shot-glass-speedloader

[shot-glass-speedloader]

[A certain coward scurries into the room at nearly the last minute. Jessie Birch's tall, gangly, freckled form is still quite distinct without her hat. She takes the seat beside Ward, glancing frantically around, presumably for Khione. Just in case.]

Dammit, man, the front? Ya had to pick the very front?

[A long sigh.]

Thanks fer uh... savin' my spot though.

[Her long limbs spill into the seat like rope coiling.]

[Begin Playback]

{Bodies pile in, a courtroom. Those required to be there, a jury formed. DoJ/HR Judge at the head. Morse spectating. The entire Tenacity able to watch the chaos about to unfold. The air thick with anticipation as the defendant sits down. Conal Jay Murphy. Callsign Signal. The prosecution yet to arrive.}

{Signal is still given the grace to be covered, usual hardsuit and helmet combo. A single glowing light of an eye shining through the visor. They turned to look to their lawyer.}

"Make this count."

[End Playback]

[shot-glass-speedloader]

[Jessie clears her throat and blinks profusely. She can't let the tears start now or she knows damn well they won't stop.]

Thank ya kindly, Traffic Control. Pullin' her in now. It's... Good to be home...

Till Legends Bleed.

Howdy, Morsey,

I lived... If I'm honest with ya I never expected that. Thought it was the end a' the road. One good thing to cap of all the awful shit I've done.

But I'm still here. And I wanna take that and run with it. That lucky break I've been given... I wanna use it to run and start over. I wanna live and I don't wanna kill no more... I'm so tired of it all...

But I owe ya. Big time. More than all my debts a hundred times over. So as long as ya keep Misericorde the fuck away from me... I'll be there. Not fer money. Not to watch Signal die. I dont give a rat's ass 'bout none a' that.

I'll be there fer you, if ya want me there...

You can run. Go ahead. All it does is answer if your time here at CORSAIR meant anything, anything at all.

Did the battle cries mean anything?

The Stories?

The Legends?

Did your time mean something? Or are you just wanting to be forgiven and think blood is the solution?

Make a choice Pinkerton. For once in your career make the choice you want.

//Miss Morse\\

[shot-glass-speedloader]

[Questions ricochet through Pinkerton's mind like so many bullets as her boots drop one after another across the deck of her ship.]

[She'd heard that one of Monarchy Squadron had survived. Would they be keen to share a drink? Laugh off the time they dropped bombs over her head with her? She... hoped so.]

[Would Misericorde try to put her down? That one was almost a forgone conclusion. She was expecting a severe beating, at least. Could she slip away from them? Probably, if she lost the hat. She'd survived on worse odds.]

[Was she really ready for this? After nearly a decade of acting like a cornered rat, to try to go back to being a loyal dog? Well... Even though that was the most important question, the answer didn't really matter. She had to try. She was done with the rat's life, one way or another. She cursed herself for almost getting cold feet again. It was... something she wanted to work on. Change is harder than one decision. That's what she learned from surviving Queen's Pardon.]

[The doors to the bridge of Hazel's Lucky Shot slide open, and she steps inside. The Tenacity is finally visible on sensors, and as she takes her pilot's seat, she sighs and opens comms.]

This is Hazel's Lucky Shot, requesting permission to dock aboard Tenacity of the Downtrodden. Hope I'm in time for the trial.

Howdy, Morsey,

I lived... If I'm honest with ya I never expected that. Thought it was the end a' the road. One good thing to cap of all the awful shit I've done.

But I'm still here. And I wanna take that and run with it. That lucky break I've been given... I wanna use it to run and start over. I wanna live and I don't wanna kill no more... I'm so tired of it all...

But I owe ya. Big time. More than all my debts a hundred times over. So as long as ya keep Misericorde the fuck away from me... I'll be there. Not fer money. Not to watch Signal die. I dont give a rat's ass 'bout none a' that.

I'll be there fer you, if ya want me there...

You can run. Go ahead. All it does is answer if your time here at CORSAIR meant anything, anything at all.

Did the battle cries mean anything?

The Stories?

The Legends?

Did your time mean something? Or are you just wanting to be forgiven and think blood is the solution?

Make a choice Pinkerton. For once in your career make the choice you want.

//Miss Morse\\

[shot-glass-speedloader]

OOC POST

Gonna do some writing for Stinkerton after I've had a sleep but for now here's a funny shitpost I made before the game.

[shot-glass-speedloader]

okayokayokayokayokayokayokayokOKAYOKAYOKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY MAKE IT HHOOME MAKEE ITHOME MMAKE IT HOME HE GAVE YOU A JOB YOU GOTTA DO IT DONT LOOK AT HIM LOOK AHEAD DONTTLOOK AT THE WRECK LOOK AHEAD I GOYT IT I GOT IT FROM HERE MAC

//MYLES\\

[shot-glass-speedloader]

why does signanl deserve to live and mac doesont ?

//sharko\\

[shot-glass-speedloader]

When did my hick ass ever claim to be prepared, Zero?

Well, apparently they've found our darling Siggy.

CORSAIR is sending a small fucking army on a long haul to the Diaspora, including Booker's Macguyver. A darling ex of mine is sending me the livestream.

It will be satisfying to watch them all get acquainted with the airlock, I suppose. This is a suicide mission, after all.

Signal is a Wolf, and they are Fools to believe themselves prepared.

Zero~

[shot-glass-speedloader]

TODAY I FINALLY WASH THE BLOOD FROM MY GODDAMN HANDS!!!

TILL LEGENDS BLEED!!!!!

[shot-glass-speedloader]

[Miss Morse Extends A Warning]

[Signal Will Die]

[You Don't Have To Be In The Cross Fire]

[And From Me]

[Please]

{TIMESTAMP: SEVEN HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[Pinkerton sits in the small hanger on Hazel's Lucky Shot. All the pieces of a disassembled 1/2 schedule frame scale anti-material rifle lay before her. She cleans and oils each part meticulously.]

[As she does so, she hums along to the music produced by the ship's speakers. Folk-rock from before the collapse. The lyrics are mournful but the beat is something hard to resist nodding one's head along to.]

[She gives a tired sigh and looks into the webcam. In her eyes, there's a sadness, but a determination, as well. More steely a gaze than ever you've seen from her.]

Much as I wanna cut and run like I always do, I can't. Not this time. Betcha this don't end well fer me, but... I can't run.

See ya soon, Stabby.

[The music continues for a few lines before the transmission ends, accompanied by the clicking and scraping sounds of her work..."

["Is it a gift you give or something precious I'm taking?

Stolen sympathy for all my worst mistakes,

I bite my tongue to keep the worst of the words in,

So they don't hurt nobody but me,

Swallow the poison I wanna spit,

Bitter medicine, I think it's making me sick...]

[shot-glass-speedloader]

Striking at the choking claw, are we?

Don't miss~

Good Luck, I mean it.

You fight a very dangerous foe.

Ain't got a clue what yer talking 'bout, stranger. Glory to the Mercenary Monarch and all that.

But, just so we're clear, I almost never miss.

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: FOUR HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[She chuckles. Then sighs.]

RA, she gave me every reason...

[Jessie stares off wistfully for a moment. She reaches for her drink instinctively, but frowns when she remembers it's empty.]

Purdy, smart, charmin', the whole package. We met livin' here, ya'know. Eris street rats. You have to be clever to make it here with nothin', and fuck was she ever clever. And she could talk her way outa punishment for an FCA violation, I swear.

She always had a plan to claw us up higher, the two of us and the little gang we ran with. She'd talk and talk about a plan till we was all more faithful than a priest that whatever it was would work. And it usually did. She told me who I needed to rough up, eventually who I needed to shoot once we got a bit older. And whoever she pointed me at? We'd almost always end up better for it.

Always knew just what to say to get me off the hook for whatever she sent me into. Always knew just what to say... In general.

Praise here, a flirt here, a promise there, and she was so sweet when she'd do it. Had me wrapped around her little finger from the very start. She'd giggle at my stupid jokes while patchin' me up after a fight and I'd just. Melt.

[She sighs again, letting her head drop regretfully.]

That's the way is goes though, ain't it? When somebody knows just what heartstrings to pull? Nothing could ever be Hazel's fault, ya'know? No fuckup on a job, no hiccup in the relationship... Must've been mine.

[Jessie's voice swaps rapidly from sweet to bitter. Like after all these years she still can't decide whether to love or hate her ex.]

She'd overlook my mistakes, long as I promised to do better fer her next time. Ain't that just so good of her?

But then she'd also do this thing... we'd be layin' down... and she'd move down to put her ear to my chest. Listen fer my heart. Giggle and go "There she is! There's my girl!" When she'd hear it. Knowin' that someone cared to check that it was still beatin'... I...

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: FOUR HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[Jessie groans dramatically at the prospect of being cut off.]

Soda, I reckon. Whatever ya got back there. And I'll take what she's havin' but spiced normal.

[As the bartender starts her walk back, Jessie gives Sasha a conspiratorial look, pulling a flask from a pocket inside her duster. Before she can take a sip, however, the bartender stops and peeks over her shoulder. Pinkerton frowns. Slowly the flask disappears into the jacket once more.]

[Defeated again, the sniper gives another short groan. She looks to Sasha, still frowning.]

Well, reckon I can guess yer next question. "What happened?" Right? "How'd you end up a merc? How'd the breakup happen?" Somethin' like that?"

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: FOUR HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[Jessie pulls her legs from the table, instead moving to tuck her knees into her chest, resting her head on them in a pout. In this state she gives a particularly "snotty teenager" vibe for a woman approaching thirty.]

Tch. Alright. Fuck it.

[She takes a long sip from her drink, as if stalling to keep the conversation at bay for longer.]

Hazel. Her name is Hazel. Least that's what it was for our time together. I reckon she's prolly changed it since she left here...

You're damn wrong 'bout one thing though, sweetheart. I wanna leave it... her behind. More than just about anythin'. But it ain't never that simple. Heart can be stronger than the head sometimes, and the evil bitch has sure got mine in a vice.

[After rubbing her face a few times in discomfort, the sniper downs the rest of her drink, clinking the glass to the table just a little too hard.]

Fuck, if we're gonna talk about this I need another...

[She turns to the bartender, desperate not to meet Sasha's gaze, and calls across the room.]

Hon, can I get another round, right quick?

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: FOUR HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

How the hell'd y-

[Jessie looks as if she's been struck. So many emotions cross her features at once. Pain, regret, and a new fear. Like a deer in headlights, a fear of having been perceived, perhaps?]

That's... That's ancient history!

[She shoves her hat back down on her head as she snaps at Sasha, tipping it down to hide just enough of her face.]

So what if I a-

...

So what if I was? Ain't even ever gonna see her again. Don't want to! So what's it gotta do with this?

[Her denials and deflections are... unconvincing, to say the least. The name of her allegedly stolen ship alone is evidence enough.]

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: 58 HOURS BEFORE DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

Debts aside... I made some mistakes. Called the wrong side in a war... Did what I thought I had to...

Don't worry, though. Ain't nobody what wants me dead for that gonna go after ya in any crossfire. Corsair ain't got no reason to hit you. And they ain't got a clue where I'm at, neither. Least they won't 'till we dock.

accessing cctv footage from vessel 09152- {HAZELS.LUCKY.SHOT}

[you are slumped in the pilots chair, weaning off the adrenaline from escaping the SSC vessel. A helmeted figure appears in the doorway, leaning heavily on one leg, they reach up and click some hidden mechanism, releasing the helmet. The figure tugs it off to reveal a crooked smile and a shock of a neon purple mullet. Their greyish eyes seem too big in their face, and their skin looks dry and sallow, as if they haven’t eaten recently. They raise a shaky hand in greeting]

Hey there, you must be my saviour, heh. Good to meet you in the flesh Pinkie, and thanks for saving my bony ass back there, I didn’t have a lotta options.

Well, ya got 'em now!

[Pinkerton kicks her feet up and leans back in her seat, allowing the ship's autopilot to stay the course.]

Got us pointed towards Eris V. It's a wild little station just outside the Purview. Got some uh... meetings to keep there. I could drop you off somewhere on the way. Or you can tag along to Eris.

There's also the matter of that stolen chassis. I know a guy on the station. We could sell 'er an' split the manna. I'm sure ya could use some, bein' on the run an' all. Or ya could keep 'er an' give 'er a new name, I 'spose.

Long as I get my Sylph suit, it don't differ fer me.

Oh and uh. Name's Jessie Birch. Use that or my Callsign. Or Pinkie. It don't matter none. Likewise, good to meet ya.

Oh, fuck. Got some rations onboard, too. Mentioned ya hadn't eaten in a few days.

[shot-glass-speedloader]

[Her smile drops. Only for a moment, before she hides it with her drink. Another moment passes and she's smirking again.]

See, ya keep makin' all these promises. "We'll help ya do this. That. Whatever." Signal made promises too, ya'know. Told me they had plans and plots. I thought they'd be normal. Ways to get rich. Build some kinda beautiful criminal empire.

[There's a bitter note on her tongue, and she throws her hands up mockingly as she explains what she thought the Mercenary Monarch's plan had been.]

Slaughtering reporters. "Corpse Company" this, "Aimee Smith" that. Ain't exactly productive sentiments to build a mob on. But they had that ACS backing, 'least as first. And most of us they recruited fought fer Haven's dog ass in the '30. I guess they only really promised the money. The rest was... subtext. That I'd get safety under an organization I knew didn't have reason to fuck me over. There was a logic to it I thought we'd all follow.

[She doesn't let her smile drop, but there's a dark look in the rest of her face. The face of a woman who's slept with one eye open every night for a decade.]

The problem with yer promises, Jadwiga, ain't that they're leadin' me to somethin' like theirs did. It's that they assume I believe ya really wanna help me. That anyone would.

[She lifts her hand from her belt, closes one eye, and makes a gun gesture with her fingers. She makes a little firing noise with her mouth as she points her imaginary weapon at various patrons of the bar. One of the women who'd just entered. A half-asleep man near the counter. Someone playing pool in the back.]

I asked ya to come alone, but did ya really, I wonder? Any one of these fine folks could be DoJ. Seen more than a few stings in my day, and I don't take folks at their word. Not a mistake I make no more.

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[shot-glass-speedloader]

{TIMESTAMP: FOUR HOURS PAST DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[For all her evident cowardice, Pinkie has a firm handshake, if nothing else. Even so, that firm hand is shaking. Trembling. She can't hide it, even with her smug, conniving grin. She downs half her glass in one. A soon as it clinks to the table, her boots do the same. Leaning back and throwing her legs up on the table... Trying so very hard to seem relaxed...]

[It might fool some common thug on Eris V, but not someone with Sasha's perception. Pinkerton's right hand sits at her side. Her fingers are white-knuckled around her belt. Her thumb brushes the butt of her revolver like she's expecting she could need it at a moment's notice. Not a threat, but a safety blanket.]

Jessie Birch, pleased to meetcha. Haven't we done this song and dance before, though? Ya really expect a different answer if ya keep askin' the same question?

[Her eyes are focused on Sasha... mostly. But every third or fourth beat, they flick across the bar. Keeping track of the other patrons. Noting any movement. Any newcomer. Any changed position.]

Like I said before, I know where I stand with Siggy. I don't claim to trust 'em, or even like 'em, but they don't waste pilots. Yeah I'll admit, it don't look good for us. Bastard kicked a hornet's nest or five, but fuck if I'd wanna be on the other side of a field with 'em on it. And they ain't out to get me. Ain't done nothin' to piss 'em off. It's easier to dodge a bullet when ya see it comin', ain't it, darlin'?

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )