes move towards the small figure curled up like a alley cat in the co-pilot's chair. Aeos' little project was now Havock's problem. Her name was Trix, and she couldn't have been older than fourteen. She slumbered, blissfully ignorant to the insanity she had just signed up for.

Aeos nagged her for days to take the girl with her, she could still hear her sisters voice booming in her ears. That wasn't even the worst part, she had resigned herself to the taxi service she was currently providing, the rest was a bullet from left field. As instructed she had contacted Kami, who was some kind of leader among these pirates based on what Aeos had told her. Kami had agreed to take Trix in, with one condition. Havock had to remain with her on the Charlotte until she found a way to be useful.

Only then did Havock realize just how useless Trix currently was. The girl had no skills, she was a novice in everything, except perhaps the art of sleeping. With a sigh she pulled into the scuzzy port and prepped the ship for a long break. She would have to use some extra security measures just to prevent the locals from getting any delusions of grandeur.


Present Day

The ship finally settled after a handful of hyperspace jumps and now it was rocking like a child's play thing. Havock started to rise from the cot she had been laying in only to lose her balance and roll to the floor. "What the hell?"

A man came running in her direction and leaped over her prone form juggling a medpack and some kind of medical tube in his hands. "Why are you on the floor? Taking a nap? Get up woman."

"If I wanted to take a nap don't you think I would have just stayed on the cot? What in the hell is going on?" Havock stepped up behind the field medic as he started to type furiously on the data terminal in the small sterile room she found herself in. Later on she would need to figure out exactly what had happened but for now staying alive seemed to be the paramount concern.

He completed his search and stepped past the blond, knocking her shoulder and almost sending her back to the cold floor. "What's going on, heh, you don't remember? That whack to the head must have been worse that we thought." Still processing the words the medic was saying, she didn't notice when two tiny hands grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back down on the cot. "Hold still." The medic shined an irritatingly bright light in her eyes, darting the glowrod back and forth to check her pupil dilation. He released her just as the ship made another quick maneuver causing them both to jerk to their right.

The events of the past week slowly trickled into Havock's mind. The nameless medic stomped off towards other injured crewmembers, or perhaps he was just tired of dealing with her, it didn't matter anymore.

Ayme felt stupid. Her reasons for taking a leave from the army to find Eyesore were personal and impulsive. Now here she sat, with yet another concussion in the middle of a damn space battle.  Out of the three reasons that had brought her into this chaos, only one was presently in her charge. Incidentally she was also the reason Havock had woken up in the medbay.

"Trix, dammit, I told you to move that blasted tool box from on top of that control unit."

The young, mousey girl looked up quickly and her body flinched as if she wanted to hug Ayme then she thought better of that decision. "Havvie! You're okay! I was so worried, the box it just dropped and your head, oh my god is your head okay? You just went bam on the floor, out cold. Did they give you meds? Any good ones?"

Havock pulled out her pistol and set it to stun, causing Trix to clamp her mouth shut and her eyes to go as wide as saucers. "Oh relax. I'm setting it to stun so I don't shoot you. Anyways I'd never hear the end of it from Za...Aeos, yanno if I shot you." She grimaced at her near use of her sisters actual name rather than her better known call sign. She had plenty of reasons to be angry at Aeos and her current occupation as future-pirate-babysitter was near the top of the list.

"Havvie I don't know whats wrong with this console, it keeps beeping, then it just suddenly stopped. I tried that thing you showed me, yanno, the..." Trixs' voice trailed off as she was met with a hand in her face and what seemed to be a very annoyed platoon commander crossing her path. Havock circled around the girl and sighed at the console.

"Its the shields, looks like minor power fluctuations. Hell they probably haven't even noticed in the cockpit its so feint." Havock reached into her jacket pocket and grabbed a hair tie to get her hair out of her face as the console continued to load up the damage report. "I thought we only encountered one blasted ship?"

Trix looked around, her eyes constantly searching and never seeming to land on any solid object. "Its not the battle that's causing all the problems. This ship is nothing like the systems you described in those diagrams you showed me. Its been patched up and re-wired so many times it would take days just to learn the changes that have been made, I think, maybe."

"Well if we are getting shot at I think the shields should be our only concern for right now." Havock turned back to the console then something on the read out caught her eye. "You said many of the systems had been rewired?"

Trix nodded so quickly she looked as though she was giving herself repetitive whiplash. Havock rolled her eyes and climbed over several other engine systems to get to an electrical panel. Opening the thing was as dangerous as thumb wrestling with a rancor but she managed to walk away with only a small cut on her thumb.

"Aye, here is the issue, just a loose wire." Havock used her wrench to tighten the wire and climbed back to the console to find all systems green. At least for the moment.

Trix looked as though she was about to start a fan club. She quickly clasped her hands together in front of her chest and smiled so big Havock could see all of the girls teeth. "Oh relax, anyone could have found that problem and fixed it. Seriously you keep looking at me like that I will stun you." She smirked to try to lighten the mood but it quickly faded as she found herself feeling the pounding in her head from the tool box attack and decided to move on. "I'm going to look around see what else may need attention, make sure those tools get picked up. And Trix, no more putting things on high shelves ok."

As soon as the call for battle stations was ordered Bastard made his way to the bridge, weaving through  the Corellian Hound's crew as they rushed to their stations. Within moments he reached the bridge, the door hissing open to reveal Visha standing in front of Snipes' throne, arms crossed, calmly taking in the view in front of her.

“Captain, enemy contact bearing down on us..” yelled one of the crew from their station. “Looks to be a ram-ship.”

“Increase speed and bring us closer to the ship on autopilot. I doubt they will risk ramming us if we are close to one of their own.”

Helo felt the vibration of the engines increase as he moved quickly in front of Visha to make his presence known.

“Where do you want me?”

Her eyes sharply darted from the battle unfolding in front of her to Helo and then back again without any other movement from her body. For moments she just stood there as if she was unable to move, and as soon as Bastard opened his mouth to speak again she cut him off.

“I'm going to take the Hound in and dock with that ship. As soon as we have a soft seal I want you and a small boarding party to infiltrate the ship and locate Snipes.”

Helo nodded and began to turn away.

“I'm not finished!” she exclaimed, causing a few heads to turn. “ As soon as your on board I'm clearing the airlock and taking the ship back into the fight, so you'll be on your own. When you find him you'll need to fight your way out. As soon as the crusaders figure out whats going on they'll do whatever they can to stop you...even if that means destroying their own ship....understand?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Good. I'll have the skellies meet you in airlock C.” 

= = =


It took all of five minutes to reach the airlock where Helo found the twelve man team of “skellies” waiting for him. All wore the typical blue and white uniform of the Hound's crew and carried E-11 blaster rifles with a few scattered cutlasses.

“Bastard you ready?” chirped visha's voice through his earpiece

“Yeah we're all good to go.”

“Excellent, we are married with the crusader ship....cycling the airlock....looks like there is a welcoming party waiting for you.”

“thanks for the heads up Visha,” he said as he motioned to the two skellies closest to the door.
“good luck gentlemen.” she stated before the transmission cut. Almost instantly the bulkhead door slid apart with a hiss and the two men each tossed in a flash-bang before turning back behind cover.  Seconds later they went off with a resounding bang following closely by several crusaders howling in pain.

“Go!” shouted Helo above the noise as he and the skellies poured into the ship. The blind and dumbfounded paladins were no match for the deadly blaster fire that tore through their bodies and within moments the last paladin was dead.  “Check the dead for any equipment you may need,” stated Helo as he closed the closed and sealed the airlock behind them. Tapping his earpiece once he then spoke into his mike.

“Visha we are on board, the airlock is secure now get the hell out of here!”

She didn't respond but he could hear the hiss of the airlock depressurizing as the Hound broke away. 
Turning back to his party he motioned down the corridor to the next junction, the skellies, understanding what he wanted, moved swiftly and quietly to secure it. Once there they found the connecting corridors empty by leading in two different directions.

“Any clue where they might be keeping him?” Helo asked as he peered around the corner. “Maybe a clue to where we should be heading?”

“Right should take us towards the bridge and Infirmary,” the man behind Helo said. “Left will take us to crew quarters and ceremonial chambers. Or at least that’s what the Intel says.”

Again glancing around the corner to the left Bastard noticed several squads of paladins, nearly twenty men carrying grav-lances, rushing off into the bowels of the ship at the double quick. The skelly behind him knelt next to him and took a look.

“Where are they going in such a rush?” he asked as they rounded the corner.

“If they knew we were here they would coming after us. They're heading heading aft and I doubt very much they're late for mass... Question is if this is good for us...”

“We have a fifty fifty shot here...we'll follow you.”

Again Helo checked both corridors. “We go left.”

Without a word the man next to him signaled to the others who darted around the corner and fanned out along the walls while Helo and his companion covered them. When the lead members of the team reached the corner and cleared it, the two men broke cover and ran to join them. Almost instantly blue blaster fire erupted from back down the corridor towards the bridge as paladins moved in, what appeared to be lances in their hands.

“Those aren't regular lances!” cried out of the men as he applied pressure to an apparent shoulder graze.  “Where'd they get tech like that?!”

“No idea!” yelled another, “But I'm pretty sure we're fucked!”

Blue bolts of energy continued to hammer into the wall at the end of the corridor the paladins now held, hoping the suppress the enemy until a plan could be devised. Helo and the Skellies dared not risk returning fire and exposing themselves for further injury but instead opted to embrace the oldest and noblest of traditions. Helo and two others check around the next corner and secured it while the others ran headlong past them. Their advantage of having ranged weapons was gone, and speed was now their only ally. Behind them the paladins continued to follow, their heavy armor weighing them down too much to catch the Oskers outright. Finally their luck ran out and thery ran right into several crusaders coming to cut them off. Instantly blasters and staff weapons went off, blades found flesh and blood flowed. Helo was able to get two shots off with his m-13 before it was nocked from his hands by a paladin lunging into him and taking him to the ground. Instantly he mans large hands went to his throat and closed around it while Bastard desperately tried to pry them off. Within moments of the struggle Helo was gasping for air, eyes watering from the lack of oxygen while he desperately grapped with the mans hands. All around them the men fought hand to hand, blasters now being used as clubs by the skellies in order to beat crusaders down.

As Helo began to black out the man let go screamed in rage. Knowing he may not get another chance he rolled away from him and climbed to his feet. The paladin was now off the ground and drew a wicked looking serrated blade. Drool dripped from his mouth as he bared his teeth and growled, preparing to attack. Helo backed away attempting to distance himself from his foe but before he took a third step the attack came.  The paladin lunged, hair flying wildly, a feral roar escaping his open mouth as he leaped for the kill with impressive speed. With equally impressive speed Helo drew his katana and sliced forward with an upward motion, his steel briefly resisted by armor before it found flesh.

Spinning out of the attack Bastard brought the blade to bear in front of him, the crusaders blood coating the blade where it met flesh. His foe stopped and turned, clearly wounded, blood seeping through the man's fingers as he held the wound. Helo knew it was deep...he had felt the blade sink in...but instead of dropping to the floor he again raised his blade. In his eyes Helo could see the man's pure hatred for him, shame that he had even let such scum like him score a blow like that.  Again the man roared, louder this time no doubt backed by the pain that wracked his body.  Without hesitating Helo pulled his FN-57 and fired, the round tearing through the paladin's skull and redecorating the wall behind him a lovely shade of crimson and pink. The man's scream morphed into more of a gurgling sound as air escaped his lungs and he collapsed into a bloody pile. Behind him the Skellies had finally subdued the last of the enemy, the last two lying battered and bruised against the wall while two skellies pointed staff weapons at them.

“What do we do with these?” one of them asked as Helo picked up his fedora and shotgun.

“Kill 'em”

Two staff blasts rang out down the corridor. A quick head count showed that three of the twelve were wounded, two of them severely. Helo, still panting, had two of the able bodied men help the two who couldn't walk while the others formed up around them with Helo himself on point. Further down the corridor Helo rounded another corner and startled a single paladin, who tried in vain to raise his weapon before Helo's M-13 caught him in the chest, making a mess of his chest plate and the flesh beneath it. The body had barely hit the floor before the rest of the team made their way around the corner and disappeared into the nearest door.

Inside was the prison, a thin corridor with cells on both sides, dimly lit and with the smell of human waste and sweat in the air. Helo and the others quickly checked the cells: all were locked save one.

“What the Fuck!” one of them yelled. “He's not fucking here!”

“He was...”

They all turned to Helo, standing in front of the open cell. “He was here, they must have moved him.”

“How can you tell?” one of the others asked.

Bastard motioned them over, and they came and clustered around the cell. There lying in the dirt and muck of the cell floor was the crumpled remains of what appeared to be a crown. Helo tapped his earpiece and spoke into the mike. “Visha this is Bastard...your there?”

There was a moment of static before the response came through. “I'm here bastard. Do you have him?”

“Negative, looks like they moved him from his cell. I'm sure we aren't far behind.”

“Well hurry your ass up, things are getting kinda dicey up here.”

“Copy that.”

Helo turned away from the cell to the men surrounding him. “Lets go gents,” he said as he hefted his shotgun once again.

“Let's go find ourselves a king.”

Flying is an art really, admired by many, mastered by few. Reaction time, dexterity, and the mental capacity to think quickly, but clearly are vital to pilot. One little mistake, one dive ended a little too late, one evasion maneuver executed a little too late and one’s life could snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Any rational being would balk at flying under such odds, considering it stupid and insane. Pilots, however, think differently. Their love of flying and their desire to see the stars draws them to piloting like a moth to the flame. On the ground, they feel like a bird with bound wings, but once in the air, they are free. The potential for death is only a minor detail, after all, what’s life without risks?

It was this mindset that Hunter had, gazing out at the battlefield through the canopy of his starfighter as he exited the Charelotte’s hangar bay. The overwhelming aura of death was readily apparent, from the slowly spinning husks of former craft to the blazingly bright flashes of lasers weaving a net of destruction across the space of the battlefield. It would be suicide to enter the fray for surely he would be dashed to pieces before he made it a kilometer. Somehow, that thought didn’t even enter his mind. In fact, the only thing he felt was a desire to get going, to get flying, to enter the battle. It was quite overwhelming, pounding in his mind like a headache, continuing up until he left the shields of the Charelotte. Then, it faded away and his mind was completely blank.

Every pilot had a flying style, whether they knew it or not. The way they saw the battlefield, as the big picture of the individual bits, the way they flew, overly aggressive or relatively passive, and even the way they used the yoke, with light twitches of the hand or sudden jerking movements, were unique to a pilot.

Hunter always had a blank mind while flying. No distracting thoughts or breaks of concentration and focus. Processing every little bit of info that came his way, he built an imaginary map of his area of the battle in his mind and used it to plan his attacks and evasions. Enemies usually were not included on the map until he targeted them. The sensory feeds and displays supplemented the mind map and allowed it to grow beyond what just he could tell with his natural senses. He could see the battle raging on before him, but he couldn’t actually see anything. His gaze was unfocused, similar to a person who in a daydream. It was a paradox, really, being able to see, yet not see. Most people would not be able to believe any normal being capable of such a feat, but Hunter was most definitely not normal.

An enemy fighter swayed close nearby, seemingly deciding whether or not to pursue Hunter. The decision took a second and the pilot moved his fighter in towards Hunter, moving in behind him. With a tweak of his wrist, Hunter zoomed to the right, immediately reversed direction, and then pulled up sharply, seeking to catch the pursuer off balance. Based on the technical readouts, he succeeded, if only slightly, and threw the fighter into a corkscrew, seeking to capitalize on the momentary advantage. Coming out of the corkscrew, Hunter pivoted the ship where it was facing the oncoming enemy fighter, which was desperately trying to keep up, and quickly let off three short bursts. Pulling away before he collided with the other fighter, he increased the gap and noted that he had scored a direct hit on the enemy fighter, causing the pilot to eject.

Snipes moved with his animalistic prowl, following his rescuer again, making turn after turn. The ship was enormous and the thinking part of Snipes splintered psyche realized that they must have put him far from the hanger. His atrophied muscles screamed with the sudden activity, half healed lacerations, bruises and broken ribs flared in anger at his motion; but it seemed far away. He noticed it, but did not remember what the pain meant. The loudness in the back of his head knew. The part of him that could still think more or less like a man was yelling, creating a deafening cacophony in his head. With the beast in full control he didn't know what that meant either.

Snipes was thrown to the ground as the ship suddenly rocked heavily. It rocked to one side and then continued to shake as some unknown force pushed it's inertial dampeners to the limit and then some.

"Don't fucking kill me yet!" He roared.

It was instinctive, a shout he had not even thought about before it burst from his mouth, it had come from the back, thinking part of his mind, it made the beast shake it's head, confused. In the confusion The King began to push himself back into the mind, not all the way, the dark place only invaded so far before the beast was once again moving, in control.

Thoughts crept into the forefront of the beasts mind, disrupting and dulling his single-minded hunt. Curiosity and suspicion of his rescuer, hunger was noticed and internally complained about. The strong urge for something he could not name consumed him.

His mind was wrapped up internally and his reactions dulled, he did not notice the micro turrets firing, or the brazen attack of the crusaders it was cutting apart, the report of the smart grenade launcher sounded far off and unimportant. These new thoughts tickled his mind and made it work in ways it had not in a long time. It made him think. Sadly it was not a convenient time to be thinking.

No, chaos was erupting all around them as they burst through the door into the hanger. Only a few crusader ships were left there, most of them burning husks or ships still damaged from the battles over Eyesore.  Crusader forces were massed, but unorganized and confused.

Snipes didn't understand the source of the confusion until a moment later, as he was firing his pistol wildly into the group. From the exterior of the hanger four freighters approached at break neck speed; one splintered apart mere meters from the bay shielding, it's fragments and broken husk still plummeting through into the hanger, wrecking a path of devastation across the flight deck.  Close behind the now burning wreckage the other three ships careened into the hanger, one lost one of it's landing struts and plowed through a group of crusaders, rendering them into little more than deck paint, another skidded to a barely controlled halt against a bulkhead and the last, well that last landed with relatively little incident. Which was a nice change of pace.

Snipes darted to a barely burning pile of wreckage, his blaster emptying the last of it's energy as he skidded behind the cover. The metal boots, while an improvement over barefoot, were slowing him down; he kicked them off. He had entered something of a frenzy now, a panic. He knew he needed to do something, but he had no idea what.

Weapon.

Snipes looked around, fighting the beasts urge to dive out there and begin killing, instead he found a dead privateer just to the side of his cover. He reached out with both hands and yanked the body back by the ankles. Snipes rummaged around the body, the mans rifle lay in the kill zone, but he had an old style double barrel scatter gun on his hip, Snipes pulled it loose and opened it. One of the shells popped out.

One shell.

Snipes pulled the belt of rounds off the body and threw it around his shoulders, he refilled the empty barrel and poked his head over his cover. He pulled both triggers, sending the ten gauge blasts of buckshot into a crusaders back and, possibly, initiating some friendly fire with nearby Osk mercenaries. It was an accident. It's not called a scatter gun for nothing.

Snipes darted from cover to cover, shooting, reloading, running. He alternated between careful maneuvering and bloodlust fueled recklessness. His minds tenuous grasp on his body fluctuating with the flow of battle, the knot of rage barely pushed to the back as he fought both crusaders and himself.

It was a short fight, in all. The last ship to land had unloaded a rather efficient platoon of what seemed to be mercenaries. Snipes wasn't sure why he could tell they were mercenaries and not pirates, his mind was still clouded by the internal struggle he wasn't even entirely aware of.

Snipes let himself lean against his cover as the mercs finished the cleanup. He felt the need for. . .something. He couldn't say what exactly. His hand reached across his chest, for some reason expecting. . .something. A pocket perhaps, inside a coat, he couldn't remember. He just knew that whatever he wanted he really wanted.

With a final report of slugthrower fire the short fight was over. Snipes was still twitching, trying to figure out what it was he felt the need for when a man stepped around the Kings cover. Snipes looked up, he was younger, mid twenties maybe, he wore a plumed hat, one side fastened up by a brass crest the size of Snipes palm, a brow braid as thick as Snipes forearm coiled around his neck and his sharp features were marred by a black eye patch over his left eye.

"Well look wha' we've found 'ere boys. I think it's a king," He called over his shoulder.

Snipes stood, clad only in pants and a bandolier of shotgun shells he still stood half a head taller than the other man in his greatcoat and military fatigues. The man looked Snipes up and down before extending his hand with a smile.

Snipes looked the hand over for a moment, examining all sides of it before reaching out and clasping it. The man had a grip like steel and Snipes returned no less, "Yuri, Yuri Blass, and these," he said gesturing with the hand he had shaken with, "Are the Stray Dogs, yer grace."

Snipes looked around at the collection of men in various military fatigues. They were motley looking really, but they all wore the same oval crest on some part of their uniform, some on berets, some on their chest or shoulders. Many proudly wore scars and battle damaged equipment, they looked like fighting men.  Yuri lit a cigarette.

As soon as the smoke wafted into Snipes nostril he knew what it was he felt the pressing need for, that itch he couldn't scratch. Yuri must have seen it on his face because he silently shook one out of his pack and held it out to Snipes, as soon as Snipes had it in his mouth the man lit it for him.

With the first deep pull Snipes could feel stress and anger melt away from him, the barely contained panic subsided with every puff, his mind started working again. The knot of anger was still there, pushed to the back, but it was quiet now; it knew it had lost this battle.

"You're with Osk then?" Snipes rasped, his voice still not accustomed to use.

"Well, yes and no. We were hired to assist with boarding actions." Blass said.

"So you're trying to take this ship? Can't be the only group then?"

"Nope, just one of the flankers, Corellian Hound dropped a group on here earlier to sneak in and get you before she got put out of the fight, as did Blighter, neither of those covert groups were heard from so we're trying a full assault."

As soon as the man had said Corellian Hound Snipes cigarette had fallen from his mouth, "My ship! My ship! What happened!?"

"Got hit by the storm, I think most of them are fine but the ship is dead, that captain is a scary woman."

My ship. I. . .I. . .new ship? "I think," Snipes said, pausing, "I think I need this ship, yes, I want it, I need it, we're taking it."

The sound of feet pounding on the hard floor reverberated down the hallways ahead. The sprinting man didn’t even care as he was too worried about what was right on his heels to worry about what was lying ahead of him. The old adage came to mind, “Take life one step at a time.” Well, not literally life in this situation, but the sentiment was the same. He rounded yet another corner, nearly undistinguishable from all the others.

He could just barely hear the other man close behind him, a heavy thumping that made his heart pump faster and faster with fear. Fear, something he never really felt, but also something he felt in incredible quantity at that moment. Here he was, possibly alone on an enemy ship with one of the inhabitants of the ship right on his heels. He knew exactly who that enemy was and what he was capable of, which was the direct cause of the fear that gripped him. And grip him did that fear, but did he let it control him? No, he kept moving, forcing one foot ahead of the other in a desperate bid to escape the clutch of his hound.

Faster and faster he moved, until the walls blurred by. It was quite amazing luck that he had not stumbled onto another of the enemy, yet he did not pause to think upon it, for he could not stop. If he did, he would never take another step. He was far too tired to stop moving, seemingly paradoxical, yet still true at the same time. To stop was to die at the hands of the demon on his heels. It was ironic really, for the demon at his heels labeled the one he pursued a demon as well.

Blasted Crusaders. They never give up, but I can’t really blame them. Fanatics tend to be alike in that manner. And they’re the worst kind of fanatics.

Valthir rounded yet another corner, only to very nearly shatter his nose as he almost collided with a solid mass going the opposite way as he. A complete collision was only avoided due to Valthir’s quick reflexes, as he twisted and contorted his body to more or less bend around the mass as he passed. As he went by, he shot a quick glance at the mass, only to have his eyes widen in shock as he realized it was yet another Crusader.

This just isn’t my day is it? Well, no use in running any further. This one is so close I might as well just lay down and die. But I won’t. So fighting it shall be.

Though he definitely had not had the best luck so far, it seemed to have been turning in his favor. The Crusader that he had nearly run into may have been in armor, but he was rather small and looked to be a part of the ship’s crew.

Excellent.

As the Crusader realized what had happened, he turned and lunged towards Valthir, raising the sword he held. Each combatant had an advantage and a disadvantage. The Crusader was armored, but he seemed to be restricted by it somehow. Based on the other Crusaders that Valthir had saw fighting, those suits of armor may have looked physically restricting, but they offered a surprising degree of movement, which led Valthir to the conclusion that the man was not used to fighting in his armor, possibly even fighting period. Valthir, on the other hand, was more or less unarmored, but had a complete freedom of movement and the ability to take advantage of that.

As the sword slashed down towards his head, Valthir studied it. It took less than a second, but he recognized the kind of sword, though not the specific make of it as that would be almost impossible in such a galaxy. It was just a regular run-of-the-mill sword with no fancy bells or whistles.

Which will make this fight even easier.

The sword cut through the air, a heavy strike that would have split Valthir’s skull straight through to his shoulders, had he been there to meet it. But with a step forward, he met the man not at his sword, but at his wrist. With a quick slap with his left hand, he edged the strike to the side and bent down, reaching through the man’s legs with one hand and placing the other square on his breastplate. It was nearly unbearable, but as the man’s momentum carried him forward, Valthir used one arm to lift the man up a little and the other to steady the man. As he used his back to carry most of the weight, he sprang upwards and pushed with both hands, lifting the Crusader into the air. Letting he go, he jumped backwards as the man slammed into the wall and slid down leaving a slightly bloody smear as he did. It seemed the man had cracked open his unarmored skull on the wall when he hit, taking care of one problem.

The burden lifted from his shoulders, literally, Valthir felt at once both relieved and weary. He stumbled as he tried to step away, in pain. That one maneuver had taken away nearly all of his strength. As quickly as it had started, it had ended, and just as quickly, the next began. He had barely taken a breath when the Crusader that had been hounding him rounded the corner and, with his obviously tired prey in sight, slowed down. As the man’s gaze slid from Valthir to his downed brother slumped against the wall, the smug grin slid from his face and was replaced by a hard stare that did not bode well for the one standing before him. His anger aroused, the man stalked forward, taking his time, relishing the fear he thought he saw in his prey’s face. But it was not fear that was upon Valthir’s face, it was a resigned weariness. He knew he was most likely about to die, and he was fine with that. He also knew that before he died, he would return as much pain and torment to the Crusader as the Crusader had caused him.

As the man advanced, Valthir stooped down and grabbed the fallen Crusader’s sword. That action seemed only to anger the man further, as an unbeliever, he probably wasn’t supposed to even touch the sword, much less wield it against a Crusader.

Well, here goes nothing.

Snipes loped down the corridors ahead of his newly appointed guards. He didn't know them, they didn't know him, but they all wanted to kill some Crusaders and that made them family.  Snipes wasn't sure where the bridge was or how he was going to take it over, he just knew he really wanted it. Sometimes, most times, that was all the estranged Pirate King really cared about.

Now and then the group ran into heavy Crusader resistance and Snipes pilfered shotgun had only lasted so long before it was out of shells. One of Yuri's men provided him with a heavy blaster pistol and a couple extra blaster packs. Snipes had also pilfered a decent set of boots and a red leather jacket that, despite having seen better days, had come equipped with bloodstains, half a pack of cigarettes and, most importantly, pockets. That was the only drawback to the type of pants Snipes generally wore, they didn't have pockets.

There's a reason corellian pants don't have pockets; no corellian is stupid enough to keep hard credits.

Snipes turned around another corner, much like all the other ones in the poorly lit and all around poorly kept Crusader ship. This corner, however, was somewhat more interesting. One crusader lay dead on the ground, a nasty streak of blood running down the wall and a great flat part of the dead mans head where, likely, there had once been part of his brain.

Just on the other side of the corpse two men fought, one loomed over the other in his heavy Crusader armor, sword bared and striking swiftly, but powerfully. The other man was taking a beating, his clothes already torn in several places and small gashes leaking blood down his body, he was struggling just to block the Crusaders swings. That was not going to do, not at all.

"Contact rear!" One of the Stray Dogs yelled, causing the Crusader to turn and sneer a smile at them.

"Yuri, think you guys and the straglers can take care of it?"

Yuri Blass spit out the toothpick he was chewing on and craned his neck around, "Yeah, we got it, they have some of those projectile weapons, but we'll flank around and catch 'em on the side, they're pretty susceptible to flanking maneuvers."

"Alright, I got this."

"How brave, oh mighty King, what would we do without you here to save us?"

"Just get on it."

Snipes turned his attention back to the little personal battle that was going on, the privateer had lost his sword and was being chased around by the Crusader, but he was winded, probably not long for this world.

In battle the winner of any hand-to-hand fight is the guys who's friends show up first with guns. It was an echo of a past life in the military, but it was all too true. Snipes pulled his pistol out of his waistband and fired on the Crusader.

Three shots that did little but draw his attention, Snipes smiled at him and darted in close, driven back by a swing of the sword, Snipes fired a few more rounds into his torso, which again did little. That wasn't the point. He swung again and this time Snipes moved in, shoving the barrel of his pistol under the mans arm and firing twice before darting away again. He staggered and his left arm hung limp, but he recovered quickly and the dance continued, when Snipes dove in this time, however, he planted his right foot and whole weight on the mans torso and, grabbing hold of his breast plate, rode him to the ground, only then did Snipes fire three rounds into his head. It would have to be a closed casket funeral.

Snipes stood and stretched. His own body ached, every part of him hurt and he could feel every single discomfort. He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he really needed a shower.  A shower and a drink and possibly a night's pleasurable company. For now he was going to have to deal with dirty pants, a jacket that itched, boots just a little too big, no socks and smelling horrific.

Snipes turned his attention to the man who lay against the wall, gasping for air, sweat soaked. He didn't look like much, but he seemed to be the only survivor of his group. Or a coward. For now Snipes would give him the benefit of the doubt.

"What's yer name, mate?" Snipes asked.

"Valthir," He gasped.

"Val, well, good to have you. We're taking the bridge, you're more than welcome to join us."

"That sounds, very nice." he managed between gasps.

Snipes nodded and turned, meaning to rejoin Stray Dogs and their fight, but it seemed that they were done, for the moment. Clearly it had been a small group, so far they hadn't run into any large groups, but Snipes had a feeling that the multitude of small groups running all over the ship were probably causing them some trouble. Snipes located Yuri and nodded to him, the nod was returned. They were ready.

Snipes growled as he threw himself into the back of a Crusader, taking him to the ground. A pillaged, yet rather ornate, dagger quickly and repeatedly pierced the neck joint of the Crusaders armor. There was blood everywhere. Not just on Snipes or his most recent kill, it was everywhere.

Snipes and The Stray Dogs had caught the crusaders between two enemies, they didn't know who the second were, but they were in the bridge. Which, hopefully, meant another team of Oskers. Snipes wasn't entirely sure who else on this ship would be so lovingly slaughtering the crusaders and working them up into a such a righteous fury.

The Stray Dogs were engaging the Crusaders like a disciplined military unit. Snipes was not. Snipes was anything but disciplined and he was sorely lacking in bullets by this point. Snipes had decided to make contact with whoever was on the other side. Armed with but the dagger Snipes threw himself further into the fray, sinking the dagger into a crusader throat and leaving it there, pulling a sword from a corpse and continuing on.

This was the second time Snipes had rushed through a crusader battle line, the first had been to reclaim his crown, now it was to steal their ship. Either way it was not fun, nor was it easy. The secret to getting through was directly contrary to Snipes nature, he had to avoid fighting, avoid getting bogged down by all the people just begging to die in new and horrible ways. He had to run, push, dodge, dive, duck and sometimes kill to get through. He ran as quickly as he could, but he was now tiring fast, he pushed a crusader sideways, ducked under a blade and continued on, finally bursting through a door and into the presence of ragged men.

The fighting didn't slow just because of The King's arrival, if anything it intensified and Snipes joined the men who could only be Oskers. He hacked and slashed crudely, wielding the shining blade like a machete. Snipes has never cared for melee combat, it bored him and was useless when the blasters came out. There were no blasters here so Snipes was definitely feeling rather useless himself. Still he threw himself into it, relishing the conflict, the challenge of it. Trying to pierce a small spot of armor with a long blade was proving considerably more difficult than he had ever imagined. In that sense it was almost addictive, trying to shove the tip into one of the chinks while the other man only had to poke at him, no accuracy required. Snipes collected a good variety of cuts, scrapes and bruises; but finally, once the fatigue began to interfere with him, the fighting slowed and, with his decapitation of a leader, ended. The crusaders, caught between two enemies were eradicated.

Snipes stood on the Crusader bridge, leaning on the sword for support, gasping for every breath. He was alive. He'd come close to his final death several times on this day, but so far he had defeated it at every turn. That was good sign, perhaps the luck would hold.

After several long minutes his breathing normalized and he turned to look around him. The bridge was awash with dead and dieing, their blood covered everything in the room; the black steel and gothic architecture of the bridge only further intensified the sensation that this was the deepest pit of hell. Snipes laughed.

Looking around he noted each of the men he had been fighting with. He recognized them as crew of the Hound, except one man. Snipes had not seen him since the reclamation of Eyesore.

"Bastard, so good to see you're still alive."

"You too, King." He said, offering Snipes a smoke, which he accepted greedily.

"I cannot fathom why you would try to hold the bridge of an enemy ship against such odds, running is the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions, but never mind that. I need you to stay here and make sure nobody in this room dies, unless they're on of these bastards," Snipes kicked a crusader corpse, "They can die a lot."

"Sounds good, Boss. We've also got their leader tied up around here somewhere."

"Their leader?" Snipes laughed, "This is just the best day ever. I want him in front of the holo immediately." Snipes spun to address the remainder of the men that were with Bastard, "Alright boys, get this bridge running, I want comms, sending and receiving, in five mikes, navigational controls and astrogation in ten."

"What about us?" Yuri asked, stepping over the threshold, "Got anything we can do?"

"Much!" Snipes yelled, "First I need the engineering section, weapons would be nice but I don't need them, all I really need is to be able to make this thing move under it's own power. Shooting is nice but optional. When your men have it I want you to lock it down, everything not held by us is getting the atmosphere dumped."

"There are other parties on this vessel."

"Yes, trust me, there's a plan."

"Great, well, I'll expect a full account when we get back."

"Riches beyond your imagination."

"I've got a good imagination."

"Great, I'd hate for this to be boring,"

Snipes turned again, he was in a frenzy now, he knew what needed to be done and how to do it. He was going to make it happen.

* * *

Visha Unheil looked back at the remains of Fortune Seekers, the last boarding party remaining to Corellian Hound. Only seven were left after what had befallen the ship; the Queens had disembarked elsewhere, Blades and Bastards were both gone from the galaxy, Skeletons already on the prize.

"Men, we may not live through the day; but we are people of duty and honor, our duty and our honor are held by The King, he was in our charge and we let this happen. That is our shame. Let us fix this black mark on our honor and if we die trying at least the galaxy can remember that there are still some men who remember their duty when all else is lost."

"We're with you, Cap'n" The leader said, "and we don't plan on diein' either."

"Good."

Visha finished pulling on her last glove and let her right hand rest on the slim sporting blaster on her thigh. It had been a long time since she'd had to use it, but muscle memory never forgot these things. She pulled the brown great coat from the bin it had been draped on and threw it around her shoulders, then nodded to the lead figure in berserk armor. He tossed her an E-11, she checked the chamber and then the exited the airlock.

The small shuttle she entered belonged to some warship that had come in half way through the fray, but they were easily persuaded to take Visha and the seven armor clad men to a different destination. To the enemy battleship, the one not directly in the fray. The one she had left Helo and the Skellies on.

It was quick flight, and uneventful, at least for a battlefield. They were soon deposited in a hanger that had clearly already been ravaged by The Company, dead crusaders and privateers alike littered it. Visha's nose wrinkled in disgust. So much, so much death for the life of one man. Some part of her, deep in some secret corner of her heart, knew she'd willingly send twice as many for the return of this man.

* * *

"Lordship! I've got partial security!"

"I don't care!"

"There's another group landed."

"Dammit!" Snipes yelled, "How long until I get those comms so I can tell the idiots to stop doing that!"

"I don't even know what half these buttons do! And there's no screen!"

"I'm not sure you'd be able to stop this one anyway, Kingship."

Snipes turned to the Skeleton fussing over the security, "Why?"

"I. . .I think it's the Cap'n."

"Visha?"

"Yeah, look." He pulled up a holo of the hanger, the determined woman followed by berserkers couldn't be anyone else.

"Why do you have a holo-projecter and he doesn't?"

"I have no idea."

"Never mind, Helo!"

"Sup Boss?"

"Take two, no one man and lead her here as fast as possible. I'm ready for this to be over."

Snipes continued pacing on the raised dais behind the controls. The ship was infuriating him and everyone with him. It operated like no other ship he'd ever encountered, it liked to spit paper at them covered in symbols they did not know. Snipes had a plan to convince the other Crusaders that this ship was now firmly in his control, which might break them, but he needed it at least mobile and he needed comms in order for it to work.

Either way, however, the ship was coming home with him and this conflict was nearing it's conclusion.