Floating. Floating and sitting. There was a lot of that lately. Despite the complete vacuum of the void, there was always some degree of movement to it. It had a lifeforce. It breathed and sighed like any other living creature in the galaxy. But now… Now it seemed dead. There were no ships. There were no communications. There was just the all-encompassing silence of eternal emptiness. Somehow, it comforted him, being enveloped in the silence. It presented a good deal of time to think, to muse. Sometimes thinking too much is a bad thing, a little voice in the back of his head said. With a silent inward grimace he told it to piss off. He was content enough to be left to his own thoughts - an imaginary peanut gallery wasn’t necessary.

A loud knock finally forced his eyes open. Both the action of opening his eyes and the sound hurt him. Tanus groaned as he forced himself up, looking around for the force of the noise that so disturbed him. It didn’t much matter where he looked; the lights were off and the room was black as pitch. A second set of knocks roused him further, but not enough to make a move. Tanus merely sat on his bed, cracking his back and neck. Each crack sounded like thunder rolling through his body; each pop pounded life back into his tired, drunken muscles. The third set of knocks were modified by kicks to the door and copious amounts of swearing, some of it other languages. Tanus sighed as he pushed himself off his bed, kicking over or tripping over spent liquor bottles strewn across his room. He stumbled over to his door, falling into the wall as a bottle rolled under his foot. As he peeled his face off the wall, he swore a storm. This is why I hate being awake.

He slammed his hand on the control panel on the wall next to his door. The door slid open with a hiss, letting the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway into Tanus’ room. Tanus shielded his eyes from the brightness, looking up only to see a massive black shadow standing in front of him. Still not being able to tell who it was, Tanus retreated into his room, throwing himself into his bed, praying the light would just… go away. He heard the sound of his door close and the shuffling of bottles as a chair was being moved. As he lifted his head from his pillow, someone turned on the light switch. More light pummeled him, driving him right back into his pillows. It was at this point that Tanus’ mouth caught up with his mind. However, whatever he said came out as muffled noise as he was still buried in his pillows.

“What was that?” Hotah said, his fingers dancing along his datapad’s screen.

Tanus managed to push himself up and turn his head slowly and begrudgingly to the left. He eyes came to rest on Ayolos Hotah, his first mate and permanent backseat heckler. Tanus opened and closed his eyes a few times and then reached for the glass lying on his bedside table, praying that whatever liquid resided in the glass was something not alcoholic and could wash out the horrid morning – Morning? Was it morning? What day was it? – breath that had been plaguing him. Tanus got the glass as far as his nose before throwing the glass across the room into his wall, where it exploded in a sea of glass and raava. Hotah barely looked up at the dripping, broken mess before letting out a weary sigh.

“You know, if you keep doing that, we’ll run out of glasses. The rest of the crew is still angry about the plate incident.”

“Hey, we still have bowls. Quit bringing up old shit. And by the by, what I meant to say earlier was kindly leave the light off, but it’s a bit late for that.”

Hotah made some dismissal sound and Tanus grimaced as he started to reach for some variety of pants. Eventually he was successful and managed to get them on; Hotah was still busy on his datapad like a hapless teenager. Tanus turned to look at his first mate, doing his best to put on his serious face, but at most got the “We both know I’m drunk, but let’s just pretend I’m not” face. To emphasize the point, he promptly grabbed another bottle of smoke whiskey from the floor; this one, amazingly, was untapped. Hotah did not see this. As he looked up to say something, however, he did. He also saw Tanus crack open the bottle and promptly upended it. He let out a disgusted sigh as nearly a quarter of the bottle disappeared down Tanus’ throat. Tanus put the bottle down and smiled.

“You know you love me.”

“I tolerate you. We both know that.”

“Fair enough. Now what exactly do you want?”

Hotah tapped a few more commands into his datapad before handing it to Tanus. Tanus flipped it over in his hands, looking at the screen. What he saw were many screens: Number displays, fractions, conversions and a host of other figures. He flipped through a few of them before handing the device back to Hotah, who turned it off and pocketed it. Tanus started to idly play with the top of the bottle, waiting for the silence to eventually be breached. A good thirty seconds passed with nothing. Then Tanus sighed.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What were all those silly numbers about?”

Hotah, in response to this, merely stared. He then folded his brow into his hands and began to talk.

“Well, my illustrious captain, all those numbers indicate one thing: we’re boned. We’re running out of food and fuel, have almost no money and haven’t made significant loot runs in ages. In short, we’re boned.”

“But we still have liquor and smiles. That has to count for something.”

“How the hell are you a captain?”

“I had to make a few calls. But regardless, what does that mean for us?”

“It means we have to head home, captain.”

Tanus stopped cold. It had been a long while since he had stepped foot back on Eyesore. The burned out sky and desolation almost drew a sense of nostalgia out of him. Almost. He still remembered the screams of the dying and smell of burning flesh. He pushed the anger swimming in his stomach down as far as he could. It took a lot.

“Snipes actually wants a rush order on our return. He apparently misses our faces.”

At that, Tanus’ eyes shot up and wide. Snipes wants us back, eh? He must be moving. Finally. Some fun. A wicked grin flashed across Tanus’ face and sliced the inebriation in half. He stood up, way too quickly, and almost fell back down. Hotah just shook his head and smirked.

“You really do astound me, captain.”

“It’s what I do best. Now let’s get back home. Our King has beckoned us.”

The Light Rodger used to be a space barge. A trash mover for intergalactic waste. Some prospector decided it would be a great idea to convert the whole thing into an orbiting merchant ship.

Ayme made her way through the haphazardly constructed aisles, and tried to block out the smell. The largest part of the freighter, which also used to hold trash, now made up the rows filled with a massive volume of parts for sale.

“Hi there sweetheart, need some help?”

Ayme didn't look up from the drive shaft she had been examining. She never even bothered to look at the man's face. Before he could continue his flirtation, her hand shot up and her fist closed around his thick throat.

“Walk away.” Giving the words sufficient time to sink in she slowly released him and listened to the staggered footsteps as he stumbled away.

“You could try to be nicer, yanno.” Reg 'Bird' Kline stood just a fraction out of arms length with a smirk on his face.

Ayme snorted. “Maybe later.”

Bird shook his head. The crew of the Broken Bitch had remained together, except Jaenna. They had been traveling from one junk peddler to the next in search of parts to upgrade the ship. She would have gone to a more reputable dealer, but she had nothing better to do and enjoyed the challenge. The ship had grown on her as time passed. The day it had been granted to her by the Osk Company she half thought the whole thing was a joke. Now she could see that the Bitch had character. People noticed the ship when it docked, then generally walked away from it. She could transport some decent holds given the fact no body figured the broken girl for having any value.

It had been months since she'd been contacted by the company. Havock wasn't quite important enough to know the details of what was going on, nor did she really care. Her life was full of more than enough excitement to fill her schedule and then some.

Jaenna had been off doing things Ayme tried to block out of her mind. Most of the time she just pretended she was on a beach somewhere. It wasn't that Havock's life had been devoid of illegal activities. Ayme spent most of her childhood in a gang, and was a part of more schemes than she cared to remember. Before that her life was a whirlwind of trouble. It often amused her that she was as intact as she was.

Ayme didn't care that Jaenna was a spice dealer, she just missed the girl. She was overprotective and didn't like not even being in contact with her.  Staying apart so much frankly made her grouchy, which annoyed the crew.

“This place is crap. I haven't seen any part worth one credit.” She tossed a fuse chamber she'd been holding back on the messy shelf.

Ayme ran her hands along the cap on her head. She took several deep breathes despite the smell, then reached into her jacket pocket to get her comlink.

“Milly, exactly how bad off is the steering calibrator?”

The response came several seconds later. The interference on the Light Rodger  was ridiculous. “Well Havock, as long as we don't need to do anything at sub-light, such as park, I suppose its just fine.”

“Great. Okay so we're going to have to try to squeeze one more landing out of her, there's nothing here worth the price they think they are charging me. Seriously these people have delusions.”

“I'm afraid not Cap'n. You just got a priority message from Eyesore. We need to make tracks.”

Havock frowned. No communication what-so-ever for months then a priority message? “Why? What's wrong?”

“Can't say Cap'n. Better haggle that price down and high tale it back to the ship. The repairs will take time.”

“Right, Hav out.”

A return to normalcy would have been welcomed, if such a thing had ever actually existed in Osk. Part of Ayme was excited with the prospect of being on Eyesore again. Jaenna would probably make an appearance. Of course, that's if they could find her.

She snatched the overpriced part and checked her blaster. “Let's get this over with.”


===~~~===

Eyesore was just as rowdy as it was the first day she set foot on the place. She had come to Osk to figure out a way to re-connect with Jaenna and find Aeos. Instead she found a purpose for being there that was totally personal. She discovered that she liked having a place where the old, impulsive, thrill seeker in her could thrive.

The dock was littered with drunks, prostitutes and bums. So many people floundered through life and found their way to Eyesore. The businesses thrived on the constant march of depravity.

“So now what?” Trix bounced up next to Havock.

“I'm...not sure. Let's walk about and see what kind of mischief finds us.”

“You’re headed down there, son?” Arvet Row, captain of the Grand Sail transport, questioned.

“Oh. Yes, I am.”

Montileu Talus’ timid response was accompanied by a visible gulp. Stood there before the vast viewport he looked down on Osk 91, and felt his stomach churn. The planet nicknamed ‘Eyesore’ was precisely that, and reeked of the piratical chaos that swarmed its surface as a shroud of sepia-toned madness.

“Brave boy,” the captain commented, turning from the room. Montileu was left questioning his choices.


*


Monty’s first steps into the boundaries of The Locker were fraught with anxiety, his soft-soled tall boots swiftly dirtied. What an image he made; a young-looking man, baby-faced and clean shaved, decked out in his university’s evening uniform. The white silken pants tucked tidily into the velvet and soft leather boots, a narrow white belt made from the hide of some exotic beast, the vintage doublet with mildly-padded shoulders, also silken, and the various assortment of tinkling gold accessories befitting his private, snobbish education made for a ridiculous sight there amongst the villainy of Eyesore. He caught more than a few incredulous stares, and even more passing sniggers.

Eyesore’s mountains rose high over The Locker, embracing it. What was once a place to hang the hat had grown into a teeming hive, its buildings mismatched and dank, with a charm that only appealed to the lower forms of existence within the galaxy; and a great uproar of laughter and adversity rose from its core as the liquor ran freely. Montileu shuffled with increasing reluctance through wide streets, which were far closer to spaces between buildings than anything else, and counted the broken windows. Behind him he pulled along his wheeled bag, his fingers wrapped taut around the extended handle; the once-silent little wheels now began to squeak and whinny under the filth.

By the time he had woven his way to the Throne Room’s entrance, the number of broken windows, counted at seventeen, had somehow managed to be outdone by the number of spontaneous fistfights, which numbered twenty-one. He had walked only some three-hundred yards. Montileu Talus lifted his gaze high and scanned the building before him, made with more pomp and attention than most other places he had seen on Eyesore, and snagged his bottom lip between his teeth.

He was nervous, a child beneath the inebriated boot of the Mad King of Osk.

And then the King himself appeared.

He swept from the doors with a careless flourish, half-tangled in his own coat, and playing chimney to the stub of a cigar wedged firmly into the corner of his thin lips. A flustered assortment of folk scurried along behind him, talking at him to no avail. Their faces were wracked with alarm and they threw anxious, questioning looks at each other. The King came to an abrupt halt.

There stood Montileu, picture of private upper-class education and wealth, stood with a straight back and chin raised in his fine materials, on ceremony. His stance did not show arrogance, or the holier-than-thou attitude he had grown accustomed to from folk of his status; he simply stood as he was told to stand by his parents when meeting someone of import.

The Pirate King chewed semi-consciously on his cigar, slowly blinking his eyes at the boy of twenty-five before him. He was messily encompassed in his windblown coat, and his hair was long and greasy. Darkened rings had formed under his eyes from some measure of stress. They looked at each other for the longest time in silence, the loftiness of Monty’s chin faltering under the embarrassing scrutiny. He felt so wildly out of place, and inwardly cursed himself for dressing the way he did. Mortified as he was, he visibly flinched when the King’s voice emerged.

“What the bloody hell…?” he began. He moved his mouth around his cigar once or twice as if he intended to continue, though he seemingly ran short of words.

Montileu shrunk from the words, wondering if he would have been less conspicuous without any clothes at all. Nonetheless, he did his best to introduce himself.

“Uh, well my name is Montileu Talus,” he started, sounding unsure of himself, “And I came in hopes to, what I mean to say is I wondered if I could… not join exactly, so much as…”

The look on the King’s face was almost entirely blank, save only the lingering expressions of astonishment and confusion.

“Here…” said Monty, sighing quietly at his own embarrassment as he stepped towards the King, drawing from  his bag a roll of parchment, tied loosely with a dainty golden rope.

Montileu unrolled it, and presented the message to the King, knowing exactly what it said. The lengthy text was written in a fancy calligraphy, all curls and delicate strokes.

“I can’t… What does it say?” the King muttered, unused to the script, and seemingly too perplexed by the situation to dismiss it and be about his business.

Montileu took a long breath.

“Yes, well, essentially what it says is that for my studies, my thesis, actually, is uh… well to study another culture. And, well, I thought that maybe I would try…” he said, pausing before the last word to survey to faces around him, “… pirates.”

The silence was painful. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Montileu continued in his soft-spoken manner, “So I had hoped that I could… sort of… tag along, as it were, with one of you?”

The Mad King of Pirates simply stared.

Merrick took her hands off her hips and crossed her arms as she gazed at Snipes, obviously deposited in his quarters by members of the crew if the state of his clothes and the room were anything to go by. They had either missed the bed or not cared, as the King lay sprawled on the floor with a bottle still clutched tightly in one hand. She’d found him here quite easily; the gurrcat had been at the door trying to get in and making quite a bit of noise about it too. She prodded the pirate leader in the ribs with the toe of her boot gently at first, but in the end she had to resort to quite a hard nudge before he stirred. It was still some time before he finally realised he was not alone. Rather than open his eyes or sit up, he simply held his bottle aloft in Merrick’s direction and grunted an offer. When, after several minutes, she still hadn’t taken it he finally woke fully and started at her. She detected a sudden flash of surprise before he replaced his ever present, aloof mask.

“I heard rumours that the pirate king had returned, but I know how these things can be exaggerated so I decided to find out for myself. It looks as though I was very nearly too late for the fun. Lucky that your security is still so er.. relaxed, no one stopped me jumping aboard just before you departed Eyesore. So, what’s news?”

Snipes stared idly at Merrick for a while before he spoke. He knew that she must know where he had been, so she must be asking what he had planned. He was slightly annoyed she’d disappeared without a trace and now returned so nonchalantly, especially since she hadn’t even asked his permission to board his ship and yet had evidently done so without even stirring any suspicion. It wasn’t until she uncrossed her arms and finally took the bottle that he was still holding toward her that he even spoke.

“Nice to see you too Merrick. How was your vacation?” He snatched the bottle back from her as soon as she even moved it in his direction and took a long draught, emptying it in the process. He tossed the empty vessel over his shoulder and scanned the room for a replacement.

Merrick waved a full bottle in front of him. “Tell me what you’re up to and you can have this one.” Snipes’ eyes narrowed briefly but the sway of the bottle in her grip soon caught his attention and he found himself telling her what he had planned for the world the ship currently orbited around. It wasn’t a detailed explanation but then Merrick always expected him to start a fight before even thinking about how the fight would go. She had to admit that there was a certain thrill to going into a situation and having no idea where it might take you, though her years of training in the Army had gone some way towards making her set in her tactical approach and in hiding the battle lust. Half the reason she’d joined Osk was that Snipes always seemed to bring out her inner demon and put it to best use without getting himself bitten in the process.

Eventually Merrick sat on the floor with Snipes and the two shared a few drinks, straight from the bottle; the quality of which had impressed the pirate King. She lit countless more cigarettes for him, filling the room with a haze and their distinct odour. Snipes’ pet had finally pushed his way into the room and sat near his master, watching Merrick’s every move until a knock at the entrance drew his attention to a newcomer. The unmistakable voice of Visha cut through the smoke as she stepped through the door and addressed her King. “Should we not be making a start? The longer we wait the higher the risk we will meet resistance on the planet.” It wasn’t until she almost stepped on Snipes that she noticed Merrick seated near him. “Ah I see you have company, my apologies.”

Snipes stood suddenly – more so than Merrick would have thought possible in his current state. But then that was part of the reason she stuck around; he was always unpredictable and that was a rare trait, something she could respect. She stood as well as he picked his way through the room towards the door and beckoned for Merrick to follow, responding to Visha’s apology as he did, “You remember Merrick, Captain. Seems she has deigned to join us once again.” Visha half turned and glared in Merrick’s direction, but greeted her with a nod at the same time. Unable to remember if she had done anything to earn the woman’s ire, Merrick shrugged it off and followed the pair at a discrete distance with Fury stalking close behind her.

When they reached the bridge, Merrick took a quick look around before finding herself a corner with a view of the entire area. She leaned against the wall and watched the excited activity of the crew. Her eyes landed upon two men she hadn’t seen in the King’s company before; both of whom were also watching her closely. She smiled at them and they both looked away. Following their gaze it became obvious these men were in the service of Visha rather than Snipes, not so strange in itself but their gazes frequently strayed in the King’s direction. She put it in the back of her mind for now but decided to always take note of their location just in case. Now Snipes was getting excited and shouting at the world in general. His eyes gleamed as he looked down upon the planet and seeing his avarice brought back Merrick’s grin. Well, it seems I did miss this company after all. Who would’ve though it of me. She rested a hand on the pistol at her right hip and felt the swell of anticipation at the coming battle rise inside her.

Kami stalked the length of the passageway towards the bridge of The Broken Crown, Hond and Vasili loping along casually at each shoulder. They had been delayed upon entry to the hangar of the Osk flagship when Hond had refused to part with the excessively large rifle now cradled in his scarred arms. Eventually the hired gun’s stubbornness, and Kami’s increasing anger at the interruption, had seen the Head of Security capitulate to their wishes to bring it on board. What shouldn’t have been an issue on the Locker was very much a controversial sticking point on the converted vessel. It was, after all, the realm of Visha, the undisputed Captain of the Crown. She commanded more than enough respect to give her crew cause to question Kami’s authority. Both served the Company and the King, though the fashion in which they did so was unquestionably dissimilar.

“Kami.”

The figure leaning against the blast doors of the bridge caused Kami to pause mid-step, her irritation vanishing momentarily at the sight of the black haired woman. Merrick pushed herself off the door frame and stood forward, her gaze traveling the length of Kami’s vest, form fitting leggings, knee-high boots and over the two heavy blasters slung low on her hips before resting on her face, “Don’t you look the part.”

“White was never my color.” A brief smile lifted the corner of Kami’s lips at the sight of the veteran soldier, “I have to say, I’m glad to see a friendly face.”

The older woman snorted, “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“And I believe it will be the last.” Kami tilted her chin towards the wicked axe fixed to Merrick’s back, “Particularly since that seems to still be in use.”

Merrick crossed both arms across her chest, instinctively aware that something was amiss, “There a reason that you feel as though you’re short on friends?”

Kami sighed and ran a hand through the tussled mane of her unbound hair, “It’s a long story Merr.”

Merrick nodded, accepting the clandestine response for the moment. The two had served together in the army for years and had developed a fairly productive working relationship. She had not questioned nor stifled Kami’s fervent political and military ambition, and in return Kami had repeatedly turned a blind-eye when the senior officer had bent, and in some cases broken, the established protocol or chain of command. Both believed that the end justified the means. Morals and values were a luxury that only the greenest recruits could afford.

“Sorry to bust up the heartfelt reunion.” Visha materialized in the doorway, her golden gaze fixating on Kami, “But I just received a report from security detailing some gratuitous drama with an ugly jarhead in the main hangar.”

“I resent that.” Hond snarled at her from behind Kami, his knuckles tightening about the grip of his beloved weapon, “I ain’t a brainless VE lackey.”

“But you are an ugly son of a bitch.” Vasili interjected as he lit up another cigarra.

“I need to see Snipes.” Kami’s voice cut over Hond’s crude response, “Now.”

Visha regarded her for a long moment before stepping back and aside, “On his throne.”

“Stay here.” Kami called over her shoulder at the crew of the Z as she moved past Visha and onto the extensive bridge of the Crown.

A few of the pirates crouched over the various consoles littered about the vast space looked up from their tasks as she swept past, only to divert their eyes as they took in her clenched fists and the rigid set to her jaw. Trouble was coming and they weren’t at all keen to unnecessarily become a target.

She found him where Visha had said he would be, lounging atop his now intensely elaborate throne; alone save for the presence of a young spindly-looking noble man who was hovering uncomfortably at the base of the stairs as the King rambled.

“…not a life for the weak of heart.” He was saying, the slight slur of his words suggesting that the discarded bottles cast about the floor surrounding the throne had been recently consumed, “You show the slightest hint of doubt or fear and your so called friends will turn on you before you have the chance to blink.”

“Well you ah….know what they say.” The dainty man ventured as the King paused in drunken introspection, his tone changing as he drew upon a memorized quotation, “To rule is to embrace an existence of loneliness.”

Snipes roared his laughter aloud, tossing the now empty bottle in his hand aside in the throes of his mirth. The younger man yelped comically as the heavy bottle collected with his forehead which caused the King’s laughter to redouble in strength.

“You’re worth your weight in gold!” Snipes informed the now cringing scholar.

“Are we chronicling the adventures of Osk?” Kami queried sardonically as she moved forward into the light of the large viewport before the throne.

Snipes laughter died down as he became aware of Kami’s presence, “Ah Kami. Meet Monty. He’s come to learn about pirates.”

Kami fixed the young man with a hard stare, “You’re joking.”

“I know right?” Snipes grinned down at his acquired toy, “Another bottle lad! Hurry!”

Monty tore his eyes away from Kami and span about, his ridiculous out-of-place attire billowing out behind him as he hurried to obey the King’s bidding. Snipes watched him go before casting a booted foot out onto one of the throne’s armrests and turning to Kami, “What are you doing here?”

Kami forced herself to remain calm, “I was going to ask you the same question.”

Snipes widened his wild grin in response, waving idly at the world hovering just beyond the viewport, “I’m conquering Kams.”

“Conquering.” Kami seem offended at the taste of the word, “And since when did Osk become a Company of conquerors?”

“Since now.” Snipes seemed unperturbed by the dangerously still tone of her voice, “The fleet has almost gathered. When it does, we will strike.”

“And then what?” Kami refused to be deterred, “We move onto the next planet, to loot and plunder?”

“Yes!” Snipes fist slammed down on the base of his throne, “Why are you heckling me?” He paused, glancing about for Monty, “Where’s my drink damn you!”

“And who runs this newly acquired planet in your absence Snipes?” Kami took a step closer to the looming throne, “The Captains? They preach about peace and co-operation but they’re far too busy trying to get the one up on each other. The merchants? They squabble more than the Captains and refuse to do anything unless it has a price. The loyal masses of the Company? Looters. Rapers. Pillagers. Murderers. They have an attention span that can be measured in nano-seconds. They have absolutely no interest in maintaining order.”

“You.” Snipes stubbornly ignored the train of her logic, “You run it.”

“Osk isn’t the elite fighting force that the Vast Empire is.” Kami countered fiercely, “The Locker barely functions as it is.”

“I have faith in your capabilities.” Snipes sat back in his chair, finality ringing in his voice, “Skye will be the next bastion of Osk.”

Kami barely resisted the urge to growl her frustration aloud.  She had only heard about the King’s plans via rumor and confirmed it courtesy of her carefully placed contacts. Since then she had been inundated with panicked calls from Captains and investors alike, demanding to know the Company’s future plans and the extent of the burden they would be forced to shoulder if the King commenced his scheduled invasion. Wars cost money. Lots of money. And Kami was as clueless and uninformed as the rest of the Company as to how the logistics of the coming battle and the eventual relocation of various aspects of Osk would pan out. After all, the Company had always employed hit and run tactics, striking, looting and fleeing in a strategic fashion that consistently put their targets on the back foot. Their strength was their unpredictability.

“Snipes.” Kami tried one last time, “If you do this, if we take this world and hold it you make Osk a target.” She jabbed a finger at the blue-green world of Skye, “That makes us more than pirates. It makes us more than a niggling concern to warlords, governments and empires. It suggests that we have an agenda.”

“We do.” Snipes anger was evident now, looming in the depths of his dark eyes, “My agenda.”

Kami opened her mouth to retort but the clear warning reflected on the King’s face caused her to snap it shut almost immediately. This was a battle she would not win. Snipes stubbornness far exceeded her own persistence, and he had seemingly made up his mind days ago.

Without saying a word she spun on her heel and swept away from the throne and the infuriating figurehead still lounging casually on his throne. Monty dove to one side to avoid her as he returned, whiskey bottles piled precariously high in his arms, yet Kami paid him no heed. Her mind was already whirring…calculating the course of action she would need to take over the next few hours.

The taking of Skye had the potential to do more than provide a wealthy target for the action-starved and money-grubbing masses of Osk.

It could break them.

OOC:

My glorious return to actually doing shit.

With the departure of Trix from “things I need to care about”, Vasili was free to focus on the Zephyr. While the responsibilities of the crew fell to Deznim as their captain was busy being OSK’s steward, the maintenance and health of the ship fell to Vasili. His largest task was making sure that Ydj, their hyper-maniacal Verpine mechanic, didn’t blow anything up. But since both Deznim and Kami had been busy with politics the Z felt more like a home than ever for V.

He had made his way with Hond back to the ship on Kami’s orders. The Crown wasn’t his scene, anyways. Too big; too impersonal. Though it was easier to hide empty bottles and magazines, it felt too much like a real operation. Nope, the dysfunction of his- Kami’s- ship suited him much, much better.

“Ydj, you done making those adjustments to the thrusters yet? Our girl’s gonna blow a gasket pretty soon… and I’m not talking about the ship,” V called up to Ydj, perched on top, as he walked onto the loading ramp.

The bug jumped up at the distraction, looking around erratically, “Working on it, working on it! Won’t crash into junk shop again. Or was it an orphanage? Doesn’t matter,” and he refocused on the hull.

At this point, the main residents were Vasili, Ydj, and Moelik Hond. On paper this was a recipe for disaster: a drunk with a life-debt to Kami, an insane alien, and a wanted felon across half of the galaxy left alone on one of the Company’s most valued ships with no leadership. Kami didn’t care as long as it flew when she needed it to. Hond stuck around to shoot things (and with his latest toy, it wasn’t a matter of “when” as much as “how many”).  Ydj was given free reign to tinker, and Vasili was just along for the ride. And though there were times when egos clashed and orders were taken begrudgingly, for the most part the crew did their jobs. Only when the Mad King had gotten to Kami was the Z in extreme peril.

“I’m getting kinda antsy up here, Rustam,” Hond said with a menace as him and the pilot entered the small lounge area. The brute flopped down onto the couch, cradling his rifle like a lover, as V poured Caff and Whiskey into the same cup. “It’s been a good decent while since we’ve been on an adventure. When we hit that planet they’ll feel me. They’ll fear me.”

V took a sip of his drink and gasped, “too hard…” He poured a little into the sink and took another sip. “I’m fine with floating,” his eyebrows arching behind his sunglasses. “I was having the time of my life before Snipes came back. It was a nonstop party on Eyesore once we rebuilt.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t done any of the rebuilding.”

“I’m a goddamned war hero,” V retorted with his goofy, lopsided grin. “Society owes me a debt.”

“Screw society,” scoffed Hond. “The King has returned, and he’s throwing us right back into reconstruction mode.” There was more than a little venom to his words. Hond and Snipes had a history. A bad history. V figured that’s why Kami kept him around, as a symbol of a side of her that questioned the King’s authority. “Only positive thing that old man ever did for me was give me a direction to shoot.”

Decembrist leaned up against the countertop. Maybe Hond had a point. V pondered it for a moment and then remembered that he had a sandwich in the refrigerator. With a stuffed mouth he continued the conversation, “Comon bigguy, Kami likes ‘im kinda. You truster, right?” Gulp. “You’ll get to shoot somebody soon and then you’ll forget all about your complaints.”

Hond sniffed indignantly and hugged his rifle close. He was done with the conversation, allowing V to finish his sandwich and Caff in the cockpit. He ascended the ramp to his broken-in chair and fell into it, slightly spilling his drink on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “Crap…” he muttered as he used his face to wipe it off, his hands preoccupied.

The Communication Terminal behind him began to beep and he called for Deznim, but remembering that the Ryn was left on Eyesore for this mission he sighed and found ledges to precariously balance his snack. The chair spun and faced the terminal to reveal an encrypted call. Figuring it to be the Zephyr’s resident diplomat trying to reach Kami, Vasili naturally silenced the transmission and didn’t give another damn.

“Ydj,” he opened a local comm to call to the Mechanic then realized that neither Ydj or Hond were actually suitable to take a call and represent their Captain, “… fix the goddamned ship. I want her to purr like a virgin – and this time I don’t mean Kami.”

“Yello, this is your pilot speaking,” Vasili, despite all effort not to, returned to giving a damn again.
But the transmission was terminated without any response. Fully satisfied with the result of all his hard work, Dec returned to his hard Caff and sandwich and had himself a nap when he was done. After all, Kami would be storming back any minute and he needed to be well-rested to turn on the auto-pilot.

“Wait, wait, wait. So you’re saying we’re NOT going back to Eyesore?” Tanus asked from his captain’s chair. He was wearing a robe and pants – they were lucky he was wearing pants – and had a half full bottle of whiskey in his hands. He had been up for maybe an hour or two, but that was enough to warrant drinking. Besides, he was going home – if he WASN’T raging, screaming and drunk, Snipes would probably be insulted. But apparently, they weren’t going home now; to Tanus, however, this just warranted more drinking. His navigation crew, including Hotah, were pounding away at the keys on their control panels, drawing up more information in just precisely where they were going. They had received the change of plans before they had entered hyperspace. That was good for the rest of the crew, but Tanus hadn’t been told until he had actually made it to the bridge/ You’d think they’d inform me of these things. But I guess I’m only their captain. What do I know? Ahead of him, Lana was dutifully maintaining their course through the stretched blue-white that was hyperspace.

“That would be correct, sir,” one of the techs from the navigation display stated. He then methodically went back to his work. Tanus just grimaced as he waited for some further explanation. A solid minute of no response was what he got. With a sigh, he took a shaky a step and got himself out of his chair.

“Okay, well that was helpful. Does anybody actually plan on telling me where we’re going then, if not home?”

More mashing of buttons told Tanus that the information was forthcoming – hopefully. As he drew another swig from his bottle, a deckhand scurried up to him and handed him a datapad. The man was small and somewhat sickly looking: skinny, pale and seemingly easily broken. What the shit? When did we start taking in terminals?

“It appears we’re going to the planet Skye, sir, or as it is more commonly known, Marat V. It used to be an Imperial stronghold under Lord Vader until the Rebellion kicked them out. It used to be so that you couldn’t enter atmo unless you had a permit. Now it seems you can come and go as you please.”

Tanus nodded as the deckhand spoke; he scrolled through various screens of data, mostly about terrain, atmospheric conditions and the natives. Mountains, grass and heavy mists, eh? Snipes must be up to something. There isn’t much here, either on the planet or in the sector. I guess that’s what he wants. May as well give it to him. Tanus finished looking over the datapad and handed it back to the small sickly-looking man.

“And this is where Snipes is?”

“Yes, sir. He is currently orbiting the planet, waiting for both the arrival of Captain Fal and yourself.”

Tanus was actually surprised by that. Well, it’s good that he assembled most of the cavalry already. But I’ll be damned if Jeg is gonna make it there before me. Tanus threw off his rbe, standing before his crew in half-naked, drunken glory. Many of the crew recoiled; they’d probably gotten used to Tanus throwing things whenever he did something like this.

“Okay folks. In case there are some here who don’t know, we aren’t quite going home. We’re meeting up with Snipes over a planet called Skye in a couple of hours. He’s in orbit now, so it looks like we’ll be docking with the Broken Crown upon arrival.”

A few of the Grave Robbers, his raiding team, were on the bridge. They looked at each with some degree of apprehension before looking back to their deranged captain. Tanus looked at each of them before continuing.

“Before any of you ask, I have no idea what we are getting ourselves into. All I know is that we got a call, and we’re answering it. Snipes should – hopefully – have the remaining details. Skye is out of the way from almost everything else, so at first glance it looks like we’ll be stirring up some trouble. Granted, that’s what we do best, but tread with caution this time. We could be going into a Sarlaac pit, so be ready for anything.”

The entire crew grew anxious this time; it was almost palpable. Tanus could see the hairs on Lana’s neck stand on end from where he stood, but he knew her better than that; she wouldn’t flinch, no matter how bad it got. Nor would any of the others aboard the Iron Victory: Hand-picked, unblinking and merciless. That was why they were with him. His crew. Tanus took another swig of his whiskey before cracking a half smirk.

“Now isn’t the time for shenanigans, folks. Iron Victory, let’s get ready for work.”


Two hours flew by like nothing. The Grave Robbers, Hotah included, were ready within fifteen minutes of Tanus issuing the orders for loadout. Tanus returned to the bridge not much longer after the others were in place, hammer strapped to his back, flechette pistol on his left hip, DT-57 on his right hip; at the small of his back resided his Samurai Edge and a trench knife for those oh shit moments. He unstrapped the hammer on his back and took his seat in his chair, waiting for the lines to drop back into solitary twinkling specks. The crew hustled about, calculating and recalculating endless streams of numbers and code. Tanus smiled as he watched them work. It was good to be a proper pirate again. Soon enough he heard the call from somewhere on deck:

“Exiting hyperspace in 30 seconds, captain.”

“Excellent. As soon as we exit, hail the Broken Crown. Let the King know his Hammer has returned.”

The Vaksai starfighter slid out of hyperspace quietly, careful not to draw any untoward attention to itself as it did so. It was a sleek looking craft, although plain in outward appearance, having been painted a dull grey color that served to make the craft as inconspicuous as possible. As the hyperspace tunnel closed the fighter simply floated through space, waiting and watching to see if anyone or anything had noticed its appearance. Its large engine nacelles were dark, the vast majority of its systems powered down. Only a focused scan of the immediate area would reveal the craft’s presence, and truth be told the Vaksai was a very long ways from anything of importance.

Jegora Fal preferred it that way.

The starfighter floated silently through the void for a few more minutes while her pilot checked and rechecked the scanners, checking and double checking that his entrance into the system had gone unnoticed. Jegora was nothing if not thorough, but once he was sure no one was watching this particular corner of the solar system he hit a single button on his ship’s communication interface. Then he waited.

Before long six other hyperspace tunnels appeared, all within a few kilometers. Six identical Vaksai starfighters emerged from the vortexes, all of them powered down exactly like their leader, all of them floating quietly and silently through space. From the cockpit of his own starfighter, Jegora continued to watch his readouts and scanners intently, searching for any sign that the fighter group’s position had been compromised. And after several more minutes of waiting, he was confident that they were all still undetected. It was time to move.

Keying his throat mic, Jegora opened a channel to the six other starfighters floating around him. “Alright boys,” he said, subconsciously speaking softly even though it didn’t matter in the slightest how loud his voice was. The low-band communications channel they were using was twice encrypted and extremely secure, but if it was picked up by the right equipment their enemies would be able to listen in. Even if Jegora was whispering. “Let’s get this show on the road. Set a course for the Crown.”

A chorus of murmured acknowledgements met his announcement. Almost as one the seven starfighters leapt to life, their overpowered engines accelerating them from a stand-still to blinding speed in the blink of an eye. The Vaksais were heavily armored and shielded, and even boasted moderately impressive weaponry, but they were first and foremost built for speed. Jegora had “liberated” a dozen of the starfighters from an old Black Sun cache only a month or so ago, and had since put them to good use. They were perfect courier ships, imposing strike fighters, excellent for scouting and reconnaissance. In fact, Jegora was so impressed that he had taken one of the craft for his own personal use. Mainly because he actually fit inside the cockpit, which was a rarity among most starfighter models.

As the seven starfighters streaked towards where the Broken Crown was anchored on the dark side of one of the system’s outer planets, Jegora reflected on the events that had brought him here. Things had been getting out of control in the Company since Snipes had returned to his throne. Osk had spent much of its time and resources finding its King, but now it seemed to Jegora that Snipes himself was working to destroy everything the other senior captains had accomplished in his absence. He was irrational, unpredictable, illogical, and dangerous. Jegora didn’t like him.

And Snipes didn’t like Jegora. There had been a few tense moments since the King’s return, moments that had almost turned into “situations”. Only Jegora’s self-discipline and the timely intervention of Kami Sharpe had kept the pair from each other’s throats, but each of those situations had proved to be increasingly more severe than the last. Eventually things had progressed to the point where Jegora simply chose to leave the Company to pursue his own goals, and Snipes be damned. Oh, he was never completely out of contact, but he was always conveniently missing whenever the King wanted to speak with him. Snipes was, of course, appropriately infuriated, but Jegora didn’t much care anymore what the “King” thought. He had no particular loyalty to Company, only a coldly logical cost-benefit analysis that kept him in line. For now he had more to gain with Osk than without it, but the King’s return was rapidly changing all that. So as the fighter group cut through the void, moving ever closer to Snipes’ throne ship, Jegora wondered not for the first time if answering this particular summons was an entirely good idea. 

He had received the message, the call to arms, only a few days prior. If the transmission had actually been from Snipes he probably would have ignored it, but instead it had come from the one person in the Company that Jegora actually felt some sense of loyalty towards: Kami Sharpe. The de facto second-in-command of the Company had said little in the message itself, but her silence on certain subjects spoke volumes. From her transmission Jegora had deduced that things were not going well for Osk, and that overall things were extremely fragile at the moment. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, but neither did it bring him the satisfaction he had expected. He despised Snipes, and suspected that the King’s policies would bring the Company to ruin, but Osk had been a very profitable venture for Jegora personally. Upon introspection, he found that the idea of the Company disintegrating actually stirred up some rather negative emotions. If nothing else, he would sorely miss the loss of income.

And so Jegora had eventually decided to heed Kami’s call. She had provided coordinates for rendezvous, along a rough outline of Snipes’ plan. A former tactical and operational planning officer, Jegora saw the problem immediately. There was a massive disparity between Snipes’ goals and his methods, a disparity could only result in one of two conclusions: either the Company would fail to achieve its objective, or lots and lots of people would die in the process. Either way, this mission could only result in a loss of profit…unless of course the King could be persuaded to do things a bit differently.

A warning tone in the Vaksai’s cockpit tore Jegora out of his reverie. Something had located the starfighters on its scanners, and that something was very large. Jegora didn’t really know who or what, but that particular question was answered only moments later when a rough voice filled the cockpits of all seven fighters.

“Unidentified fighter group, this is the Broken Crown. You better have a bloody good reason for being here, or we’re gonna blow you out of the sky.”

Jegora snorted into his throat mic. He doubted very much if the Crown’s gunners could hit anything at this distance, let alone a starfighter with speed capabilities like the Vaksai, but it was probably better not to take any unnecessary risks. Switching his communications system over to the frequency that the Crown was operating on, he keyed his throat mic again.

“This is Jegora Fal,” he responded. “Transmitting identification code now.” He tapped the appropriate key on his console and sat back to wait. After only a few seconds the Crown’s fighter control operator came back on over the line, confirming that his identification had been accepted.

“Sorry about that. Uh, sir,” the operator added. “You’re free to dock, central hold. Coordinates have been transmitted.”

Jegora clicked his communications unit twice in acknowledgement, then adjusted the Vaksai’s course slightly to accommodate the change in destination. Whatever doubts he was fostering about returning to the Company disappeared, smothered by determination. Snipes would listen. He had to listen. There was simply too much riding on the next few weeks to assume otherwise.



*    *    *    *    *    *


An hour later Jegora made his way through the twisted halls of the Broken Crown. He met few people along the way, and those he did meet made no effort to slow his progress. Jegora struck an imposing figure on a good day, and that this particular moment he was not in a good mood. His long “gunman’s” duster swirled around his legs as he strode purposefully through the grim corridors of Snipes’ throne ship, his soft boots making barely a sound. His cold eyes constantly scanned for any sign of a threat, while his face was stone, hard plains, and angles, entirely and carefully devoid of any and all emotion. Snipes’ personal meeting room was at the end of this particular hall, and while Jegora didn’t exactly know what he was walking into he strongly suspected that he would need all the willpower and self-discipline he possessed.

The doors slid softly apart as Jegora approached, quiet enough to avoid alerting the occupants inside to his presence. Voices could be heard from within the chamber as soon as the doors parted, and not all of them were friendly sounded. The cavernous space created a strange echoing effect that made identifying the particular voices difficult, but as Jegora made his way silently through the darkness he had little doubt that the owners of some of the voices were not particularly happy. As he moved closer, however, he began to be able to distinguish what was being said.

“But what’s the point of all this?” a feminine voice demanded. Jegora immediately identified the speaker as Kami Sharpe, and she didn’t sound pleased. “Why waste the resources here? Why waste the time? Snipes, there’s no sense to it.”

“Who cares if it makes sense, it’s a fight and I’m itching for some action. When do we go?” Jegora recognized this voice as belonging to Tanus Solvona. A bloodthirsty bastard, but if there was going to be a battle he would come in handy. Still, the man had more balls than brains.

“As soon as Fal gets here with his thrice damned ship!” roared a second man. This voice was deeper than Solvona’s, and it seemed to resonate strangely throughout the room. This was the voice of Snipes, the Mad Pirate King. From the shadows Jegora winced as he heard his name; apparently Snipes hadn’t forgiven Jegora for disappearing. Not that Jegora particularly cared. It was time to make an entrance.

“Fal is here, sans ‘thrice damned ship’,” Jegora said softly, his voice nevertheless cutting through the room. He stepped from the shadows and into the soft ring of light surrounding a holotable, only to find himself confronted with the stares and glares of at least a dozen individuals.

Kami was the first to recover. “Jeg,” she acknowledged. “Good to have you back.”

Her words were polite, but her voice was cold. Jegora inclined his head slightly, nodding his understanding. Despite asking for his help, Sharpe still had reservations about his motives, and rightly so. Trust was a difficult thing for a pirate and Kami Sharpe had more enemies, and therefore more reasons to be distrustful, than anyone else Jegora knew. Jegora opened his mouth to respond to her greeting, but Snipes cut him off.

“About bloody time. And what do you mean ‘sans ship’. WHERE’S MY BLOODY SHIP!?”

Jegora took the abuse in stride, not even flinching. He would not be bullied, not even by this man, and so he met the King’s glare with his own dispassionate gaze. “I ordered my ship to remain in orbit around Osk, as I myself was instructed to do.”

Snipes’ mouth worked soundlessly, trying to process both the implied declaration that the Charelotte belonged to Jegora and the revelation that someone had altered his orders. Somewhere deep inside Jegora felt a spark of amusement at trying to watch the King work through these latest events, but he knew that laughing would be both a huge mistake and a waste of time. He had to push forward while the King was off balance.

“Sharpe filled me in on the plan,” he said, bulling ahead. “Snipes, this is madness.”

The King snorted and began to pace around the head of the holotable. “It is my decision to make,” he muttered, “and I want this planet.”

Jegora shook his head. “There is nothing here worth having. We’re blind, Snipes, listing in the dark, and we have no idea what or who is in the area. If the Empire or the New Republic still maintains any kind of presence in this sector, bringing the fleet here could be outright suicide. Are you so insane that you’re willing to risk everything for one small settlement?”

“You’re not listening to me,” Snipes growled, his voice dangerously low. “I want this planet. Help, or get out of my way, but I will not be denied. Not in this.”

Once again Jegora met the King’s gaze with his own. He studied the eyes of his “leader” with a cool professionalism that spoke of years making a living off reading people, and what he saw there chilled him to the bone. Not many things sparked fear in a hardened combat veteran like Jegora Fal, but the pure chaos he saw reflected in Snipes’ gaze caused him to reevaluate the wisdom of his plan. After a brief moment of hesitation, however, he pushed ahead.

“Then take the planet,” he said, “but not like this. Don’t be so fraking stupid about it.”

Snipes’ eyes narrowed dangerously at that, and Kami jumped in to divert his attention. “Snipes, you don’t want to destroy this place, right? You want the information, the people, and the ships. An all-out assault isn’t the best option.”

Snipes turned to look at his second. “What do you suggest?” he asked, after a long moment.

Kami turned to Jegora, who took that as his cue to jump back into the conversation. “The Crown is hidden behind this planet, so they don’t know we’re here. Send a company of raiders in fast moving transports to cut communications and secure the ground base. Take the leaders hostage, and use them as leverage to gain control of the ships. That corvette in orbit has a skeleton crew at best. Once we have the base, close with the Crown. Give them a choice between surrendering their ship or death and I’m sure they’ll choose to surrender their ships. I would.” Jegora took a breath. “Besides, this way you don’t ruin any of the facilities. Once we clean these guys off this planet we can just move right in.”

Kami was nodding. “This also reduces the amount of resources required to pull this off, Snipes. It won’t put the rest of the Company in danger. Plus, we could put something like this together within twelve hours.”

Snipes was looking back and forth between Kami and Jegora. Suddenly his eyes went wide as he put two and two together. “You planned this!” he shouted, pointing accusingly at each of the pair in turn. “You set me up!”

The entire room was silent. The silence stretched on and on for what seemed like forever. It became an almost palpable thing, thick and unbreakable. And then, suddenly, Snipes began to laugh. It was a roaring, booming laugh, pure and unfettered. Instead of relieving Jegora’s doubts, however, it merely intensified his discomfort. Not for the first time in the last few minutes, he wondered if the Mad Pirate King really was mad.

“You’ve convinced me,” Snipes said, wiping his eyes and he slowly brought his laughter under control. “We’ll do it your way.”

The King’s face suddenly hardened, and any traces of mirth disappeared from his demeanor.  “But if your plan fails, Fal, I will have this planet. My way.”

Jegora nodded once, then turned to begin making preparations. As he left the room, he heard Tanus speak again from his seat at the holotable. “Finally,” the ex-soldier muttered. “My ass is sore from sitting in this chair.”

Snipes stepped off of the landing craft first, as was his custom. Merrick's Jesters spilled out around in, picking up a perimeter among the trees. Snipes stood tall and proud in his crown and long wool jacket, a cigarette burned from the side of his mouth and in each hand he carried a large pistol. One black, one silver. They had not been made to fight normal people, but when Snipes couldn't tell friend from foe he preferred to pack heavy and talk loudly.

Merrick was taking care of the security detail, he issued his orders to her and she made them happen. It was a good system. He scratched his shoulder with Jackals front sight. The odd landing craft took off and Snipes payed it little mind, more attention was paid to how Merrick's new team were handling themselves. They had all been soldiers, that was obvious, but they hailed from all over the place, with a motley collection of gear. That being said they were efficient, last minute training had stuck, but they hadn't worked together yet. Snipes was satisfied, although not entirely comforted by anything except his weapons.

Above him the transport they'd taken down exploded, “Take cover!” one of Merrick's Jesters screamed, Snipes vaguely recognized him as having once been a Laughing Bastard.

The group found cover behind trees and rocks as pieces of the destroyed transport plummet to the ground, Snipes held his arms aloft and laughed, loud, raucous, full of madness. This was a good start. Snipes remembered battled in the trenches on icy planets that had nearly cost him his life, explosions, dirt, mud and blood. That was life simplified.

Before debris had even finished falling, he yelled, “Merrick! Lead me on, take me to them.”

In the skies other drop ships landed, exploded and screamed in protest when a round did not quite destroy them, but sent them in a downward spiral towards the ground. The battle had been met, and that was only the beginning to Snipes. Anticipation made his blood boil, it made a feral grin eclipse his face. It made him hungry.

As bits of blown up ship rained down around them Snipes yelled to Merrick, “Get us moving, I smell blood.”

Merrick gave him a look and nodded. She made hand signals to her group, to her court jesters. They were the ones he remembered from his times running black ops. It was just details about how they were moving, nothing that concerned him, so he holstered a pistol for the length of time it took him, resplendent in crown and long coat and many rings, to light another cigarette. He looked to the sky and wondered exactly which of those drop ships held Tanus or Kami, or whoever was coming down.

Some of them might be meeting this enemy, might be fighting them, but Snipes. Snipes was walking. It was almost like being back in the corps. With the walking, and the watching and general boredom. Snipes was not about to have any of it, he holstered Jackal and produced from that long coat of his a flask of high powered rum.

As the walking grew longer and longer and progressively more and more similar to a foot patrol he began singing.

Total Slaughter,
Total Slaughter,
I won't leave a single man alive,
La-dee-dah-dee-die,
Genocide,
La-dee-dah-dee-duhd,
An ocean of blood,
Let's begin the killing time.

Merrick turned to him, gave him an incredulous face and asked, “Where do you learn this stuff?”

Change. Change was once again about to befall Osk 91 and its inhabitants - the Oskers. A bunch of good for nothing lowlifes that for some reason or another chose or rather were forced to abandon proper civilization and instead came to live on the forsaken rock they drew their names from.

Although the group only came together fairly recently as far as the grand scheme of galactic events were concerned, they still managed to go through quite a few adventures, most of which not quite the pleasant kind either. Funny thing was that almost every time that happened a certain individual had to lead the Oskers out of trouble. Then again most often than not it was the same individual's fault those things happened in the first place.

The man in question was a rather bold, audacious, eccentric or perhaps plain mad specimen that insisted on calling himself King. As a matter of fact that is how most of the drunken pirates, sleazy hookers and lowly smugglers knew him as. King, Mad King and in some cases plainly Snipes - the true name hidden behind the pompous facade.

For quite a while now the individual in question disappeared from the public and political scene. Some said he was captured by the Paladins during the latter's attack. Others said he just took off and now lived a life of luxury on some resort, getting drunk all day and shagging dozens of exotic aliens all night long. Yet another faction whispered of his death, maybe at the hands of the very men and women now leading the organization. There were even more rumors spreading around but the truth was that no one truly knew whatever happened to Snipes. All they could be certain of was the fact that for better or for worse the Mad King was simply... gone.

That was the man had been gone up until recently when he apparently returned as sudden as he initially disappeared. Poof! Just like that the self proclaimed king returned to the small group he founded and from the sound of things he expected everything to go back the way it was before he ever left - a position that although not necessarily wrong in itself, was nevertheless questionable as far as the greater good was concerned. It could not after all be disputed that throughout his absence Kami Sharpe and those working for her had helped shape Osk for the better.

The new leadership expanded its contacts and through various means - some more legit and moral than the most - managed to bring a sort of evolution and prosperity to the rock everyone casually referred to as simply "Eyesore". More goods were being shipped in and more buildings were being added to the Locker just as how more upgrades were also being applied to the already existing ones. The spaceport was one such example for instance.

With the return of Osk's founding father there were however concerns regarding this progress. Would the man known for his unpredictable nature continue these reforms or would he instead return everything to the pitiful state it was in before? These were just some of the rumors more recently spreading throughout the small dystopian paradise. There were of course other rumors speculating power struggles and even civil unrest between Snipes and his loyalist faction and Sharpe and her reformers. The latter seemed to still be unfounded but then again there was always the matter of no smoke appearing without fire...

Regardless what may have been the case Seth Qorbin saw opportunity and if nothing else simple entertainment in all these changes and possibilities. It was for this reason the man took some time off from the Navy and came to Eyesore. He'd only been on the planet's surface for two days or so when Snipes apparently made his move by calling the small fleet to his side. It was a smart move on his part as through this simple act he would be able to determine a number of things.

One, he would see in just what state the current Osk Company was in. Two, he would determine exactly which of the captains still answered his call. Three, by surrounding himself with a small army he'd be able to dissuade anyone from thinking anything crazy like taking him out for instance. Fourth, the man would also be able to use that small force to once more demonstrate his might and thus renew everyone's allegiance to him. It was as previously mentioned a quite brilliant maneuver... assuming it was indeed considered as such of course.

Whatever the case the blond Onderonian continued to wait for things to actually happen, knowing but most importantly also feeling it in his gut that it was only a matter of time and that by the looks of things it wouldn't really be too long either. Whilst waiting, the former smuggler also spent a little time on the Charlotte where the man had the opportunity to test fly a fighter he'd never had the chance of trying out before then. It was apparently a Black Sun model, one that although was weaker than his Navy Interceptor still maneuvered quite nicely. Controls being fairly simple and quite intuitive it didn't take Seth long to get used to them and impress the other testers.

Some more time passed and the Onderonian noticed a great deal, if not most of the ships orbiting the planet, just jump away in hyperspace. The Charlotte though did not follow which in turn made Qorbin think that maybe he would miss out on the fun after all. He was in fact intending on dragging himself over to a cantina, getting himself fairly drunk and then finishing the day in one of the classier brothels on the planet. He could even see the cantina in question in the distance when his datapad chirped all of a sudden, alerting the man to the message he just received.

Well, well... Who would've thought? the Onderonian smirked as he turned off the device after having read the message. He then turned around and made for the spaceport, rather happy that he would after all still get to see first hand how events would unfold.

---------------

The trip through hyperspace was rather boring but then again most such trips were, especially when taking them in a small fighter with a crew of only one. When finally the stars lost their elongated form and returned to normal Qorbin felt his shoulders loosen up a bit even as his mind on the contrary became sharper as a result. They had after all reached their destination but he still had no idea exactly what to expect next. Heck, he doubted any of the other pilots fared any better. The sole exception was perhaps Jegora Fel himself, whom seemed to have some sort of plan.

For the time being Seth decided to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open. Should things suddenly get out of hand he could always use his fighter's hyperdrive to get the hell out in a hurry. Whether he would return the fighter afterward or just sell it off somewhere - well that was a whole different matter, one that was pointless to consider at that point however. I'll think about it if and when I'll have to, the man decided as he followed his temporary flight leader to the cluster of ships found in the distance.

After exchanging greetings and authorization codes Jeg made his way inside Osk's flagship - the Broken Crown. Seth would've loved to also join the man if for no other reason than to stretch his limbs on the ship's hangar deck but since Jeg ordered everyone to stay put and ready... well the former smuggler found himself stripped of that choice so he just complied as he allowed his ship to slowly fly round the Crown. Round and round and round some more...

Qorbin was stifling his fourth or fifth yawn when he noticed some movement. Finally, after a few hours of nothing happening there was at long last activity on the other ships. The activity in question was in truth just a bunch of shuttles and modified gunships leaving the bigger ships and slowly making their way to the nearby planet. Seth was just asking himself what was he and the others supposed to do when Jeg's fighter left the Crown's hangars and rejoined the other Vaksai. "Form on me" the man bluntly ordered without providing any other hint as to what exactly they were supposed to do afterward. Even so both Seth and the other four pilots entered formation by Jeg's side.

They waited for a bit longer until finally the flight leader's renewed blunt orders of "Maintain formation" came. Immediately after Jeg turned his fighter around and made his way to the same planet the other shuttles were heading for earlier. The other five medium fighters followed suit and behind them yet another bigger ship joined as well. Just what exactly is going on here? was the question Seth wanted to ask though he knew this wasn't really the time and place for that. Besides, the chances of Jegora Fal answering such a question at any time and at any location weren't all that high to begin with, truth be told.

The moment they all entered the planet's atmosphere was all but obvious as the Black Sun modified fighters lost some of their edge as far as maneuverability was concerned. It was at this point that Qorbin could tell that the fighters were designed primarily for space fights and less, if at all, for atmospheric operations. Still, things could've been worse. A lot worse in fact considering the multitude of fighters created throughout time.

"What're those?" one of the other pilots asked after noticing some movement ahead. Everyone was silent for a couple of seconds, most likely themselves trying to figure out the answer to that question or otherwise just not feeling like answering it. "Hell if I know but whatever they are they're opening fire!" yet another pilot reported the obvious. Small bolts of laser were fired from the strange opponents and for a short - very short - period of time Seth even wondered whether they were tough enough to bypass the fighters' shields.

Of course whether they could or couldn't there was still the matter of them shooting in the first place. Not only that but they were physically in the way as well. These two reasons were enough to make the Onderonian join his lowlife brethren in shooting down the critters. The more the Oskers approached them the better they could also see exactly what was shooting at them and what they were in return shooting at. What the heck are they anyway? Seth asked himself, never before having encountered that particular species. Mildly curios as he may have been Seth still didn't really stop shooting at the foreign aliens. They were after all still in his way...

Finally some proper signs of civilization, Seth told himself as he noticed the structures ahead. What really caught his eye however were the small fighters preparing to take off and no doubt turn out to be unfriendly. Instantly prioritizing as he did in the Navy, Qorbin steered his Vaksai in their direction fully intending to shoot down as many crafts as he could before they would actually become a problem - no better way to solve an issue than to prevent it from ever occurring in the first place.

“Oh yes, how bloody brilliant. I”m the guy who has been flying ships for years, has vision that surpasses pretty much most other species, and has impressive reflexes for a human. And they put me in charge of a shuttle. A frakking shuttle. Really? Seriously guys? Does no one but me have any brains? I could fly circles around most of these “pilots.” I mean, I can count five - no, six - friendly fighters in my field of vision that were just destroyed due to stupid mistakes on the part of pilots. And I’m flying the shuttle. What in the -” Aeroth muttered to himself.

“Stow it. I’m getting enough chatter on the comm feed without your mouth adding to it.” a voice rang out from behind him.

The navigator/comm officer/general mechanic Lui was scrambling from one terminal to another, typing and prodding the screens furiously, all while listening intently to the headphones that dangled precariously upon his head. He had seemed like a tolerable fellow before they had lifted off, but he had steadily grown into an ass. Then again, it was just the pair on board and the man took care of everything that Aero was unable to. Which was everything but piloting.

“Hey now. I haven’t been complaining when you’ve been talking.” Aero retorted, barely even glancing over his shoulder to see if the man had heard him.

“That’s because what I’m saying actually has some bearing on our mission,” Yep, he heard me. “instead of whatever filth is dribbling out of that gaping hole you call a mouth.”

“No need to go about slinging insults around. What did I ever do?”

“Open your mouth? Step into this shuttle with me? Exist? Are those satisfactory answers? Because I can go on if you want.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s just ignore each other, until something concerning the mission requires us to communicate. Deal?”

“Deal. Now shut up.”

----------------------

Because Aero had been late to the starfighter party, he had been involuntarily placed aboard a shuttle and was told to go pick up any friendlies who happened to need extracting. Which wouldn’t have been that bad normally, but the shuttle they gave him, while looking fairly new and in good condition, was a flying brick. He would have had more luck flying an actual brick. But alas, he couldn’t complain. After all, he was only aboard due to their generosity in letting him. Either that, or they just didn’t care about him. He liked the former. It made him feel better.

His grouchy ship mate was only grouchy because he had been stuck aboard the shuttle in much the same way as Aero, though his negative attitude towards his placement was for different reasons than Aero. He was not a flyer. He preferred to have his feet either on a solid structure, such as the earthen ground or the metallic deck of a capital ship or freighter. Small ships were not his style, because they were too easily blown up. Plus, he did not have the stomach for the wild maneuvers that Aero was pulling. It was all he could do just to keep the contents of his stomach from violently erupting onto the walls of the cockpit.

Meanwhile, in the pilot’s seat, Aero was cackling with glee as he pushed the shuttle far past the boundaries that its makers had in mind. In the back of his mind, his thoughts turned towards their mission, seemingly of their own accord. He could have cared less about the mission at this point, but the thoughts still came unbidden. There were a scant few rescue shuttles out here, meaning that they should have been overwhelmed with beacons, yet they had not gotten a single one yet. That made Aero a little uneasy. Either the enemy were brutally harsh in their kills or his “allies” were incredibly terrible pilots.

His thoughts were interrupted as a hand hit the back of his helmet, pitching his head forward slightly.

“Oi! What was that for? I wasn’t talking!” Aero shouted, instantly alert for any approaching enemy.

It seemed he had been dozing off almost, despite his continual performance of astounding maneuvers (which was in truth little more than habit than any actual conscious evasions).

“No, but I was. We have a beacon nearby, the coordinates are . . . “

Aero blinked, trying to chase away the niggling thoughts, “Right. On it.”

Tendrils of smoke slowly lifted from the lit end of the Lungblaster, the soft glow causing an eerie red color to just barely fall onto the pale face of the stowaway. A moment later and thicker tendrils of the same smoke drifted from the relaxed lips of the woman, the scent of something... more filling the cubby she had shoved herself into. Even with the lack of space to move her knees away from her chest enough to take a proper breath, the woman was still able to relax as the Blaster took over her mind and body, completely flushing out any lasting claustrophobic sensation. She took another drag from the Blaster and held it this time, her eyes closing slowly, a smirk coming to her lips that could only be described as one of the most satisfied looks ever. This time, the smoke billowed from her nostrils, slowly, carefully... She was savoring this.

"...M'am..."

And her moment was shattered.

"Shut up, Riv." Jae's voice was a hushed growl against the quiet that was only accompanied by the soft whirring of gears and other electronics that kept the shuttle moving.

The droid, who's arms were pressed against it's body and head bent at awkward and what would be uncomfortable angle were it able to feel anything, let out a quiet and tentative sigh. "But M'am-"

"Shut. The hell. Up." And she took another drag, trying once to again to reach that mental paradise that her slicer droid had a very bad habit of shattering at the wrong moment.

The odd pair had been stowaways for only twenty minutes, but even in that short amount of time Jae's mind had gone from curious to utterly angry. She hated being crammed into small places, which was odd considering her love of exploring the unexplored or rarely explored. But this... this was different. She was with Rivvett, who happened to be one of the whiniest, most annoying and yet still extremely helpful slicing droids she had ever built.

So, why had the vagabond chosen to shove herself into a small hole in the wall and surround herself with wires that hung and poked out from all sides of the innards of the ship she had oh so secretly climbed aboard? Well, there had been word of a search and rescue, meaning there was bound to be a dead ship in the water somewhere. And what would a Pirate do other than sneak onto a broken piece of shit and take what goods she could find? Plus, Jae needed new parts in order to satisfy her need of tinkering. Hell, some of the parts she'd take could even be used to sell off so that she could get more Spice.

That is what brought her to this tiny frackin' hole, with the annoying frackin' droid and almost dead Lungblaster packed with her own special mix of Spice. She took another drag and glared across the darkness at where she figured her droid was and almost regretted even making this decision, but as she released the smoke that tiny little tingle of regret left her mind as she once again thought about the money and the fun that would be had during her scavenge of the whatever piece of shit had gone dead in the water.

With a sigh, she decided to finally allow her droid to speak, after all, he was built for smarts and good ideas. "Go ahead."

"You do know that you're going to be scavenging a ship of one of your own?"

"So?" Her voice was still hushed and she shrugged as she brought the Blaster to her lips to take another slow, long drag, still trying to calm her nerves again.

Rivvett sighed, the sound a soft whir of gears. "isn't that a little... Barbaric?"

"You callin' me uncivilized?" The challenge was quick to shoot from her tongue, smoke spilling from her lips as she spoke.

"Uh... No M'am-"

"Don't call me M'am. For the millionth time." Jae growled quietly, pressing her foot to the droids chest.

The droid shook for a moment and nodded, and would have swallowed nervously were it possible. "Yes M'- ah... Right, right." The droid released a relived sigh as Jae took her foot from his chest and set it back  down to the floor. Moments passed as even more smoke filled the tiny hole and only another moment later the odd pair felt the entire ship shudder as the sounds of the ship began to slow and then eventually die down to silence. "We have stopped."

"No shit." Jae took a final drag from the Blaster and pressed the lit end to the ground and twisted, snuffing out the remaining embers. She waited until footsteps passed the panel that was their makeshift door and held her breath as she hopped to whatever God there was that the crew didn't notice the smoke that had to been leaking from the hole. When she figured it was clear, she moved slightly and kicked the panel, causing the steel to unhinged and fly across the hallway of the hallway of the shuttle. The woman crawled out, sea-foam eyes narrowed to adjust to the shocking amount of light and right hand already on the pistol that sat at her side. "Time to pillage." She drew the pistol and held it up at shoulders' height and began to walk down the hallway, Rivvett following close behind.

Eyesore had been just that, an eyesore.  She knew very little of it's history and cared even less about finding out. She only knew two things that really had mattered at all. One: the ship known as the Broken Bitch was on planet or somewhere in orbit. Two: Ayme 'Havock' Katash, was the Bitch's captain. As far as why she was looking for said Captain, the red headed woman refused to tell locals.

Violet eyes scanned the chaotic streets of Eyesore for any sign of her target. She had been sure to remain out of sight, but that meant little on this planet. The woman had done her homework. Certain citizens  would know very well how to route out a spy or assassin. They would have no problem routing her. She was no assassin, well not this time around. She couldn't deny that she hadn't been for the right price. Nor was she a spy, though she did employ some of the same tricks of the trade as it were.

Narrowing her eyes against the dust that had kicked up, the purple eyed woman sighed. No sign of her target, and already she'd wasted so much of her time. She couldn't rely on civilian reports. These people may look like they'd give up their mother for the right incentive, but they would never give up their own. She wasn't even sure in her own mind why she was looking for Ayme.

She'd contemplated that very reason until she'd pushed it out of her mind. It could be her need for a friendly face. Ayme had been, and she hoped still was, a very close friend of hers. The woman had to wonder if that was the only reason she'd found herself on this particular planet. She had to laugh at herself. She wasn't even sure who she was as a person anymore. Though realistically she knew she had all the answers locked within her now dully aching skull. She just didn't want to face those answers.

Was this a place where she could come to escape life she'd led? Could she bring herself to just let go of all the rigidity and structure and just go? She'd been wondering that a lot lately. She wondered if that was why she'd sought out Ayme. To find that one person she knew she could always turn to for advise.

The red head grimaced.  She realized she did that more than was healthy; turning to others for direction instead of just seeking it out on her own. She sighed and shook her head, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she strolled along the hectic streets.  She hadn't seen the first blow. But she'd certainly felt it. Her training kicked in almost immediately, again that didn't mean that she was able to do anything. Head blows were usually quick to knock people out, she was no different.

===============================================

Waking up to yelling, screaming, and the obvious rocking and juking of a ship in an orbital battle, the woman's eyes flew open and she sat up fast. She fought the feelings of dizziness that plagued her by holding on to the bed railing. She had no idea where she was but she remembered why how she'd probably gotten there.  She threw her legs over the bed and stood as slowly and calmly as she dared. Her efforts, however, seemed to have attracted attention.

“What in the hells are you doing?” A man said trying to push her back onto the bed. “You were hit over the head with enough force to put a raging ronto to shame, you should not even be awake let alone standing.”

“Believe me, Mister, I've had worse injuries.”  She said violet eyes meeting dark hooded ones. “Who are you and what piece of junk am I on?”

The man, taken aback, stepped to her side with a sigh and began helping her to stand straight. “I'm Wes Reilly, the medic. I saw someone attempting to kill you and I made them believe you were already dead. Either way I brought you aboard this vessel to treat you. I had not counted on the battle starting and having to take off.” The medic spoke thoughtfully and consicely. He was shorter than she was and his choice in hair styles was unfortunate but he seemed all together a good man. “As for the 'piece of junk' that you are on, she's called the Broken Bitch.”

She straightened quickly and looked at him. “You're serious?” She asked, her eyes wide and her mind clearing from the fog.

“Well yeah. I wouldn't have said it if it wasn't true.” Wes replied furrowing his brows at her. “Didn't catch your name though.”

“I didn't give it, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you. I'm Brightstar.”

Wes gave her a look, one brow raised as if he'd been expecting more. “I meant your given name if you have one.”

Bright looked at him and shook her head. “Sorry Doc, that information is privileged. Very few people even have the right to call me by my given name let alone even know it.” Bright smiled at his frown. It was a common reaction but that was how she was. As it was there was only one person on this ship that had that right, assuming she was on the ship at all.

It was around the moment that a young woman made her appearance. “Doc, the captain wants to see you like yesterday.” She said. “She's in a mood.”

“I'll be right there Trix, I just need to get this patient to sit down.” The doctor tried again to wrestle Bright to the bed.

“Believe me, your captain is not the type of woman you keep waiting. And I'm fine. In fact to make you feel better I'll go with you.” She shoved herself away from the medic and staggered toward the door. “Well come on people lets go. I have no idea where she's at or how to get there. And I am NOT getting back in that bed.”

The moment that Havock moved past them, Bright and Jaenna turned to look at each other. It was good to see the other woman again, she wouldn't deny it. Familiar faces were always a good sign, even if they were glaring at her. Bright raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and turned to follow Havock to the engine room. She didn't stop to see if Jae had followed or not.

Following the directions she managed to gather from other crew members of the Broken Bitch to the Engine Room, Bright found herself stuffing her hands in her pockets to keep herself from stopping to fix something before getting to her destination. Havock may not have known who she wanted to talk to first, but Bright was taking the chance and offering herself up first. She had to wonder if she had lost her mind.

The engine room was loud, smelled vaguely of leaking coolant, and was even more of an eyesore than Eyesore had been. Upon entering she sighed. This ship needed a hell of an overhaul, but Bright knew as much as anybody that parts cost credits and lots of them. Her own experience in restoring her own collection of ships was enough to tell her that the Bitch would be one of the biggest challenges she would undertake. Because in order to get back to any sort of planet she would need to help with repairs.

Looking around the room, Bright found Havock leaning against the bulkhead. She didn't know whether the other woman was thinking about what to do first or trying to wrangle herself into a more presentable representation of the hardball captain she had been before Bright had showed up. On the floor near the captain, was the tool box.

“You don't get things done that way.” Bright said stepping all the way into the engine room. Her first instinct was to go straight to her friend. However, Bright knew better. Havock would come around at her own pace. So instead Bright grabbed the toolbox and went to work on the first place she could see needed her attention. She didn't talk she just worked.

It was almost like being home again, doing something that soothed her. It didn't take long for another pair of hands to join in. “You didn't answer my question.” Havock said matter of factly.

Bright shrugged not looking up. “You know me, I just show up where ever and when ever.” Bright wasn't sure just how much to tell the captain. “How about you?” she asked, “where have you been?”

Havock laughed shortly. “Seriously? Where haven't I been. “

Bright looked up and raised a brow. To her observant and well trained eyes, Havock looked a little lost, frustrated and lost. Again Bright stopped herself from pressing her questions. So she focused on what she was doing with her hands.

“Why are you on my ship, Rain?” Havock asked.

Bright looked up and gave a short laugh. “You know you would have to ask that good doctor of yours. He's the one who dragged me on board.” She smiled easily and sat back on her haunches. “As to why I was looking for you in particular, I honestly was hoping you could help me figure that out. Besides it gave me something to do.” Bright didn't like asking for help, especially when she didn't know what it was she wanted.

“Well how about helping me fix this bitch up for starters?” Havock asked with a grin.

Bright grinned back as she held up hands that were now smeared with grease. “Oh gee I thought you'd never ask. Does that mean I can finally get my hands dirty?” She asked. She hadn't gotten any information out of Havock that she had been expecting. But this ship needed work and Bright had time.

Reclining in the cockpit of his IVE ARC-170 fighter, retired Squad Leader Joamer Reistlin let his mind drift as he waited for his shot. He knew the King was back, and had pulled together a ragtag force to assault Skye Lay. But, he had stayed behind. He was not Osk, did not have the right to join in the assault in the slightest. So he sat, and waited. A useless pimple on the ugly face of Eyesore. Another no body, wannabe hanging around the bigshots. Nothing was holding him here though, he had a ship he could go anywhere but still he waited.

At times he wondered why he had left the Empire the way he did. It felt right in leaving though, things had changed too much for him to be a part of a fantasy dream. Better to go back to the old life, live by your own means. Take what you want, and damn the consequences. Having the means to take what you wanted was the first step, he was sitting in the means. He just needed the opportunity. He wanted the friendship, hardship, battle, and strife created. He missed that the most out of everything.

"F7, do you know where Skye Lay is?" Joamer said after a few moments of thought. Moving his legs over he read the screen as the computer translated the R2 units beeps. He knew he had to take a shot to win in the end, now was a good a time as any. "Frak it, time to jump in head first. Damn the consequences. Pre-flight sequence, warm her up!" He ordered the droid. Lurk his Strill simply mrrwwd slightly in her sleep and nestled deeper into the custom hammock she was curled up in.

Swinging his feet into the cockpit he began tapping switches as the old ARC starfighter came back to life slowly. Adding power to the repulsorlifts, he swung the nose up and around then punched the throttle. The atmosphere slowly turned to star field as the ship entered the cold heartless vacuum of space. He felt the roar of the quad engines behind him as he pulled more speed from the old girl.

Settling into the flight seat he said "Calculate fastest jump to Sky Lay, I want to be there now." Bringing up a diagnostic report he began going over the current readouts of his old fighter. She was not as nimble as the newer more advanced craft in use today, but she had heart and guts where it counted. He had kept the battle scarring visible to show she could take a beating and dish it out as well.

Looking over he said the navboard light up as the calculation was complete. Pulling back the single lever he watched the star field expand as the fighter shot into hyperspace.

"F7, ready the ship for fighter screening. Keep your head on a swivel, and man the rear turrets for me. In case any morons decide to shoot at us take them out, we will get a few surprises out of the rear guns. Use the sensors to adjust the shields fore and aft, depending on the location of other fighters. Leave manual switching open though, I might need it at a moments notice." Joamer said as he finished reading the diagnostics report. "Also, I'm trusting you to be my wing man since we won't be getting any this time around. No one knows us here, and I highly doubt we have a single friend in this group. Keep me appraised of what is going on around us that I may miss."

Breathing slowly he felt his body calming down as the navboard began beeping softly. "Activate friend or foe systems the moment we jump out, they won't know us but maybe we can show them we are here to help." Breathing once more he pulled back the lever, bringing the ship out of hyperspace.

The swirling vortex of hyperspace was replaced by a rather large planet growing larger, and a space battle the likes of which he had not seen in a long time. He suddenly realized every ship out there now considered him an enemy.

"Oh frak me, lock S-foils in attack position. FRAK!" Joamer said again as he realized he was suddenly way too close to the orbital battle field. His friend or foe systems registered red and green everywhere, he knew everyone else saw him as red. "Alright, not getting into that mess. Sensors show a ground battle happening, set for atmospheric flight. We can run fighter screening down there." He prayed someone would notice he was playing nice and not blast him out of the sky.

Throwing the aging fighter into a steep dive, he accelerated to top speed and dove for the atmosphere. He could see on sensors several fighters break off and began chasing him, but luckily he had a slight edge in speed for the moment.

"I know Lurk, I know. I may have jumped in a bit too deep, but we are here now so let's just get this done." Joamer said as the fighters closed within weapons range.