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Topic:  VENI: The Commandant
Exodus
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  VENI: The Commandant
December 20, 2011 6:32:43 AM    View the profile of Exodus 
The cabin, typical of its kind aboard military starships throughout the entire galaxy, was by necessity small. By most standards, it would be considered cramped, five meters long and three meters wide, most of that space occupied by a comfortable bed and two racks of full battle armour. One of the suits was coloured in glossy black, and seemed to somehow absorb and bend the light around it, making it appear hazy, as if it were only half-there, half-real. Its general shape seemed to be similar to that of the signature Scout Trooper’s battle armour, but the contours were off: the visor on the helmet was larger, more square and blocky, and the limbs appeared to be more heavily armoured. The one next to it had similar shapes, but was a stark contrast, so real and visible that it appeared to snatch the attention of anyone looking at it, gleaming white standing out on a matte black background, lightly armoured to improve mobility. It was the armour that had made Imperial Scout Troopers instantly identifiable, though its use had been long since discontinued by the Vast Empire.

Above the bed, bolted onto the wall farthest from the door that led into the room, was a single shelf, filled from end to end with books. Not dataslates, or chips filled with information, but actual books, the knowledge within written on flimsiplast and bound together with a lizard-hide (Dewback, in this case) cover. Each one had been painstakingly transcribed from a dataslate onto the flimsiplast, and embossed onto the spine of each was the name and author of the book. About half were military treatises, such as ‘Armoured Assault – The use of heavy machinery in warfare’ by Major-General Maximilian Veers, and ‘The Handbook of the Storm Commandos (and other elite forces)’ by the founder of the same unit, Crix Madine. The rest were recipe books and books filled with culinary tricks and tips, most of them with no-nonsense titles like ‘Mon Calamari Quisine – A guide to seafood.’ Especially prominent, especially due to the fact it was bound in Ewok fur, was ‘101 ways to cook an Ewok’.

It was abundantly clear that whomever lived in this small room did not like the small and furry natives to the forest moon of Endor. Given the armour, the reason why was not a particularly difficult quandary. Lined up on a plaque above the books were six badges – four of them were prestigious medals from the Naval forces of the Vast Empire, one of the larger remnant factions of the now dissolved Galactic Empire. Two of them were Merit Crosses, normally awarded for courage and skill under enemy fire, or for great services rendered to the Vast Empire. The others, the Star of the Academy and the Naval Achievement Ribbon, spoke of considerable skill and dedication outside of combat – they made for an impressive resume, as did the Special Warfare Combatant badge and the Timbra Ott Security Force ID badge that rested next to them.

The bed itself seemed military standard-issue, with an extra mattress thrown haphazardly on top, and what appeared to be a Wampa fur seat cover resting on top as a makeshift blanket. Underneath the mountain of white fur rested a young man, unclothed from the waist up. His skin was tanned, though it was criss-crossed with countless amounts of small scars, the white, knotted skin creating a stripe-pattern over his flesh. It was clear that the scars were old, at least a decade having passed since the wound that had eventually formed them had first been carved into his flesh. His shoulders and upper arms were both tattooed, and prominent amongst the designs was the infamous cog-wheel of the Galactic Empire, as well as what was unmistakably a convict’s barcode and number. The cog-wheel and the armour made the allegiance of the slumbering man clear, but it was the bar-code that told the most. That kind of tattoo pattern had only been used in one prison colony in the entire galaxy: Timbra Ott, out in the Kathol Outback.

Lying on his stomach, the man’s breathing was slow and regular, that of a man in a deep, restful slumber. His name was Sam Jack Dunn, and he was a member of the Vast Empire’s Naval forces. Formerly, he had been a fighter pilot in the Starfighter Corps, but recently he had handed in his ‘wings’ in order to undertake more…specialized…work, as the signature white officer’s uniform of the Naval Intelligence forces, folded neatly on the end of the bed, made clear. Though he had been a member of the Vast Empire Navy for less than a year, he was considered an up-and-coming man, who’s competence was only matched by his ambition and seemingly unstoppable optimism. Right now, he was having a very pleasant dream about a particular officer he’d served with before his re-assignment.

A small smile was on his face as he lay sprawled on the bed, for now blissfully unaware of the world around him. This was particularly fortunate, as the world outside of his small yet homely cabin had just became very, very chaotic indeed. Somewhere off in the distance, warning kaaxons were starting to blare, and the faint sound of blaster fire echoed down the halls. A mechanical voice, female in cadence, repeated the same line over and over, sounding for all the worlds to be bored despite the severity of the message that she was relaying.
”HULL BREACHED ON DECK SEVEN. ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY…OFFLINE. LIFE SUPPORT FAILING. ALL HANDS, STAND BY TO REPEL BOARDERS. I REPEAT…HULL BREACHED ON DECK SEVEN, ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY…OFFLINE. LIFE SUPPORT FAILING. ALL HANDS, STAND BY TO REPEL BOARDERS…”

Even as the impromptu Wampa Fur blanket began to drift off of him and slowly but steadily rise towards the low ceiling of the room, followed shortly after by the mattress (with Sam Dunn still lying on it) Sam did not rouse from his deep slumber, contenting himself with rolling over and murmuring in his sleep.

OOC:
Word Count: 1,000. Part 1 of 5 - introducing the story's protagonist.
Exodus
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  RE: VENI: The Commandant
December 20, 2011 6:33:52 AM    View the profile of Exodus 
The Imperial starship had seen better days. Its thick durasteel hide was pitted and gouged by weapons fire, and its white paint was chipped and scratched in countless places. Its drive systems damaged during heavy fighting, the ship was limping back home for repair and resupply. The command crew of the ship were tired and stretched out of shape, and believed that now, finally, having snatched victory on the field of battle, they were now safe and could finally let down their guard. As the sensor blip that represented a large piece of space debris below the warship, the nose of a Star Destroyer that had been crippled in some long-past battle, seemed to grow slightly in size, no-one noticed, too intent on simply getting their ship home and worrying about the damage that it had already suffered, never suspecting that more trouble lay in wait.

On the far side of the wreckage, a single ship decelerated from hyperspace, slowing to a halt behind the cover and concealment that the debris provided. It was large for a starfighter, a massive W shaped craft that seemed to combine the main fuselage of an ancient Y-Wing Bomber, with all of its armoured plates still affixed and detailed in ornate black and gold, merged expertly with what looked like the lengthened, extended versions of the signature solar ‘wing’ panels of the Imperial TIE Interceptor, also coloured in black and edged in gold. Unlike most mergings of multiple fighter craft, dubbed ‘Uglies’ this particular craft looked well-made, almost beautifully made, and it was clear that it had been made with exceptional care. Along each of its dagger-like wing panels were mounted a large-scale Ion cannon, and built into the fuselage was a pair of similarly massive particle cannons, designed to punch through heavy plate and completely ignore conventional ray shielding with pinpoint accuracy, to eliminate vital components.

It was a ship designed to cripple enemy craft without destroying them, with exceptional range and armour, and a truly massive amount of firepower at its arsenal. A conqueror’s ship, a pirate’s ship. The ship hung menacingly in the depths of space, resting in the shadow cast by the cover that it seemed to crouch in wait behind. On either side of it, more ships blinked into existence – more conventional forms of the infamous Y-TIE Ugly, coloured in the same black and gold detailing but far cruder in their construction, a typical pirate fighter. More worryingly, however, was the pair of YE-4 Gunships that also stealthily slipped from Hyperspace into position. Vaugely similar in appearance to the Sentinel-Class Imperial Lander, the YE-4 was an Imperial model, and rightly feared for its firepower. However, from the modified access hatches and harpoon launchers that lined its flanks, it was clear that this pair of ships existed with a very different purpose in mind.

Inside the cockpit of the Command Y-TIE, the pilot checked his passive scanners again and allowed his red-hued face to twist into a sly grin, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. It was a predatory smile, the smile of a hunter who was about to go in for the kill. After a few tense moments, it had become plain that their insertion had not been detected, and now the small flotilla – consisting of a single Squadron of 12 Y-TIES, the two Gunships and the Command Y-TIE, were perfectly poised to strike at the underbelly of the ship. The commander of the pirate flotilla was no fool – he knew perfectly well that this particular model of ship had all of its firepower on the upper side of the ship, or lined along the flanks at the perimeter of the ship. There were no weapons at all pointing downwards, a blind spot that he was more than willing to explot. He slipped off his ribbed, armoured helmet for a few moments and ran a gloved hand through his lush, metallic-red hair, his smile widening with each passing second. After the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of these Imperials, he was going to take immense satisfaction from this particular raid. Thanks to the codes provided to his trusty Gunner by his business partners, he had managed to isolate the location of one of the ships that had been present at the sacking of his base of operations. It was time to exact repayment.

”Are our communications secure?” He asked, his voice followed by a glance over his shoulder as he looked back towards the gunner’s seat behind him, the occupant barely visible in the darker back of the cockpit, but a flash of white revealed a smile, lined by ruby red lipstick. Gloved fingers danced on a keypad for a few moments, before a soft female voice, laced with an Outer Rim accent floated back in reply.
”Everything is ready, Commandant. Let’s make these Imperials pay.”
The Commandant nodded his head in instant, venomous agreement, and lowered his helmet back onto his head, coughing once to clear his throat as he activated the secure communications channel that linked his rag-tag band together. The troops expected a speech before the battle – something to re-affirm their goals and the reason they were here, and galvanize them to fight extra hard for the battle. He was more than happy to oblige them.

”Comrades in arms, my fellow buccaneers. I need not remember you of the humiliating attack on our homes that the Imperial Fleet so coldly launched. The memory of their underhanded strike and of the friends and comrades we lost burns in my memory just as brightly as it does in yours. I promised you vengeance against the scum who dared to challenge our might, and the chance for vengeance has come. Here lies one of the ships that took part in the assault, hurt, and alone. Vulnerable. I promised you retribution, and I promised you a new home. It is in that ship that you will find both! We will strike at its underbelly and cleanse the life from it, and take it as our own! Fighters, remember to remain in the enemy’s blind spot and keep the enemy fighters off the Gunships. If any escape pods launch, you have permission to show no mercy. Boarding team – you’ll be outnumbered, so strike hard and fast and keep them reeling. Take out the hangar crews, then capture the guns and use them to take out any fighters left in the black. Once they’re down, we’ll land our fighters and re-enforce you. Let’s do this quick and bloody, and show the Imperials that we’re not to be under-estimated!”

The cheer that came over the comm. was choked with emotion and blood-lust. It was a real cheer, the Commandant noted to himself with a satisfied nod of his head. A pirate’s cheer. The men had expected a speech, and by the Emperor’s Wrinkly Knees, he had given it to them. Reminded as they were about their lost comrades, their recent humiliation and instilled with the desire for brutal, bloody revenge, the Commandant knew that they were going to show not a single inch of mercy to the Imperials on that ship. He almost felt sorry for the poor fools, oblivious as they were to the brutal death that was lurking just around the corner.

Almost, but not quite.

He slowly, gently, with all of the grace of an experienced and skilled fighter pilot, pulled back slightly on the control yoke and at the same time pushed down with one of the foot pedals that rested below him, letting his command craft gently, silently, rise forward, as if to peek over the debris of the old Star Destroyer to look at his prey before he struck. Behind him, he heard the clatter of fingers on the keyboard as his ever-trusty Gunner looked over the schematics that their friends had provided them, identifying exactly where her first, critical strike was going to have to land. He proudly acknowledged that the craft he was sitting inside of was quite probably the only one in the entire sector that would even have a remote chance of attempting a stunt like the one that they were planning to pull with any chance of success. His craft was unique in every sense, and he was immensely proud of it, just as he had been proud of the operation he had been running. This time, he mused to himself, he would be even more careful, even more vicious – he’d plan everything down to the letter and leave nothing to chance. For example, he knew that his pirates were all trained and had considerable experience fighting in zero-gravity situations. He highly doubted that the numerically superior crew of his target ship had much of either. As his gunner lined up the ship’s heavy weaponry against the enemy’s artificial gravity generator, hidden under thick but damaged armour plate, he smiled to himself.

The Vast Empire would regret the day that they thought they could cross The Commandant and live.

OOC:
Word Count: 1,500. Part 2 of 5 - introducing the story's antagonist.
Exodus
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  RE: VENI: The Commandant
December 20, 2011 6:35:14 AM    View the profile of Exodus 
In the small, dark cabin that Petty Officer Sam Dunn called home, the plots and machinations of the pirate Commandant might as well have been an entire galaxy away, as his chest slowly rose and fell, the man locked deep within a slumber, sleeping off the effects of fatigue and the injuries that he had sustained after his first combat mission. The sound of air entering and leaving his lungs was accompanied by the slightest rumble of a faint snore. He was lying on his stomach, stretched out over the large bed, his head buried under no less than four pillows, blocking out the ever-annoying rumble of the engines and generator that seemed to permeate every single centimeter of the ship. It was these pillows that muffled the sudden fizzle that resounded through the ship as sixteen large-scale Ion cannons punched into the same spot at the bottom of the ship, the multiple Ion barrage overloading the shield generators responsible for protecting the vulnerable underbelly and shorting it clean out.

The pillows also managed to insulate the tremendous impact of two tiny metal slugs as they punched through the thick armour plate of the ship at a respectable fraction of lightspeed, tearing through the composite hide as though it was nothing more than flimsiplast. The two slugs kept punching through walls and bulkheads until they struck home, right in the ship’s Life Support systems. It was a pinpoint strike, and the system, overloaded and damaged, catastrophically failed, taking with it the air circulation systems and the artificial gravity. As precious air and a good portion of the ship’s engineering crew were sucked screaming from wherever they had been and out through the two ragged holes in the ship, hundreds of blast doors sealed shut, trying to contain the damage and stop it from spreading. The damage, however, was already done. The ship’s temperature began to drop and anything not bolted down slowly began to float, no longer forced to abide by the arbitrary laws of gravity.

Sam Jack Dunn’s pillows were one of the first victims, floating free from his head, shortly followed by the Nexu kitten that was resting on the foot of his bed, curled up beside his Naval Intelligence uniform. Roused by the fact that it was suddenly no longer resting on a warm blanket but instead floating freely through space, the kitten opened its multiple eyes and looked around it, before clawing pathetically at the air and mewling loudly. Shortly after, the blanket itself achieved liftoff, followed by the mattress, veteran pilot and all. As he rose on a collision course with the ceiling of his small cabin, Sam Jack Dunn rolled over in his sleep and murmured softly, his kitten’s cries disturbing his slumber. However, it wasn’t enough to wake him up.

*CRACK*

The sudden and quite painful impact of cold durasteel against his skull was, however, an entirely different story. Pain lanced through Sam Jack Dunn’s sleeping body, shattering the lovely dream that he had been having and rudely yanking him back into reality – a reality where he was floating above his bed and had just managed to headbutt the ceiling! Ice-blue eyes shot open wide with surprise and pain, as Sam’s normally smiling face creased into a very dark frown, not even slightly impressed by the manner of his waking. Whoever was responsible for this…this heresy was undoubtedly going to regret such transgressions.
”Oi! Which bloody mongrel turned off tha artificial gravity!?” His outraged outburst echoed off the walls, his lyrical accent at odds with the harsh tone of his voice. Of course, no-one answered, but Sam felt some of his righteous fury abate, having had his chance to vent a little. As the echoing voice ceased, Bruce cocked his wide head to one side, looking up at him from a position floating in the middle of the room, and mewled, obviously frightened.

What little anger that Sam Dunn continued to nurse quickly melted away, replaced with parental concern as his Nexu kitten cried out for help. He reached up to grab the light fixture, took a moment to judge the angle, and pushed off, floating down towards the floor on an intercept course with the baby carnivore. He caught the little bundle of fur and sharp things and cradled it in his arms, murmuring soothingly to the little guy and gently stroking its head (you did not pet a nervous Nexu’s back for the same reason that you don’t sleep in a bed made of vibroblades) in an attempt to calm the it down. After a few minutes, Bruce’s spine quills flattened against his back, a sign that he was calming down. A few minutes later, the small Nexu was purring in the arms of its master, feeling content once more.

Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling content at all. Wearing nothing but a pair of Imperial-issue boxer shorts, he was acutely (in fact, painfully) aware that it was steadily getting colder inside the small cabin. Whilst this wasn’t a problem for the fur-covered Nexu, Sam was certainly starting to feel the cold – and he was a TIE pilot, used to having nothing but a space-suit between him and the black of space. It wasn’t the cold that worried him, however. It was the fact that the heating and artificial gravity systems were tied directly to the life support system, and logic dictated that if two of the systems were out, chances were high that the third had been damaged too.

As someone who was rather poorly adapted to the vacuum of space, this worried Sam Dunn quite a bit. Floating by the floor of his cabin, he gently laid Bruce down onto the bed and reached for his armour racks. Life Support systems did not just shut down of their own accord, after all, and Sam was sure he could hear weapons fire. He reached for his suit of Storm Commando armour, and realized that he had never gotten changed in zero gravity before. This was going to be…interesting. First up was the insulated undersuit, similar in many respects to the ever-familiar flight-suit of Imperial TIE Pilots like himself. Even familiarized as he was, it took Sam Dunn a full fourty seconds and two impacts against the walls of the cabin before he had managed to get himself inside and zipped up.

It took him a few seconds to make his way back from the ceiling down to the armour rack again, and he removed the cummerbund – an armourweave, shadowskin set of combat webbing that covered the abdomen and groin of the wearer, and spent the next minute revolving slowly through the air as he tried to wrap the damn thing around him and get the magnetic panels to stick and hold the damn glorified nappy together. He’d almost gotten it done up when he managed to float into his Wampa Fur Blankie, and spent a few seconds trying to untangle himself, managing to bump his head once in the process. Finally, however, he had the cummerbund on and sealed. Whew.

As he pushed off the wall with his feet (damn, the metal walls were cold), Sam realized that he was finding it easier each time to make his way back to the armour rack, and decided to reward himself by putting on something a little simpler – the armoured belt that clipped around his waist gave him no trouble, and he managed to stay in place by the rack. Next up were the boots, which managed to give him far more trouble than they were worth – the damn things were tricky to get on even with gravity working in your favour, and it took him a full minute to get both onto his feet. By this point, Bruce was happily floating through the cabin and playfully swatting anything that floated too close – including Sam.

After a quick scolding, Sam buckled on his thigh armour and greaves, finding that he was starting to get the hang of this whole zero gravity stuff. The armour plates went on with surprising little trouble, and Sam had similarly little difficulty with the arm armour, managing to slide into the forearm and upper arm plates without floating too far away from the rack, smiling at the unique challenge that had been set before him. Sam Dunn had never thought that he’d need to get changed in zero gravity, and he was finding the experience to be quite an education. Fortuantely, though, only two things remained, and he lifted the main torso armour from the rack and clipped himself into it, a playful swat from Bruce thankfully deflected by the plastoid armour plate. Finally, last but not least, the helmet. Sam reverentially lowered it onto his head, and powered up the armour’s systems, seeming to melt away into the shadows as the reflec coating reached full effectiveness.

The environmental seal and sound-dampening systems of the Imperial Storm Commando armour, a design used by the elite troopers of the Galactic Empire, kicked into effect, and Sam Dunn felt the warmth begin to seep back into his bones. The night-vision systems of his helmet automatically kicked in, bathing the room in pale green light, and Sam Dunn took a moment to smile and laugh at his great accomplishment – had had managed to don a full suit of Storm Commando armour, alone and unaided (a feat in itself) in Zero Gravity. Of course, the reality of why Sam had put on combat armour settled in after a few moments of childish glee, and managed to sober him up quite nicely. He sighed to himself as he grabbed his trusty old DL-44 Blaster Pistol and unfolded the scope lens covers, checking the charge and the pressure of the tibanna gas canister.

Energy cell was full – he had a full hundred shots to play with before he would have to reload. The tibanna gas canister was also looking pretty solid – decent pressure, but not full. Say, four hundred shots before he had to swap it out for another one. Fortunately, his armour had spares for both, and as he floated amongst a young Nexu, a free-flying mattress and a skinned Wampa that looked more alive than it had in ages, he nodded to himself in grim determination. Something had damaged the ship’s life support systems, and in doing so had interrupted Sam Jack Dunn’s naptime. There was only one course of action available to the young pilot: the cause of the rude awakening had to die, and it had to die painfully. Bruce looked up at him and chirped from his spot on the bed (having learned that sinking your claws into it stopped you from floating), and Sam shook his head in response.

Someday, the Nexu would be big and strong enough to take part in hunts by Sam’s side, but that day wasn’t going to be today. He ordered the little guy to stay put in the room, and just to be sure, popped a hole in the oxygen tank of his set of Scout Trooper armour, buying the Nexu a little more time in case the repair crews took longer than expected. Or died. Sam Dunn then pushed off from the wall in the direction of the door, and placed a hand on the ‘open’ button for the door. The hiss of escaping gas sounded as the door slid open, and Sam hooked a hand around the doorframe, pulling himself partially through the door, his other hand on the pistol-grip of the DL-44, aiming it out in front of him as he peeked out into the corridor.

No hostiles, but he could hear the sound of blaster-fire coming from the general direction of the secondary hangar bay. So, they’d  been boarded. Good, Sam Dunn was looking to break some heads. He pulled himself through the doorway and pushed off, floating towards the sound of gunfire.

If he could change into armour in zero-g, he could fight in zero-g.

OOC:
Word Count: 2,000. Part 3 of 5 - the protagonist prepares for battle.
Exodus
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  RE: VENI: The Commandant
January 21, 2012 9:25:52 AM    View the profile of Exodus 
Seated in the comfortable pilot’s chair of his command vessel, the Commandant closed his eyes and waited patiently whilst his gunner prepared the shot, the interior of the climate-controlled cockpit cooling slightly as she drew power from the ship’s main reactor to charge the oversized ion cannons that made up his craft’s primary armament. He felt the soft throb in his boots as the overpowered weapons reached full charge, and awaited confirmation of a firing solution from the gunner. He did not have to wait long, however.
”I have a firing solution, sir. Awaiting your order.”
He waved his hand towards the target ship, and his eyes narrowed as he spoke softly.
”Fire.”

The entire ship shuddered as four cruiser-scale ion cannons spoke at the same time, the sheer recoil forcing it backward slightly as four brilliant blue streaks shot out towards the target’s unprotected underbelly. By the time the ship’s sensor crew had begun to report the attack, it was too late. The four bolts impacted solidly with the capital ship’s shields, and as the ionized charge ran rampant through the system, the deflectors were overpowered, and a large hole in the capital ship’s shields materialized, presenting a unique opportunity.

The twelve Y-TIE Uglies left the cover of the wrecked Star Destroyer behind as they broke into their individual four-craft flights, forming a triangular formation with their turret-mounted ion cannons each pointing inwards, just like the Commandant had planned. The moment the squadron of bombers reached maximum weapons range to their target, the ion cannons mounted on the top of the cockpit opened up, unleashing a withering barrage of brilliant blue light, which quickly crossed the distance between the formation and their target – the ship’s ventral hangar bay. The shields began to flicker under the sudden onslaught, before they too were overloaded, and shorted out entirely.

The first flight of Imperial TIE Interceptors screamed out of the hangar, the launch racks cycling to unleash another, but they quickly found themselves in trouble, as they flew into a hail of disabling ion fire from the slow but powerful bomber craft. Their shields winked out, one by one, shortly followed by their Twin Ion Engines, leaving the fighters floating dead in space as their electronics shorted out. Those few that managed to escape were picked off by deadly accurate fire from the two YE-4 Gunships. There was no second flight – by the time the launch racks had recycled, the ion fire had started to fill the hangar, disabling mechanisms at will, and along with the repair bays and the airlocks, the launch racks were the first things to go. Pilots, unable to do anything but sit in their now dead Interceptors and rage, drew their blaster pistols and prepared to repel boarders as the two gunships flew through the center of the triangle formation and advanced implacably on the Imperial ship as it laboriously tried to roll, vainly attempting to bring its heavy guns to bear.

”Second solution plotted – I have their life support in my sights.”
The Commandant watched the battle with an air of someone who loved seeing a good plan come together, and allowed himself to wait a few moments to ensure that his help was not needed escorting the boarding craft. He knew that this would be the easy part – boarding a wounded ship was no trouble for someone with his experience or equipment…but like all Imperial ships, this one had a massive crew, far outnumbering his pirates. To subdue them all, he was going to need something to tip the odds in his favour. He needed a trump card. Letting his lips form a grin, the Commandant put the trump card that he had prepared into play. He absolutely loved this game.
”Take their breath away.”

The ruby-red lips behind him mirrored his own in a smile as a gloved hand pulled the trigger, and the two heavy particle cannons mounted on the underside of the large, armoured cockpit spoke with a roar that shook the entire ship, rattling the teeth of both of the command ship’s occupants. The front of the craft flashed white, revealing the pale skin and grey eyes of the gunner, who was wearing an old, battered Rebel Alliance pilot’s helmet. Her smile proved to be well-earned, as the two particles she had launched, metallic slugs not much larger than a hand, were propelled at a respectable fraction of lightspeed, screaming through the hole her earlier shot had made in the prey ship’s protective deflector shield and slicing through thick durasteel plate as though it was mere paper.

The shots punched through bulkheads, blast doors and refreshers with impunity, sending the air, datapads, weapons, and even crew members through the holes in the ship’s hull and out into the void. Eventually, white-hot metal impacted solidly with its intended target with inhuman precision: the life support systems of the Imperial cruiser. The system, holed by the shot (which continued on and was eventually stopped by, of all things, a Gand crew member), died without a sound, taking the artificial gravity and climate control with it. Everything started to float, weightless, and the temperature in the target ship began to drop. The damage containment procedures kicked in, and the sections of the ship that were affected by the particle cannon shot were sealed, blast doors closing and dooming the crew members trapped within to a fate that didn’t bear consideration.

It was too late, however. The damage had been done.

Throughout the ship, crew members left the polished floors of their ship, freed from the constraints of gravity and temporarily disoriented. Hangar bay mechanics, trying to repair the disabled fighter launch racks, found themselves floating up and away before they realized the danger. For a few moments, the ship was completely defenceless as the crew struggled to adapt to the sudden, forced change of their situation. Then, as the true nature of their predicament began to sink in, panic began to spread – the life support systems were down, and that meant that the crew were in serious trouble. In the darkness of his cockpit, the Commandant’s eyes sparkled. He could already taste the sweet wine of victory, tantalisingly close as it was.

The Y-TIEs peeled off from their assault on the ship’s ventral hangar bay, breaking into small flights of three as they made their way to the very back of the ship, planning to exploit the blind spot that the conning tower and bridge imposed on the miniature Star Destroyer’s gunnery crew, setting off at the leisurely pace that was typical of bomber craft throughout the galaxy. His job done, for now, the Commandant placed his gloved hand on the control yoke of his own customized fighter, and peeled off to join them, intent on paralysing the enemy’s sensor array and communications network. It wouldn’t do to have them cry for help, after all…

*INSIDE THE HANGAR BAY*

Senior Crewman Sam Jenkins clung to TIE launch rack #04 with a gloved right hand, holding on with grim determination as the rest of his body tried to float away from the crippled launch rack. His other hand held a sparking jumper cable, as he attempted to use it to re-start the launch rack and allow the ship’s complement of TIE Interceptors to launch and repel the attack. The middle-aged man was still confused by the sudden turn of events: The attack had come from nowhere, without any warning, and as a mechanic, he knew perfectly well what the cause of the hangar’s sudden loss of gravity was. His chances of survival, he knew, were next to none.

But, he grimly though to himself as he tried to angle the jumper cable against the open socket at the end of the launch rack, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do his part for the Empire that he loved.
“Damn it, get in there!” He growled at the obstinate cable, his Coruscanti accent sounding fainter than it should as the air inside the hangar bay slowly began to grow stale. His ruddy complexion began to get redder as his lungs fought for breath. Finally, he managed to slam the cable into the socket, and twist it, locking it into place. He grinned, as the launch rack began to power up again, lights flickering on as the system prepared to launch the TIE Interceptors that waited, still locked to the device.

Then, a deafening sound from behind him caused him to turn his head…and his blue eyes shot wide as he saw what had just entered the hangar bay.
Once, the two craft might have resembled the Sentinel-Class Lander in appearance, with the same general body shape and cockpit design, but now, they looked nothing alike. The two craft had a bumpy, almost organic appearance as a result of all the armour plating welded onto the hull, most of it scrap metal from a wide abundance of sources. Jammed in between many of the armoured plates were spikes of all sorts of sizes, each one sharpened to a razor edge. Adorning many of the spikes were what appeared to be corpses, frozen stiff by the cold vacuum of space. The frosty dead stood as mute testament to the fate of those who had thought to resist the ship’s owners in the past.

The ships were both painted jet-black, though there were many red splotches under the occupied spikes, and the origin of those red patches was unmistakable. The cockpit of the two craft had been painted bone-white, the grim visage of a grinning skull plainly visible. The two ships were obviously designed to intimidate targets…and from the six double-laser turrets, the fear they inspired was obviously intended to be short-lived. Sam thought back to his youth on Coruscant, during the Clone Wars. The short-lived Jedi Rebellion, and how it had been crushed. He remembered cheering on Empire Day. The recruiting station. The training, hard yet fulfilling. The first time he’d seen Helena, the love of his life. Their first kiss. The wedding. His wife’s smile as they brought their first child into the galaxy.

“My love…I’m sorry.” Sam Jenkins whispered softly as the cannons opened up with a roar, and his entire world flashed, blindingly bright…then faded to black.

The destruction of the hangar bay was as swift as it was total. With twelve double-cannon turrets swivelling and demolishing anything that showed any signs of resistance, or even signs of life, it did not take long for the hangar bay to be cleansed. Pilots, trapped in their fighters, were cooked alive inside their craft, as pit crews ran for the exits, only to be cut down by the withering hail of laser fire. There were no survivors, as the two gunships cleared the way for their deadly cargo. Finally, two minutes after the two gunships had gained entry to the hangar bay, the cannons fell silent, and the smoke began to clear. The armoured sides of the gunships pivoted down and away, the hulls moving on hidden hinges to form ramps, leading down towards the hangar bay floor. Standing inside the gunships, waiting for their time to strike, dozens of armoured pirates hefted their weapons.

They were garbed in environmentally sealed spacesuits, designed to protect the pirates within from the deadly vacuum of space. The suits were as black as the void between the stars, and the heavy armour that they wore over them, bone-white, made a stark contrast. The armour was designed to mimic the human skeleton, with the breastplate forming ribs, and the helmet shaped into a grinning skull that matched the gunships in which they rested. Twelve of the pirates wore more ornate skull-helmets, in the shape of predatory creatures, filled with fangs and sharp lines. On their backs were jetpacks, overcharged to give off a trail of nauseating smoke behind them, and keen like the bereaved cries of the widows they left in their wake. For a few moments, they waited as the gunships deployed their ramps.

Then, at an unspoken signal, the pirates leaped free from the gunships, floating in the zero-gravity environment for a few moments before engaging their jetpacks and moving in groups of six towards the doors that led further into the ship, armed with exotic scatterguns, bowcasters and even, in one case, a unique weapon that appeared to be designed to fire throwing knives. With efficiency that was unusual amongst pirates, they filed out of the hangar and began their assault. The knife-armed pirate, his skull-helmet worked in the shape of a saurian predator, consulted a map on a datapad and directed his men through the corridor, towards the heavy gun batteries on the starboard side.

The raptor pirate ducked in through the hangar bay exit, his exotic weapon raised, and found his caution rewarded as no less than five blaster bolts peppered the wall behind him, where his head would have been had he not had the foresight to duck. A squad of Imperial Stormtroopers were crouched in various alcoves and doorways, their E-11 blasters raised and ready to fire again. A veteran of many boarding actions, the pirate laughed to himself as he engaged his jetpack and soared upwards, pointing his feet towards his foes so he presented a small target profile, and fired his exotic weapon. A hail of blades spat forth from the device, and three of the marines convulsed, the envenomed blades punching through their armour and flooding their bodies with toxin, before shuddering and falling still, their bodies floating freely in the corridor.

Two of his comrades moved into the corridor behind him, and their bowcasters spoke, ending the lives of another pair of Stormtroopers. Whilst their plastoid armour allowed them to survive in vacuum for a time, the Stormtroopers were obviously not experienced in zero-gravity combat, and the veteran pirates made short work of the squad, before moving on, intent on capturing their objective on schedule. The Commandant had quite a temper, and none of the pirates were willing to fail him. They quickly made their way towards the guns, eliminating any Stormtroopers or crew members that they could find. Though they met stiff resistance, and two of the pirates from the raptor’s group were lost, reports indicated that the boarding parties were making swift progress. The destruction of the ship’s life support systems placed the odds in their favour, and the corridors prevented the enemy from using weight of numbers to bring the pirates down.

“Commandant, this is Team Six – Port Guns captured.”
“Team Eight to Commandant – The Engines are ours.”
”Team Two to our Commandant – Meeting heavy resistance at secondary hangar.”
“Team Three moving to assist Team Two.”

The pirates heavily encrypted comm. channel was alive with short, disciplined reports – the only words uttered were those that contained important information and tactical updates. The Commandant, happily blasting away at the ship’s communications array with his ship’s ion cannons, smiled to himself. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had forseen.

Soon, his vengeance would be complete.

OOC:
Word Count: 2,507. The Pirates board the stricken ship, and begin to capture vital systems. The crew's fate seem certain.
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