Discovery Gaming Community

Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!

Industry was both a blessing and a curse. The rapid motivation of both construction and science were phenomenally advanced, leading to a technological innovation that shamed even the brightest of minds in earlier times. But the downfall stretched as far as the eye could see: Endless expanses of scrap metals left over from the construction processes; smog-filled sectors that had been marked as no-fly zones due to their hazardous and veiling existence; and activist groups that rebelled in the face of their capitalizing overlords to try and earn a better living.

Clean up procedures had been enacted to try and make Bretonia less hazardous to the public. They ultimately failed as unlawful elements decided that they liked the vast curtains that had been made to hide them from the prying eyes of the law. The only people who benefited from the waste were the Junkers. Only if they didn't care nor meddled with their neighbors.

New London was the heart of all that was disgusting and rather grim. The sole inhabitable planet had been turned into a machine that was only rivaled in mechanical nature by Leeds. Smog and silt covered its atmosphere, dying it in a shade of brown and gray. Trading outposts and ore processing plants had been established within the tradelane networks, now sitting as mere relics to the overharvest of the system. The neighboring scrap yards and asteroid fields that had been raped of their ores now served as deathtraps. A pure irony.

A wing of Sabres, the most advanced ship class in the Borderworlds' aresenal, sat on one of the fragile trade-lane rings, their codes at the ready to deactivate the rather poorly-conceived contraption. Their hulls glinted in the sun that still remained vigilant in the acrid smog, burning fiercely like a beast that refused to die. The trade lane suddenly flickered to life as arcs of energy projected from the stasis fields; something was coming. The code was given and the halo of energy dissipated slowly, the lane's operating lights dimming as power was lost.

"This may be it. Weapons free when the target arrives."

Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth,
when from heaven the Judge descendeth,
on whose sentence all dependeth.

His hands tightly gripped at the controls of the fighter, staring at the icons that lingered above his sight like pixies that danced to and from amongst the stars. The three other Sabres were to the right of him, their weapons aimed dead ahead, ready to massacre the poor souls barreling down the lane to their deaths.

A Heron poked its ugly snout through the veil as it was thrown out of the tradelane sequence. Two Eagles, the standard escort fighter of civilians, were tossed out with it, their systems confused as their smooth ride turned into an abrupt stop.

"Break and attack! Myers and Fawley, kill the escorts. Pedita and I will deal with the transport," The wing leader ordered over the comm system. Fawley smiled, his hand shoving the throttle forward. The Sabre's twin engines flared a resilient white, rocketing the fighter craft forward in a burst of speed. He sighted the Krakens on the poor Eagle, mashing his thumb on the trigger and sending a hail of energy bolts at the bird-like vessel. It anticipated the attack, jinking to the left and twirling its wings in defiance of the barrage.

His teeth grit in frustration, slamming the joystick to keep his bead on the maneuverable nuisance. It cut all engines, activating its maneuvering thrusters to spin on an axis to face him. Its weapons vomited forth gray-tinted bolts of blue. The name Spitter was superb for the effect. The bolts raked his port wing, shields weakening in the region. A quick burst from the port engines flicked the Sabre from harm's grasp.

"Checkmate," He whispered, mashing his thumb down on the trigger. The Eagles rotation had put it so that it could only move towards him or away in that constant line. It was trapped. The Krakens spilled forth red and orange gobs of death, deshielding the enemy fighter in a matter of seconds. The defenseless fighter was then torn asunder as the the next stream caught its hull. The wings were picked off as though they came from an insect, the hull vented as the holes burned through the thin armor, and the cockpit imploded as the venting air voided the interior of the ship.

Now for the real prize...

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;
through earth's sepulchers it ringeth;
all before the throne it bringeth.

The Heron was easily identified as a Bretonian Mining and Minerals transport. Its undercarriage was stained with debris and still held the embedded stray rock particles that had sunken into its metal skin during an ore transfer. A quick scan revealed the hold to be chalk full of gold ore. Raw from Dublin. A juicy pay day for any band of brigands or miscreants.

The local communication channel went active, the voice of squadron leader Perez calmly flowed through the speakers, "Transport Indigo, this is Outcast Attack Wing Muerte. You have something we want. I suggest you surrender the vessel to us and we'll work things out." Fawley smiled at that, always admiring how blunt Perez was. He didn't beat it around the bush.

A man with a Dublin accent replied, "Oi don' think Oi'll be farin' well if Oi do that..." He sounded hesitant, then chided, "If anyone asks, Oi was kidnapped. Savy?" He gave a low chuckle that sounded stressed.

Fawley keyed the comm, "I could shoot you in the foot," His Bretonian accent showed clearly; despite being Hispanian, he had grown up in Bretonia for most of his childhood. Some habits didn't die.

"Jacob," Perez replied, "Calm yourself. Your taste for blood has been satiated. Now guard the ship with Pedita as Myers and I board it." With that, the comm clicked off.

"Great," Jacob sighed to himself, "More guard duty..."

Perez and Myers had boarded the ship, their Sabres clinging to the docking ports of the Heron. Fawley parked himself at the rear of the long ship while Pedita took guard at the front. The key to this was speed. Right now, a wing of Police or Armed Forces were probably barreling down the lane to play the knights in shining armor. Now it was time to wait for the boarding party to gain control of the ship.

"How about we make this fun?" Pedita's voice came over the comm system in a purr. Her voice always creeped him out; it was much too comforting.

"And how do you intend to do that?" His voice seemed to quirk with his brow.

"If any opposition shows up, let's try and keep a score. Or play with our foes," She gave a soft giggle afterward. Jacob grimaced at that, always finding her game of cat and mouse to be unnecessary sadism.

"Alright," He responded, "But I get to play under my benefits." His grimace turned into a toothy grin.

Pedita sighed loudly, "You're going to die when you use your 'benefits'." There was a short pause, she was probably grinning. "Maybe you might during this fight."

He didn't respond, instead grabbing for his inhaler and fiddling with the valve. His vision blurred for a second, then sharpened drastically. The sound of an audible beat in quick rhythm filled his ears, drowning out all other sounds. All at once, his lungs were filled with the entire supply of cardamine, forcing itself directly into his bloodstream. The beating subsided as the sound of his very ship operating became evident. Not the hum of the engine, but the droning of parts that no one would even know existed.

He could hear the fuel sloshing in the tanks; the hull creaking in the cold of space; the shield crackling as micro particles of dust bombarded it; and the electronics buzzing as they processed information. The sound subsided after a few seconds, bringing the sense down to above normal levels. His eyes flicked back and forth, tracking every item that moved. The whole miracle was that it wasn't overwhelming. He had twenty minutes of altered realities that didn't harm the mind. Lesser men would have bled from every orifice and died.

Sure enough, a wing of Templars spilled from the lane, their wing leader shouting over the local comm channels. Without the hesitance of thought, Jacob slammed the throttle forward and commenced the slaughter.