The INS Subjugator is a Judicator-Class cruiser which was previously in service to the Insurgency and Commonwealth of House Liberty respectively. While not an outstanding vessel by any metric, the Subjugator was presumed to have gone missing at the time of the collapse, with its known patrol paths being Colorado, Kepler and Galileo. The Subjugator was a vanguard against Northern Border activities, and functioned as an outpost for Legionnaires seeking to launch strikes into Colorado against the LPI.
In recent months, several fighter craft once belonging to the Subjugator’s escort wing have been spotted engaging in piracy, and flying the colors of the Liberty Rogues. Following the collapse of the Insurgency, the Subjugator had taken refuge in Copernicus, where its crew had learned the fate of their home. The command staff made the decision to abandon ship and fall into civilian life where possible, yet the general staff were not keen on the idea of scuttling their new home. Conflict ensued, as a bloody firefight rocked the mess hall.
With barely fifty survivors and not a ranking officer among them, the survivors appointed Lex Adams - A Lieutenant with experience in Task Force Gladius as the voice of the crew. Adams enjoyed the idea of being in charge for a change, and had the crew turn to piracy in order to sustain their operations in the Borderworlds. What first started as small scale raids on convoys for fuel and food, quickly devolved into credit robberies, bushwhacking miners and kidnappings.
When ransoms failed to come in, the kidnapped victims of Adams’ crew were either sold off to slavers, contacts in Navy uniforms that represent cells nobody has heard of, or considered ‘free game’ for harvesting. The darker actions undertaken by the crew led to further problems on board, as a handful of staffers still loyal to the idea of a free Liberty felt they had slipped too far into injustice. In a vain effort to take out the budding warlord, a mutiny attempt was made. Lex Adams was severely wounded, and lost his leg in the second bout of fighting on board the Subjugator. When the mutineers were beaten, and the survivors rounded up - Adams had them decapitated as a cruel and crude example to the others in his command.
This was his ship now.
The years would slowly tick by as the Subjugator fell into disrepair, functioning primarily as a mobile base of operations and less of a support cruiser. They soon found themselves struggling to survive, as the command staff had left them without the means to properly access or maintain the vessel's systems. The few engineering crew who had remained didn’t have access or enough experience with the ship itself, and attempted to use some of the credits they had earned over the years to pay Lane Hackers to crack the software. When this proved less than successful, Adams had them spoof a code for him to utilize as the ultimate authority on board, solidifying his role as Captain of the growing band of marauders.
The halls of the once-Insurgent operated vessel soon saw themselves full of debris, loot and garbage. The walls were marked with crudely painted logos of the gang’s insignia over what was once the Orange Star. 'Renegades'. The areas that weren’t trafficked much had no lighting or power running to them, and what little power the ship had went to sustaining the atmosphere and life support where necessary. What rooms weren’t in use had no power or gravity flowing to them at all, and were sealed or barricaded shut in the event the magnetic doors had failed.
The ship had become a cudgel against anybody that'd stand between Lex and his growing reckless aspirations for power in the underworld. He and his crew were opportunists, and take their chances as they appear.
The following is a series of events leading to their demise.
The attack had gone off suddenly and exactly has it had dozens of times prior. The Subjugator had used Harland's Revenge as bait, taking cruel advantage of their weakened condition to play up a distress angle, and lure in the unsuspecting. To Lex and his boys, this was no different than any run of the mill mark. Even if this mark knew some big names, and cozied up to the last Warlord - It didn't matter to Lex. There was an opportunity for credits, and the state of his ship didn't afford letting those go to waste. As the Rhino crumbled before the Judicator, the escape pod was snatched by the spotty tractor beam of the old cruiser.
Steadily the beam pulled the pod through the debris, rattling against the small metal pieces leftover from the Homerunner's wreckage and into the open front hangar bay of the Subjugator. The interior had evidently seen better days, as had the rest of the ship. The lights were dim, and intermittently flickering from an obvious unsteady supply of power being fed from the ship's reactor. The hull was covered in patchwork repairs and spray painted logos from the occupants.
As the pod entered the bay, the doors closed behind it and concealed the void of Copernicus from view. Sound on the outside was muted, but one could tell there was a lot of foot traffic on the floor of the ship. Two dozen people at least, all rushing to surround the escape pod as it dropped free of the beam and landed with a clank on the floor of the bay. The various goons aimed their weapons at the pod, from pistol caliber to rifle caliber weapons left over from the days of the Insurgency, or obtained in black market deals. There was little consistency among the bandits, yet many wore old military equipment from their service, and most had signs that indicated low rankings at best. Not a single person left above Lieutenant on board.
But that would be the least of Lazurith's worries. These Rogues weren't the usual crew he did deals with.
It wasn't long before a man of average height, in a stained sleeveless shirt wearing a variety of gold and silver chains around his neck, limped forward with a pair of goons. Mason Drake, and a shorter stocky man by the name of Lucas Ogden, who still had a bottle of Liberty Ale in his hands. They were obviously caught off guard by the appearance of the newest prisoner. The name he dropped wasn't someone they did business with on the reg', if ever directly. They all knew he was out of the picture however, and any deals this kid had were moot.
"Crack the door." Lex said. His accent sounded Libertonian, likely from the colonists on Erie. If there were any indication of who was in charge, it was the crowd parting when he approached his prize. Lex waved at his goons as Mason Drake walked up to the pod, and kicked at the door. The thud of his boot echoed to the inside.
It was only a matter of time before they dragged him out.
Kristoff could barely wrap his head around it all. His breath was quickening for every second spent inside the pod, while his brain rocked him back and forth between disassociating with the current situation and coming to terms with the reality at hand. There was no escape this time. No Aspen who would save him. No Raven who would be able to negotiate the situation. He was about to die alone, unaware, caught entirely by surprise. Butchered, just like how Jack Montes, a petty Rogue like all the rest, predicted all those years ago.
This was only supposed to be a routine job. He had survived countless perils before this in the span of only a few years, but every time his skin was in danger, there was always someone behind him, someone he could rely on, someone watching his back at all times. Someone who could save him.
But not today.
Recklessness became his strong suit. A moment of compassion was about to become his undoing.
Cold feelings of dread began to churn and gnaw at his stomach. He could vaguely recognize the signs. Through the iced, fogged up blue window of his pod separating him from the unclear shapes of savages standing behind it, he could make out flickering, dim lights hanging from the ceiling.
It was just like the time in Alcatraz, except these people, these animals... they operated without morals, or purpose. All they wanted was... his body. His body. How could this be? Surely the salvaged reactor from the Homerunner was worth far more than his body. But for what purpose were they after his body? The possibilities were endless, and none of them made him feel at ease in the slightest.
Devils. Monsters.
This was it. He knew full well that at any given point, a single mistake he would do could cost him his entire life. He knew the warnings, he experienced what ignoring his lessons had cost him. And one moment - one instant was all it took for him to lose everything. His feelings of safety and stability allowed him to lower his guard. This is what he was warned about, all the countless stories of every other poor sod whose ships become space dust by ruthless cutthroats, all of those stories about not becoming prey by low-lives and marauders - he was about to join them. He was about to be chopped to pieces, and forgotten about. The gravity of the situation dawned on him.
Sometimes, death is senseless like that. There does not have to be some grand purpose behind it. It does not have to be romanticised like some ancient epic. Sometimes, death is purely business.
The steps on the catwalk underneath his pod rocked him awake. Ice began to run through his veins. He could feel his entire body tingled, as if thousands of volts of electricity just jolted him. There was no one who could save him. Not now, not ever. His only chance of escaping was a very careful and deliberate choice of words. But in his heart, he knew that his odds of survival were very, very slim this time.
Words began to flash on his optical HUD. His machinery calculated his odds of survival, and even it knew full well that he was about to end in a situation where he had to face victory or death.
The noise of the crowd was building up like waves headed towards shore, growing in strength and intensity as a group begun to pry at the pod. The creaking of the metal got worse and worse as they kicked and jabbed at the cracks in the door. The metal groaned out in distress as it began to bend to the whims of the assailants outside. Each second that passed as the metal gave way, the audible roar of a crowd outside increased in intensity as the raiders became more eager at the pending reveal of their quarrel.
A crack, as the first lock broke away. The pounding got louder. It was deafening, overstimulating and constant. There was no rhythm to it. No pause.
And then... The pressure lock released. The door swung open as two masked attackers reached down into the pod as Drake stood with his pistol out. They wrestled with the occupant, punching and grabbing at the harness that held them in place to drag them free of their cocoon-esque prison. They were laughing, cheering, boisterous of their victory over someone that hadn't even fought back. There was no kindness to be found here. Two more pirates emerged from the now-roaring crowd and joined in at subduing their victim and dragging him over to Lex, their newly crowned king.
"Ooooohoooo!" Lex clasped his hands together in celebration as he eyed Lazurith with a wry smirk on his smug face.
"Damn, I thought it was you. I heard about this punk-ass cyborg from Lucas." Lex nodded to Lucas, the stocky man in a dirty button-up with a pocket full of boxed cards. He looked like the type of man you'd see at a bar hinging his bets at every table he could find.
Lucas ran his free hand through what remained of his balding brown hair. "Yeah that's the kid that used to screw 'round Barrier Gate. He's even got the friggin' robot mark on his helmet. Look! Hayward told me about this kid." The man pointed to Lazurith as the goons held him up into the light for the kingpins to see.
The crowd had quieted down to a murmur as they let Lex and Lucas talk it out. The two seemed to lean in and whisper to each other, discussing likely the fate of Lazurith.
The guards held the poor young man up by his arms and pointed several pistols into his ribs, as Mason stood behind him with a gun pressed to the back of his helmet. There was no mistaking what would happen if he tried anything, but the silence was enough to give Lazurith a moment to talk.
This was his chance to make a case for himself.
But the thoughts ran through his mind. The possibilities, the ideas, all for naught. They would simply crash together, an inchoate mess of ideas. Mumbling was unfit for this situation.
He was the star of the show now.
Under the dim spotlight, his blue helmet glistened, emitting a weak reflection from the light above. The mark of the Technocracy was in plain sight now. His spindly figure was covered by his standard flight suit, a pricey souvenir from the time he had spent with the Technocracy. It featured a few modifications, such as a utility vest as well as the tool belt strapped with hefty contraptions and instruments to repair electronics with. As far as pricey possessions go, Kris had quite a few on his person.
But they asked for his body. His body. The thought alone was starting to make him sick in the stomach.
As his captors continued to whisper and conspire to each other, he began to speak. The transceiver that would pick up his voice under his helmet would reflect his voice - slightly modulated for it to be loud and clear for those around him.
"Uhm... he-hey. Can't we... talk about this?"
The murmur of the crowd lowered as Lex turned his head to the interruption that came out of their prisoner. A chuckle escaped him. Lex wasn't an imposing man by any metric, but he held all the cards here. A dry smile formed as the wrinkles on his face reflected a false sympathy for the plight of his captive.
There couldn't be more than two dozen people present on the open hangar floor, with a handful of light fighters kitted out for interception dotted about. The crowd of Rogues never once lowered their weapons, each on edge and jumpy in their own right.
Lex stepped forward towards Lazurith. His leg was supported by a makeshift prosthetic from the knee down. As he got close, Lex snapped his fingers. Two of the goons pinning Lazurith in place wrestled his helmet off, and carried it over to Lex. The Captain took the piece of gear and flipped it around as he examined it, eyeing the logo of the Technocracy.
"Cyborg, huh?" From the earlier encounter, Lex's tone had become a bit softer. He kneeled down, using Lazurith's helmet to support his knee.
"Yeeeah I don't envy ya', kid. Your kind go for a lot. One way or the other." He said, nodding with his chin to the young man's cybernetic arm. It might not seem clear what their business was, but it sure wasn't going to be pretty if the implications were right. These butchers were after his augments. Black market resale.
"Question is, who is buyin' you?"
Without the helmet, Kristoff's augmented face was revealed. Well kept, somewhat curly, puffy hair ran across his clean, pale and thin visage. He glared at his captors with deep blue eyes, one of which shone with a distinctly artificial glimmer in it.
He could feel the cold weapons pointed against his ribs, even through the vac suit. A sense of immediate danger loomed in the air. Kristoff swallowed nervously, and spoke his response out loud.
"Not as much as the reactor of my ship. If you want my arm, that's... probably going to net you less than a thousand credits. But my ship? Just sell it to some Junker! It's worth way more than my arm!" His attempts at trying to negotiate seemed confident. On the surface.
Lex chuckled and lowered his head, shaking it slightly at the comments that were coming from Lazurith. It was true - that ship was probably more valuable than him, but the reality of the events that happened had yet to set in for the young man.
The Captain brought his fingers together in contemplation. "Yeah, you know that's probably right but uhh - see..." Lex leaned in, lowering his voice. Lex pressed his tongue against the inside of his own cheek in pause. "Some assholes out tryin'a recapture the glory days - Prometheus? Yeah, they came along, killed a couple o' my boys. Even took out the Harland's Revenge. Pretty expensive, yeah? So we don't even know where ya' freighter is anymore. Didn't get to finish the job."
Lex sucked his teeth, shrugging sarcastically. "Sorry."
The Captain rose up to his feet, now looking down at Lazurith with visible contempt. "Someone's gotta pay for that." Lex said in a menacing tone as he kicked Lazurith's helmet like a ball into the open floor of the hangar.
Lex stepped back towards Lucas and nodded to Drake and the others. "Take his gear. Kick the shit outta' him, then lock 'em in the brig." He barked out the order with excitement as he pulled a cigarette free from its resting place behind his ear. Lucas and Lex turned and walked back through the crowd as the cheering amped up once more. The guns pointed at Lazurith soon pulled away, as Drake kicked him in the back and forced him to the ground.
These people weren't interested in money right now. Lazurith was going to be an example. Maybe they thought he was with the people who attacked, though it didn't seem to matter.
The blows started to land from all sides as six men kicked and punched at the poor young man, ripping at his expensive gear and throwing it to the crowd. The cheers were deafening, and the impacts jarring. Drake in particular was quite imposing himself. The muscle of the three figureheads. Drake took the butt of a rifle from one of his goons, and kept repeatedly jabbing it into Lazurith's ribs. They were trying to hurt him. Immobilize him.
Each second that went on felt like a minute of unrelenting pain. A kick soon hit his head. There wasn't much room to defend himself, maybe - just maybe enough time to curl up and protect the important parts of his body.
That time dwindled away rapidly, as the sound of the crowd faded from overstimulation, leaving only a deafening whine as his senses were overwhelmed by the beating. After a minute, there was a pause, as two guards propped Lazurith up on his knees. Now bloodied, bruised, and likely with some broken ribs, Drake raised the rifle up and swung it for Lazurith's head.
Were Lazurith to look up, he'd see only the end of the gun swinging for him.
Then, darkness.
-- October 24th, 20:57 HR [Galileo]
Roughly one hour later...
The guards dragged the unconscious Lazurith through the halls, and there weren't gentle about the trip. They didn't avoid bumps, or stairs, nor did they treat him with an ounce of respect. The pair of thugs that were carrying him were following Drake towards the lower levels below the hangar levels, down to the secure brig on board for detainees. The internals of the ship reflected much of what was already seen elsewhere, with the patchwork repairs and poorly painted symbols all over. The lights flickered as they went, with some sections not even lit at all. To compensate for the darkness, Drake carried a flashlight so he wouldn't trip.
It took about six minutes for them to fully reach the brig, down several levels. There might've been eight cells, but one couldn't tell as none of the doors had ports to see in. They were heavy, mag-locked cells with no windows, and a bench for a bed. Much of this section was dim, and stains adorned the walls and floors from prisoners who had occupied the place last. If there was anyone else, they were quiet now. The Rogue thugs dragged Lazurith to the end of the hall, and tossed his limp body into the left cell. The door closed with a clunk and hiss, as the locks sealed into place.
Lazurith was alone.
There was no food in sight, and only an old and uncleaned toilet leaking onto the floor. The water dripped through the grated floor into a section of wiring that ran underneath the cell, but there was nowhere to go beyond that. The cables ran through small tunnels one could barely fit their fingers through, even if they could uproot the steel grated floor. The room stunk of mildew and the light wasn't functioning. The surroundings were dark, with barely any light coming through a microscopic port in the floor, and another vent above the cell door that was too small to fit a human head through. It was there for airflow, but it also granted a bit of light and sound from outside.
The footsteps of his guards walked away, chattering amongst themselves and laughing as they passed what pieces of gear they had claimed between each other. They had left him in nothing but his bare bones clothes.
Lazurith was alone. He was also alive, for whatever that was worth.
What a strangely calming and dull sensation. In his situation, it was only a fade to black. A prelude, for another cruel scene in this play. The searing pain began to set in immediately. The fractures. The countless scrapes, bruises and wounds he had received in the savage beatdown.
Animals. Less than animals.
The physical agony started off as a mild rainstorm, only for it to devolve into a burning monsoon. He could not lift himself from the floor. His energy was scarce, and he found his face being stuck to the grated floor, feeling not only like a prisoner in a cell, but a prisoner in his own body.
The dawning realization that he had gotten in trouble yet again settled in. He soon made his peace: there was no way out, but through. He had to clench his teeth and pull himself together; he had been in tougher spots than this. But God, every single atom of his being hurt so much. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt. Being stuck to the ground hurt. His head hurt. Being alone hurt.
After moaning and groaning in the darkness, Kris managed to hoist himself into a sitting position, away from the humid stench of mould coming from the grates below.
He was starting to regret missing out on his scheduled maintenance. His ocular display was glitched, malfunctioning. The reported information was correct, but every time he would blink, the information displayed in his cornea would flicker in and out of existence.
Through trial and error, he was able to get a somewhat reasonable diagnosis of his current predicament: broken bones, few lacerations, and even a missing tooth, apparently. He hadn't received a good thrashing like that in a long while.
After a few interminable minutes, Kristoff managed to get his augmentations to function. He had enabled his LINKUP MODE setting, which caused his eye to glow a little more in the darkness, casting a dim azure glow in the cell around him.
He hoisted himself up to his feet, but soon found himself unbalanced, looking for something to hold onto. He bled out. His HUD report said so. He had to recover his strength sooner rather than later.
Hormone regulators, failed. Should've stocked up on those.
Blood sugar dispensation, check. That's good.
Masterdeck lithium coolers, well, looks like those are out again. The beatdown they gave me must've torn down a few chips off the circuit board.
Augmentation integrity, that's out of whack, too.
Myofibroblast regulators...
His machinery could help him in this situation. The few substances stored inside his machinery were meant exactly for situations like these, and making use of them right now would've been a perfect call.
"Mrgh... great. Just great..."
The azure glow that danced around the room wherever he would turn his head eventually focused on the leaking toilet in the room. The implications of what could happen to him soon settled in. He was either going to die alone, or die under a surgeon's table.
He frantically began to search his person. They had to have left anything on him. ANYTHING.
"Nnrgh... g-great... no PDA... no multitool. No mag-boots, either."
This is it. He was trapped inside a metallic box with no way out. This happened before. Hemlocke and his red eye cast over him. His petty threats of torture for interfering in the feud between him and Raven lingered in his mind. Aspen's arrival, and how she brokered his escape from confinement.
But what these butchers were going to do to him was about to be so much worse.
His mood began to dwindle, as he moved himself on the bench with great effort, bringing his knees close to his chest in a fetal position, grunting over the sore spots all over his body. Resignation began to suggest grim thoughts into his mind.
"...suicide is always an option... if only I could bring myself to do it."
-- October 24th, 23:13 HR [Galileo]
The minutes soon turned to hours as the silence from outside the cell was rarely broken. Apart from the occasional clank of something falling far away, or the creaking of the vessel as it moved through space - it seemed as though the monotonous dredge of time would continue to march onward without interruption. The cell stank like mold. There was no way being in here for long periods of time was good for anybody's health, though it wasn't likely he'd be stuck here for very long.
The cold steel box's only ambience was the occasional droplet hitting the metal floor, and joining the liquid as it steadily trickled away out of sight. This place was a mess.
This whole situation was a mess.
Kristoff was fast asleep by this point. Curled up in a ball, coughing out some blood occasionally, he continued to rest his tired eyes by using his human arm as a pillow rest.
Needless to say, he wasn't having the best day of his life. At least he wasn't conscious to experience it.
Another fifteen minutes of silence went by, until...
Humming? Singing?
Someone was coming. Their steps were remarkably light, and weirdly rhythmic in each impact that echoed from outside the cell. It was a man, enjoying himself on his way up the corridor, humming an up tune jazz-style beat as he danced along to the orchestra in his head. The bottle of Liberty Ale still clenched in his hand, and the stench of thick tobacco wafted through the vent above the door. A familiar scent from the events of the hangar floor.
Lucas was outside. The small little man in the suit with the balding hair. "Da-dum-doo... Do-dee-dee-dum-dee-do..." He mumbled as he shuffled along, closing in on the cell.
The steps stopped and pivoted outside the door as rubber squeaked across the metal.
"I gotta tell ya-" his words interrupted only by the hiccup that escaped him. "Yoush are in a tight place, pal'. Don't 'spose you think those ah, whatchacallsit.... Techno-hooie big wig guys would pay beaucoup bucks for your scrawny ass?" The scoundrel asked, slurring his words as he spoke. The alcohol was almost as strong as the stench of cigars that permeated the damp air.
Rocked awake, Kristoff opened his eyes, flashing a thin azure glow on Lucas's features. With what sounded like intense struggling, he hoisted himself in a sitting position, grunting in pain, holding his shoulders while glaring at him with a hunched, defeated stance.
"Jared wants hi-his money, kid. All bets are hingin' on you havin'... SOME kinda value to those robo-guys." Whatever the purpose served of his question, perhaps it was cruel torture, or perhaps there was a chance. Lucas was being half-honest - if there was a ransom, Kris might get out, but who would pay?
Time was running short. Other steps were echoing down the halls of the cruiser on approach to the brig.
"...I don't suppose you can just... I dunno. Tell me how much Jared wants first?" His slender human hand moved towards his metallic elbow, fingering it nervously.
The short man shrugged nonchalantly and spit onto the floor with an audible splat. The footsteps were getting louder and louder as the two spoke.
"I could a-"
Lucas was interrupted as Drake stepped into the doorway and pushed the small man to the side. "Piss off, Luke. Lex told you to check the engine room and see if the drive is overheating." Drake threatened Lucas, bringing his hands up and cracking his knuckles. Two more Rogues flanked his left and right. A woman about Kris's size, and a man of average height with a shaved head. They were staring at Kristoff with a menacing glare, and malice in their souls.
Drake turned to Kris and pointed a big, meaty finger his way. "Give him the shot, and take him to the chop shop." He ordered as the two goons stepped into the cell. The woman pulled a syringe out of a small pouch she had on a bandolier. A sedative, and not the pleasant kind. The other drew a pistol, and tapped it against the wall to make sure the prisoner knew he would fire if he tried anything.
Though maybe death was a preferable alternative for what was coming. The 'chop shop' wouldn't exactly inspire confidence in anybody. Lucas by this point had shrugged in defeat and carried on his drunken way, looking to forget all he had just seen. The goons weren't leaving much room for struggle, and Drake himself blocked the door with crossed arms. Of all the pirates on board, he was the largest, and still wore his Insurgent colors with tagged on gang signs.
'The Renegades' was crudely sewn into his shirt and over the old Commonwealth Star, which had been painted upside down - a sign of a nation in distress.
"A'ight, arm out kid and there won't be no problems." The woman said. Her voice was coarse, as if she smoked three packs a day or had her vocal chords passed through a woodchipper. The tattoos on her face made her out to be one of the few members who came from outside of the Insurgency here.
"N-no. I beg you. Please-- please, I just want t-to go home. Please." Tears began to form in his eyes, as he yanked his arm away in fear.
"I'll do anything - just don't kill me."
If there was any shred of morality or compassion left in these rotted souls, this was the leap of fate he needed to take.
But in his heart, he already knew the answer. He knew what was coming.
He had to do something.
The woman laughed as though his emotions were a sign of crocodile tears. There was no sympathy to be had here. Drake stepped forward and passed between the two. He towered above them, and snapped open a baton with a flick of his forearm. The steel rod opened and locked into place. Without much warning, Drake swung for Lazurith's knee, hitting him in the side with the intention of bringing him down to the ground.
"Carolyn, do it." He ordered once more, raising his arm to swing again but stopping moments before impact. An intimidation strategy.
The woman stepped forward and took the opportunity to jab Lazurith quite painfully in the neck. Drake gripped his hair and yanked it to hold him in place. He shouted; "Shut up." As Lazurith groaned back. As the substance was injected, it was clear that whatever it was had been long past its expiry date. The wooziness would settle in immediately, as lines on the wall seemed to shrink and grow and inexplicable rates. The lights soon turned to rays of varying colors, and time seemed to slow.
His muscles would soon go limp, as would his tongue.
This wasn't death. Far from it. A haze of chems from expired anesthetics mixed with sedatives from a long-understocked medical bay.
Like sinking into a pool of goo, too viscous to escape.
The trio moved to grab his arms and legs before he hit the floor, hoisting the poor prisoner up and carrying him through the halls. The sedative didn't knock him out, or put him under. No. He was still conscious. Unable to resist. Unable to move. The sensation that locked his muscles was indescribable. They felt tight, but were so loose one couldn't support the weight of their own head.
All he could see now was the lights on the ceiling as they dragged him away. The scent in the air shifted from mildew and mold to dust and clutter.
Then... Dirty plastic curtains separated them from an area that reeked of blood and rot.
Med-bay.
-- October 24th, 23:23 HR [Galileo]
The world kept spinning around. Keeping his thoughts together was unfortunately very much possible, as he was relatively conscious.
His soft features looked paler than before, his once porcelain visage now turned into a sickly white. It wasn't just the ill medicaments that were flowing in his bloodstream, but it was the plethora of antibodies, both innate and artificial, fighting for their lives, molecule by molecule, in a dire attempt to keep him from dying to a stab infection. Or worse.
He was losing this tug of war - at an alarmingly fast rate, actually. There had to be something he could do.
But when the stench hit - the awful stench of blood and death - he felt sick. A knee-jerk reaction: bile emerged from his gut, and spewed from his mouth. He felt the ground become a bottomless pit, as the yellow contents of his stomach fell onto his shirt and on the floor.
Streaks of tears were forming in his eyes. Despair and terror gnawed at him. He knew what would happen next.
A skinny man with a gaunt face in a dirty white surgical apron awaited them by a gurney in the middle of the dirtiest medical bay one could imagine. The tools were scattered about. Unused ones thrown to the floor with reckless abandon. Rust, dust and other contaminants beyond the veil, and blood stains that caked the floor.
The Chop Shop was true to its word. An operation of frightening intention and sinister outcomes. The various chopped up cybernetics, augments and prosthetics piled in bins nearby spoke for themselves.
The trio of Rogues dropped Lazurith onto the gurney, and quickly strapped him into place. The light from above dangled on a cable the Doctor had likely installed himself, in lieu of a functional one currently in the bay. The wires were frayed, and nothing was holding it securely in place as it swung slightly from side to side. Nevertheless, it was blinding as ever.
"Wha' do we got here?" He asked, speaking rapidly and clasping his hands together. To the prisoner, it'd sound like listening through water.
"Technocrat augs. Big time money for folk. Think the weird Navy guys at the Wyoming will want 'em with their usual order?" Carolyn asked the doctor.
It was pretty clear what they were doing. Why they'd get such a good deal for one person here. They were selling people - whole or otherwise, to the nearby compromised residents of the area. Infectees. Agents of the Nomads. They didn't know any better. To the crew, it was a job like any other.
A fate truly worse than death. Whether he was targeted or not wouldn't matter, should they realize who they might get their hands on.
"Ehh... Yeah I suppose. These cyborg guys are rare catches." The doctor pulled some latex gloves on, letting the elasticity of the wristbands snap back into place. "Now get outta here, you're gonna cramp my style." He shooed the others off with a dramatic wave.
Drake nodded to the other two and left the room.
The doctor turned to his counter of tools and blades, turning on a small music player he had set aside. He turned the volume up to a deafening level and began playing old, classical music from Sol. Vivaldi. The skinny man then grabbed a nearby inhaler and took a large puff of Slog.
"Ahhh..." He can be heard exhaling. "Steady hands, easy plans, time to cut off some hands~" He joked to himself, though he was looking to Lazurith as he lay strapped there in the gurney. He picked up a handheld metal saw, and walked over to the boy's cybernetic arm as he hummed along to the tunes of a long bygone time in human history.
The doc' set his tool aside, quickly grabbing some scissors to cut the cloth of Lazurith's shirt free from his shoulder. He didn't even bother to administer localized anesthesia, but it was clear what was coming next.
Grabbing the saw once more, he flipped on the switch and revved the blade in the air to the beat of the percussion of the music. With his free hand, the doctor pulled his mask up and lowered a face shield to protect his eyes. He leaned over into Lazurith's eyesight, blocking out the light. "This is gonna suck bigtime for you." He warned as the saw speed was dialed up to maximum.
Any second now, would be the worst part of this ordeal. Kristoff's rationality was far gone by this point. He began to breathe quickly, faster, rapidly, as if he was running a marathon.
His eyes widened in terror. That's all the movement his tranquilized body would allow him to do.
He had no tongue to scream with. No voice to plead with. Not anymore.
The doctor leaned in to examine the joint of his cybernetic arm with a hum. He lined up his saw - right on the connector joint that fed the augmented hardware into Lazurith's shoulder socket. As he pressed the sawblade to its target, he then drew a line with a black marker as a guide for himself. He pulled the saw away. It was torture, as if he was dragging it on purposefully. Maybe it was the Slog fogging up his brain.
Third time's the charm. The doc' raised the saw up, pinning the button to spin its blade and brought it in steady contact with the target he designated for himself. The screech of the metal was loud, dwarfed in decibel only by the blaring music he had playing to tune out the noise of his cruel deeds. The pain was excruciating, even through the drugged out state Lazurith was in. His arm. They were taking his arm. They weren't being gentle or cautious about it, and most augments out of the Technocracy when removed can cause serious damage if not taken care of immediately.
But these people - these rabid animals didn't know any better about the difference.
Or they just didn't care.
The Doctor continued to cut away at the cybernetic limb, but by this point, Lazurith would've lost consciousness from the overload to his nervous system.
The nightmare kept dragging on.
-- October 25th, 07:00 HR [Copernicus]
The next day...
Lazurith was dropped back off in his cell, in worse shape than ever. His arm was gone, cut off and crudely wrapped up with a towel to stop any type of damage to the socket. Though the harm was already done. The alarms from the removal were constant, and the pain was droning consistently. This was a new kind of hell. One that seemed far from over and with no end in sight that wasn't into his own grave.
He would find himself in the bench-like bunk, left to regain consciousness on his own. The sedative had long since left his system, leaving only a cluster headache in its wake.
The cacophony of the metal screeching, the music, the torture, the sparks, the agony. It all came back to him immediately. As if no time at all had passed for the boy.
He would wake up with a melting headache. Slowly coming to terms with reality.
Still in the room with the leaking toilet, just like before.
Still trapped by marauding monsters, just like before.
But this time, something was missing.
His arm. The entire arm.
He was chopped apart, like he was some steel pipe cut into a smaller size for a metallurgy pet project.
Lines upon lines of warnings and botched hardware messages were amassing on his optical display, as he painfully clutched his head with his hand from his lying position. His hair was getting greasy and uncomfortable between his fingers. His body was still aching, presenting sore spots and bruises all over his naked torso. And he was covered in cold sweating. His body clearly didn't like whatever he was drugged with. And what of the filth they had injected him with? He could feel his neck feel tingly and slightly swollen, likely due to the aggressive syringe stab he had received. Maybe countless germs were already in his bloodstream by this point. He must've had hours left at this point.
He became their amusement toy. A pricey toy that can be ripped apart for money, and kicked in the shins just for the heck of it.
He could feel his dignity being stripped from him for each second he would spend in that cell. The longer he would spend thinking about it, the more the implications of what they would do to him sunk at the bottom of his gut, exhausting him, reeling him.
That cell was no prison. That cell was a refrigerator. And they would come for him, eventually. To take his spine next, perhaps. Or maybe the rest of the contraptions and coolant pipes jammed inside his torso, merged with his viscera?
They would come for him, surely. Eventually.
He felt a lump in his throat.
Maybe this is how it ends, after all.
Surviving countless ordeals, making friends and enemies, rejecting Nomadic control and regaining true freedom, only to end like this. Every decision, every choice he made led to this moment. Perhaps his life was doomed to end this way from the very start.
I should have stayed with Brandon.
If he were here, he'd...
He sighed, and turned and tossed in the darkness, hoping to lose consciousness yet again.
But the lump in his throat was almost burning, searing. While his augmentations could sustain his sense of hunger and dispense some powdered vitamins and nutrients on a molecular level whilst undergoing duress and extreme physical conditions, he needed water. He desperately needed water. But the only water he could drink from was from a leaking toilet.
Without hesitation, he crawled towards the urinal, using his elbow to drag himself. Without his arm, he jarringly found himself to be a little lighter than before.
But only when he reached it did he realize just how low he had sunk as a human being.
He reconsidered, lying on the grated floor, whimpering in the darkness.
Johan was a small man by most standards. It was easy to lose track of him between the rows of shelves and lock cases lining his shop as he happily went about showing off his wares to his guests and clients. His ruffled and scruffy looking salt and pepper hair only occasionally being spotted cresting the hard cases and ammo racks as he dragged the latest model Daumann shotgun off its secure display mount. Even if someone hadn’t met Johan before, everyone knew about the arms dealer on Barrier Gate, the short man with those tiny black glasses and a nervous smile that was practically carved into his face. He’d been there for years, and his shop was practically a landmark on the promenade. And with Barrier Gate’s generous landing policy, everyone from the IMG pilots to rogues and junkers frequented his shop seeking their dream guns. The Rheinlander welcomed them all with open arms.
His current client made him look downright puny though.
Bessie Bishop easily stood two heads taller than him. The gruff woman was built like a heavyweight boxer or linebacker. Or a truck. With forearms nearly as thick as his waist, she looked like she could fold him in half with her bare hands, though their relationship was anything but antagonistic. Bounty hunters and arms dealers often crossed paths after all, a good working relationship was valuable to both of their lines of work. She glanced around the shop, taking in the dozens of lock boxes and display pieces that quietly sat there as a dozen security sensors gazed down upon the pair and the valuable merchandise. Outside the armored window, one could barely make out the glittering neon lights of the upper promenade, and the pair of compliance droids Johan had guarding his place. Shadows danced past them as shoppers and off duty crew meandered around, heading into various shops and restaurants in their off hours. Her mind started to wander off as she listened to the quiet jazz music filtering in from the overhead speakers.
A clack drew Bessie’s eyes back to the counter. Johan offered the weapon to her.
“May I present to you, Miss Bishop, the Daumann M4-1A, 834 AS edition.”
She hefted the gun up, looking over the receiver and the grip.
“It’s lighter than I expected.”
“New composite construction techniques. She is some twenty or so percent lighter than the 832 version.” He trailed off, pulling out a pair of ammo boxes. One was marked as AP flechette, the other, neural stun rounds. He proudly moved his hand from one to the other as he spoke. “Capable of accepting a variety of ammunition types, the weapon is also capable of three hundred rounds per minute and features a built in recoil dampener to give the user further control in hostile work environments. The gyro-stabilized system will automatically account for any excessive kickback and keep the gun level and stable.”
She experimented bringing the gun up to a firing position.
“Good ergonomics.” She squinted, looking down the length of the weapon. She experimented, cycling the action a few times, turning it over again, and putting it back down on the counter. “Could you have that sent down to the Coyote II? I’m in docking B, pad four.”
“But of course.” He placed the gun in its hard case. “I will have one of my couriers bring it down.”
“How much?”
“For you? Four fifty. I will even throw in four drums and enough AP flechette for them.”
“Deal.” She held out a hand to shake, and he took hers in hand. She squeezed hard, causing his face to contort. Her mouth curled up into a sly grin that pushed back her fat cheeks, knowing exactly what she had done.
“A-always a pleasure, Miss Bishop.” He freed his hand, shaking it out some. “Please, let me put these aside for you.”
“Sure thing.”
As he stepped away, hardcase in hand, Bessie fished out some of her credit chips. Her eyes drifted to a little picture behind the counter, near the register, that Bessie hadn’t noticed before. It was small, tucked in the corner near a security terminal. Looked like two girls in a forest, both of them having dark hair like Johan. One of them looked a lot like Johan. Family, no doubt. The thoughts of why he may have left Rheinland filtered out quietly from her mind as he returned from outback, collecting her credit chips and giving her the receipt.
Bessie had been wanting to bring up an issue all night, and sensing she was running out of chances to do it, she just spat it out. It was a topic she was sure that Johan wanted to avoid, as he hadn’t brought it up, and he never really forgot anything business related.
“Soooo… about that Gallic inferno blaster you promised me…”
“Oh, Miss Bishop,” He blurted out in an almost embarrassed way. “I assure you I am still working on that.” He raised a finger as he spoke. “Perhaps I can interest you in a new Volgograd hold out laser?”
“Like I could kill a Corsair with that dinky piece of Coalition shit. You said that you’d have them last week, Johan.” She rolled her eyes, leaning in on the counter, smugly and dryly tapping her fingers on her cheek as she spoke. “I am starting to think you can’t deliver.”
“Please, Miss Bishop, don’t speak like that. I value my reliability, and reputation.”
“Aaaaaand….?”
His mouth moved wordlessly a moment as his mind chugged along, struggling to find the words for whatever he was about to say. “I am afraid to say that my last shipment was intercepted before it reached Liberty space.”
“I thought your smugglers were better than to get caught by the cops.” She scoffed.
There was a pause. “It wasn’t the cops.”
-- October 25th, 09:41 HR [Coronado]
Barrier Gate Ramen wasn’t too far from Johan’s shop, a five minute walk down the promenade and down a flight of stairs. As the two made their way to go get dinner, the familiar sound of footfalls keeping pace with their own tugged at the back of Bessie’s mind. More than once she glanced over her shoulder, and more than once she had locked eyes with the same station security officer that had been shadowing her. Barrier Gate was effectively a freeport, and as such, numerous pirates, bounty hunters, and miners made port here. Station security obsessively kept eyes on the “troublemakers” whenever they came into town. As a member of the Bounty Hunters Guild, she was one of those troublemakers. It was an open secret that many hunters and targets crossed paths on the station, but the administration was keen on keeping this place relatively bloodless. Anyone who showed up looking to start trouble on Barrier Gate ended up being removed with an utter lack of grace.
Murmuring, distant clattering, and the sizzle of the grill filled the air at Barrier Gate Ramen. The sounds mixed in with the salty and savory scents wafting in from the kitchen from behind the crowded bar. Exhausted crew, rowdy workers, and drunk pirates all intermingled here and eagerly snatched up the traditional food that blew their normal space rations out of the water. And while Bessie typically didn’t go for Kusari food, this place had changed her mind since she had started coming here weeks back.
They got a table near the windows, the huge viewports overlooking the distant gap down below where the station straddled the massive set of asteroids amidst the blue, icy fog. He slid down wordlessly into his seat while Bessie struggled to get her bulk in the booth comfortably. With a huff she ended up moving the table a couple inches towards Johan, and thankfully he still had enough room. He didn’t even notice, his gaze had turned to the window. Glittering distant lights from ships buzzing around like little gnats drew her eye, distracting her and Johan until the clatter of porcelain on wood brought them both back to the present.
“Ah! Dōmo arigatōgozaimasu!” He happily barked out at the waitress.
“Yeah, uh, thank you, thanks.” Bessie gave her an awkward smile and affirmative nod.
Bessie awkwardly took her chopsticks in hand, struggling to position them right as Johan seemed to effortlessly begin eating, long ago having mastered the art of chopsticks. After much awkward struggling in which she nearly dropped the piece of meat, she managed to get a slice of the tonkatsu into her mouth. Something that was well worth the effort in the end. The two ate in silence for a while, until Bessie decided to be annoying.
“So. It was pirates?”
“Hmm?” He paused, the cheer fading from his face a moment later once he realized what she meant. “Hmm. Indeed, Miss Bishop. My man was jumped by an old Insurgent ship.”
“Oh please. You’re full of shit, Johan.”
“Please, Miss Bishop, I have a reputation to uphold. I would not lie about such an embarrassing affair.”
“So what happened, you guy got jumped by the Insurgency and got mugged? That’s your story?”
“... yes.”
“Bullshit.” She snagged a knot of noodles and stuffed it into her mouth. “Ain’t been any Insurgents around for years. Unless those leftover ones who signed up with the Technocracy turned to piracy. I ain’t heard about anything like that, as weird as those weirdos are they seem to play things close to their chest. I can’t see them muggin smugglers.”
“The INS-Subjugator.” He spoke dryly. That name rang a bell to her. But that ship had been missing for almost three years from what she could recall. She didn’t know what to make of it. “A real, proper Insurgency ship. Turned to piracy it seems. My man said the commander was a Lex Adams, or so the communications claimed.”
That name. That was familiar. She’d seen that on the Navy bounty board weeks back, but it was an old as hell post from years and years ago. Where’d this bastard come crawling up from? Why show his face now? And why had her hunting dry spell lasted long enough to make this bastard such a tempting target? She quietly grumbled to herself about her lack of catches lately, before finally, she decided, well what the hell?
“You’re serious, ain’tcha?” She swallowed.
“Deathly so, Miss.” Quietly he folded his hands together as he spoke. “These are trying times I am afraid.”
“Hmmph.” She turned to her soup, idly stirring it with her chopsticks. “You know, for a flash in the pan, these Insurgency and Hellfire guys seem to have really caused a mess that won’t seem to go away.”
“A flash in the pan?” Johan scoffed. “Miss Bishop, your time in Sugarland has blinded you to the real scope of the debacle. This was no mere flash, but a full grease fire in the kitchen that is Liberty.”
“I guess so.” With a huff she gathered up more of her noodles on her chopsticks, awkwardly trying to wrap them around like it was spaghetti. “Where’d this happen anyways? You know that bastard could be worth a lot of credits.”
“I am afraid my own smugglers keep their routes close to their chest. Compartmentalizing information and all. I wouldn’t want you bothering my men, or, others of your persuasion.”
“Right.”
“You know, I know a woman who could help you. An info broker. If you’re interested.”
“Sure. I mean, hell, why not, I’ll bite.”
“Contact Matilda Antioch. She would know more, perhaps can shed some light on the matter.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin before taking his glass of sake in hand. “Though it may be unwise to pursue this man.”
“Well if I do I ain’t exactly gonna do it alone. I ain’t that stupid nor that tough. I don’t suppose you wanna come, Johan? You got enough guns.”
“Please, Miss Bishop, I do not imbibe in my own product. Nor partake in such violence. Besides, I am going to be heading out of the system in a couple days anyways.”
“Business, pleasure?”
“Neither.” He took a sip of sake as he spoke, his face growing somewhat stone-like. “I am off to Hamburg to deal with paperwork pertaining to my sister’s death.” A smile cracked his mouth for but a moment. “The accident at the physics campus.”
“Ah.” Bessie said dryly. The air around them was stagnant for a moment. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Miss Bishop.”
Bessie simply shook her head, taking another glob of noodles into her mouth. “That picture in your place behind the counter?”
“Heh, yes, that’s us. I have made some changes since then admittedly, but I do have many fond memories of our time together on Hamburg. Whilst I have largely put that part of my life behind me, I have not left it all by the wayside. As such I have some familial and legal obligations. Though it may take some convincing to get her son to let me in to do the paperwork.”
“Think he won’t recognize you or some such?”
“Oh, Miss Bishop, he simply thinks I am an ass.”
“Pfft, oh please, you’re like the nicest guy on the station.”
“That.” He smiled. “Is because I am a good businessman.”
They were caught completely by surprise as the Pleco passed into Copernicus. The few escort ships left at the beck and call of the Subjugator swarmed upon the gunboat and its escort without much warning, though these victims were willing to put up a fight.
"Silencers! Oh damn, can the shields hold out!?" One of the bridge crew on the old cruiser called out as the missile alarm blared for all to hear. The gunboat was fighting back, but the Subjugator had the drop on them and capitalized on the advantage. The Pleco was dealt a critical blow, as its torpedo bays overloaded and begun to detonate in their storage. A miscalculation by the Stokes, and a lucky hit by the Razor batteries on the Judicator.
The crew on the gunboat were struggling to maintain composure. Caught with their pants down at point blank range, they were outnumbered and outgunned. Even with the experienced members that had been handpicked for the journey, they weren't prepared enough for an ambush by a party they had believed to have fled the area a day prior.
A grave miscalculation indeed.
Leviathan steadied himself on the console in front of him, commanding his crew in the heat of the moment. The Curator was at his side, with four others on the ship. He was travelling light, and swift. Though it didn't matter here. They stepped right into the claws of a steel trap, and were paying the price.
Leviathan watched as Civil Servant was chased by the vessel's escorts, and fired upon by Burningfists in his efforts to defend himself. Their struggle was to no avail.
"Sir, the bays are ov-" Stokes was interrupted as his eyes widened at the alerts on his display. The missiles in the bays were popping like popcorn, and the electromagnetic payload of the Silencers sent a shockwave through the ship, disrupting its systems and overloading its refraction screen. The consoles flickered and died right in front of them, as the ship lurched to its side. Half of its thrusters shut down, with the other half overloading and misfiring at random intervals. Stokes was thrown forward into the console head first. The glass shattered on the terminal off his forehead, and he slumped to the side in his seat.
Though the worst of the blast hit their Commander. The steel panels that make up the sleek wall to the back of the command chair exploded outwards as cables, sparks and flames shot out from overloaded conduits. The panels above Leviathan collapsed and covered him in debris and damaged electronics. The contact sent a shock through his endoskeleton, tensing his body and artificial muscles. He went rigid and groaned out as his optical implants shut down. The pain was severe.
Leviathan's body shut itself down as a safety measure from the surge. A means of keeping its artificial organs from being overloaded, or the engram from being disrupted. The final seconds of consciousness sent an automated distress beacon, routed straight through the Python's communications array. The blast from the bay had corrupted the output, however.
No information managed to be sent reliably.
"NoooOOO!" He tried to yell, unable to as his motor functions shut off. His reality shifted as the bridge faded from view and sound.
He was alone. It was dark. Still awake, but disconnected from himself.
Another blast from the Subjugator knocked out their helm station and co-pilot. The pilot over in their seat from the blasts out of their stations. Foulke was tossed into the air alongside Ganes, and the two collided with each other. Ganes soon hit the floor a foot away from Foulke, who landed close to the exit of the bridge. The wind was completely knocked out of him. The room was starting to fill with smoke as multicolored warning lights blinked at an inconsistent pace. The surge from the missile bays had completely crippled their ship. There was no indication what was going on in the battle outside, but they weren't dead yet.
Foulke scrambled up on his hands and knees, looking around the cabin in a daze. His cybernetic arm was struggling from the surge, and helmet was knocked loose and rolled free somewhere. Ganes had gotten up on his feet, and was searching for a fire extinguisher. Buckett, the co-pilot of the crew, had gotten up to assist Ganes. There was no use staying seated if the terminals weren't responding. The fires needed to be put out.
A loud clamp broke the silence and refocused Foulke's senses. Something had locked on to the ship. A boarding clamp.
It was only a matter of time. Minutes. Seconds, maybe.
Foulke struggled to pull himself up to his feet, looking over to the command chair. His heart sank a moment as he saw Leviathan slumped under a pile of debris, and Stokes out cold in his seat not far past the masked figurehead. The stress was kicking in. Thoughts of the crash of the Apollo from many years prior tugged at his mind. His focus was broken for a moment.
"Firmitas!" Ganes yelled from the other end of the cabin. As Foulke turned to answer, the door opened behind Ganes and Buckett to several men in sealed mishmoshed combat armor, painted in a variety of vibrant colors. The biggest of the group raised his pistol to Buckett's head, and fired. The noise was deafening without Foulke's helmet on. Ganes flinched from the sound, and was immediately struck by a second man who stormed past the first with a baton. Ganes tried to regain his balance, and swung back at his assailant. Before long, they were pinning the Navy veteran down and beating him unconscious.
Two more attackers broke past him as Buckett's body hit the ground. They were headed straight for Foulke, armed with assault weapons and another baton. They jumped on him before he had time to scramble for his weapon. Their attacks were swift, vicious and aimed right for every exposed weak point they could find. More and more trickled in, overpowering the survivors just with sheer numerical superiority. It was over.
Time had run out.
-- October 25th, 13:34 HR [Copernicus]
Drake stood in the doorway, looking on as his boarding party stormed the cabin and swarmed the survivors. "Grab the rest. Dead go to the Doc straight away." He shouted as they subdued the stragglers. Two of the Rogues had Ganes up by his arms. The one-eyed man was slumped down, out like a light. Blood dripped from his lips as the attackers dragged him out of the bridge. He watched as the three struggled to subdue Foulke, who was kicking and wildly swinging what appeared to be a limp arm at his assailants.
Despite the panicked flailing, he managed to hit one pretty good in upside the head, staggering the Rogue for a second. "Asshole!" The Rogue yelled out as he hit Foulke with the Baton on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.
The attackers took a moment to catch their breath, as a few others checked the remaining people on board. "Survivor over here!" One called out. They had their fingers pressed to Stokes' neck, searching for a pulse. Two of the goons walked over and lifted Stokes from his chair, dragging him off with Ganes.
Drake walked through and checked the pilot, pushing their head with his pistol and chuckling as they dropped limply onto the floor.
The pilot was dead.
Bucketts was dead.
Two more for the butchers.
Drake turned his attention to the mound of rubble and debris that had piled onto the command chair. A man clad in black was clearly beneath it all, with his arms and legs largely exposed. Yet, he wasn't moving or struggling. Was he dead? The Rogue moved over, gesturing to the remaining three on the bridge to check with him. As one grabbed the metal panel that blocked their view, it zapped him as an electrical current was still passing through. "Ack! Damn thing probably fried the guy." The Rogue said as he pulled his knife from its hiding place in his boot.
He swung for the loose cables above, cutting off the current with a quick few slashes. The cables that had draped down and entangled Leviathan were no longer live. The four Rogues pulled the debris free, and eyed the masked man for a moment. "He's bigger than you, Mason." The Rogue brandishing his knife commented.
"Nice armor, too." Drake added, eyeing Leviathan head to toe. He walked over and yanked the hood of the Technocrat down.
No response.
"Dead or alive! Place your bets." Drake joked as he rubbed his hands together. He gripped the helmet of the Technocrat, and tried to yank it free. Though it was clamped on. He quickly realized force wouldn't work, and felt around for a release. He found the latch behind Leviathan's left ear, and unlocked the helmet from the rest of his gear with a hiss of escaping air.
Drake pulled the painted up helmet off, revealing the face of their captive. He was unconscious. He almost looked lifeless, were it not the breathing that disturbed his peace. Comatose, perhaps. "Guaranteed this guy is worth something to someone." Drake noted as he looked at the helmet. The pirate smirked, placing on the piece of armor. It fit, if a little loose without the locking clamps of the flight suit.
"Dibs." Drake said as he shoved one of the Rogues away. "Armor's mine. Won't fit any of you anyway." He barked out as he begun to strip Leviathan of his equipment. He took his belt, his gun, and each piece of gear. The parts he didn't like or want to wear, he tossed aside like trash. Soon there was nothing left protecting the man, as one of the other Rogues took his cloak.
"This thing is SOFT, dude. I'm gonna use it to pad my bed." The pirate rolled the cloak up into a ball and tucked it under his arm. Drake looked down at their captive, and snapped his fingers. He spoke through the modulator of Leviathan's helmet, which garbled his voice. "Move him. Throw him in with that kid."
"They'll both be dead soon, anyway."
-- October 25th, 13:45 HR [Copernicus]
Up on the bridge of the old warship, Lex was irate. The battle had done more damage to his pride and joy than what was initially expected. He had been bleeding resources and men. While he kept his cool on the surface, Adams was furious. His big debut had fallen apart quickly. He feared it all coming undone, and wondered what example could be made now.
"Boss err, the shields ain't comin' back. We're bleedin' power somewhere. Engine again?" One of the crew on the bridge spoke out from a dimly lit console.
The center of the bridge held a hexagonal holo-display table, that the gang seemed to have repurposed into a card table. Adams was sat here, kicking his one foot up as he thought. The news from his crewman had him shoot upright.
"The hell you mean? I thought Lucas fixed that fuckin' leak last night." Lex asked, becoming more irate as the minutes dragged by.
The crewman shrugged, just as confused and annoyed as Lex was. This problem was only going to get worse until it's addressed and they all knew it. It has happened before. This ship was barely clinging together as is. The fight with the Python had caused some serious damage to its propulsion system, and it was fluctuating like a firepit's flame licking up at the sky.
Lex groaned out and threw his cup at the crewman. "Go find that little prick and tell 'em to get the hell in that hotbox and fix the engine!" He barked out as the crewman ducked his makeshift projectile.
"Oi!" The bridge crew commented as he dodged. "He's in the hangar dealin' with the other mark. I'll go tell 'em, but chill the fuck out. We won, didn't we?"
"... Yeah." Lex sighed and settled into his seat.
He scoffed. "I guess we did."
-- October 25th, 13:51 HR [Copernicus]
Foulke came to a few minutes later, his right eye swollen shut. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't see much beyond the floor passing beneath him. His cybernetic arm was still limp. Likely the old thing went out in the initial EMP. That explains why he couldn't use it as anything more than a club in the fight. His breathing began to increase, as the gravity of the situation began to set in. With a yell, he planted his feet, and pushed with every ounce of strength he had into the person holding his good arm.
He managed to stagger the pirate into the wall, and break his hand free. Foulke swung wildly for the other man, who was already trying to wrestle control back over the Curator's futile attempt. The first guard swung a baton right for his head, hitting him in the same spot. A high-pitched whine soon filled his ears as his vision faded to black once more. Foulke went limp in the hall, and the guards scooped him right back up.
"Gah, I hate it when they have some fight in 'em." One of the Rogues commented as they entered the brig, and headed for the first cell on their right.
"Least Drake ain't got us movin' that big guy. I got a bad latissimus." The other replied as the cell door struggled to open. They tossed Foulke's limp body into the dark room. There was no moisture here, just dry and dust.
The door closed behind him, leaving Foulke in the dark.
The old cruiser's tractor beam seemed to struggle in the aftermath of the battle, unlike it had ever done before. The ambush had left its mark, as the central engine on the Judicator was scorched with blasts from the Pleco's forward gun. A bold attempt to try and disable their attackers by the Python, that put them at risk. Though they hadn't yet realized the severity of the damage as it meets years of neglect.
The beam dragged the pod from the debris of Civil Servant's ship, towards the mouth-facing hangar of the Subjugator. It flickered, and died every so often, but managed to keep its target steady. The two fighters that had engaged followed the pod into the bay and settled into position. They were the last two escorts left from this bold fiasco.
The pod was dropped in an open floor, just like they had done to Lazurith. Close to thirty men waited in the sidelines, twenty feet out. There were crates stacked in various locations that they were using as cover, to shield themselves. Each one had their weapons drawn on the pod. Absent only was the command staff, save for one, tiny man in a dirty gambling suit.
Lucas Ogden.
The man was sitting with a small sidearm in hand, comfortably planting himself on a barrel amidst the various thugs that awaited their latest captive. He was laughing with one, though seemed only he was getting the joke he tried telling. Didn't seem like a popular guy. Seeing the pod land in the hangar, Lucas cleared his throat and stood on the barrel. Even with the added height, he looked tiny.
"Get ready to yank 'em outta there by his hair!" Lucas yelled, waving his weapon wildly towards the pod.
The crowd begun to cheer, even as the lights were beginning to flicker and die. They were replaced by barrel fires and dim emergency lights almost immediately. The loss of power wasn't anything new to them post battle, nor was the possibility that whoever they just grabbed would fight back.
Time was of the essence.
A pair of Rogues were approaching. Their footsteps clanked against the metal floor of the hangar as they moved into position to cut open the escape pod. They had pry bars, plasma cutters, and a variety of other metal saws set around. The hangar floor was littered with other objects they had been utilizing as cover positions, as the onlookers from the crowd watched and waited for the prize to cracks open.
CS was more than settled then he once was on the ship after scuttling what he could and burning everything from optical storage chips to beating the black box flight recorder into an unrecognizable scrap metal. Unfortunately that still left him in a position that was more than unwanted, only carrying what he had pre-packed in his flight suit pouches and combat webbing, without much choice of position other than laying flat with his arms crossed like a Pharaoh within his tomb. Wasn't the worst of situations he's been in before but enough to maintain his stoic composure, the opponents outside were armed and positioned well from what he could see from his surviving onboard sensor systems...
While many civilian pods were made for rescue, his own was a black steel polygonal cocoon that was more made to punch through whatever it was going to land inside... It lacked a window for any sign of occupation or stellar sightseeing and the internal padding was sparse to make room for an array of weapons stored behind compartments from CS' personal rifle and pistols.
"This is... Annoying." Was all he could mutter inside that muffled occupied cannonball of a pod, the number of troops outside made immediate resistance a likely failure so maybe launching the armored door off the pod would be a bad idea when startling a bunch of opportunistic pirates that are jittery on the trigger.
They would need to spend some time cutting open the pod door, he heard the commotion of them trying to find a seal or latch to break open, several banging noises on the shell felt even through himself as they checked its occupancy. CS quietly worked away inside on the touchscreen In front of his face, taking in as much data and sensor readings as possible, scanning the exterior for the presence of the guards, the local communication networks, ship specifications... Things were soon interrupted with the sound of a thunderous constant rumble as temperature sensors flashing away on his interface, the pair would be torching the casket open and prying off it's shell layer by layer with a plasma cutter.
CS knowing time was about to cease had to once again scuttle a mechanical lifeline and begin another purge of all data and storage systems. While he wouldn't have a complete image of this land, any small time within intelligence could present a method of survival... His breathing paced as systems started to go haywire from the cutting heat, likely damaging the electronics embedded within the pod.
Now or never, fight or flight... It was usually the two choices once hostilities have happened but the idea of being taken alive and the pod being salvaged brought some unwanted memories that began to enrage scars left on his mind. But that one quiet voice out there telling him a third choice for a good reason.
'Try to talk, they're human.' These were not his usual ilk. He laid patiently as he hope to take advantage of what ever opportunity laid in wait, he'd only hope it was uphill from here.
The various Renegades outside were swarming like rabid dogs to a pile of meat. Ogden watched on from his barrel as they went to open the pod. When the prybars failed, they wheeled out a torch to start cutting through the hinges. The sensors of the pod would show the little man watching from afar, as another approached him from behind. The man from behind tapped him on the shoulder, which had Lucas jump in shock.
"What?!" The little man dropped his gun on the floor.
"Lex wants you to get your sorry ass to the engine room and fix the power couplings again." The bridge staffer from Lex's command center pointed towards one of the doors. "You didn't do it yesterday, and now we're gonna be sittin' ducks in a couple hours. Get to it, dickhead." The Rogue ordered.
Lucas leaped down from his barrel with a grumble. He bent down and grabbed his gun, stashing it in his belt haphazardly with the safety off. He shrugged and moved towards the exit with the bridge crewman. He had neglected responsibilities, it seems. Crucial ones to the upkeep of their operation.
Though what they were up to wouldn't matter soon. The Rogues were slicing through the door with a set of plasma torches, melting away at the reinforced steel. They worked at it, as the crowd got more and more rowdy. The roars and bellows of the bloodthirsty Rogues set the stage for something that wasn't going to be pleasant, regardless of how one might frame it.
The latch gave away, as a pair of prybars wedged into a small opening in the pod.
The Rogues pulled the door open, as five men moved for the occupant, while two more aimed their weapons inside in case of a struggle. Their intention was to overpower and outnumber, and they were NOT being gentle. They swung, they hit, they grabbed at his gear and did everything in their power to yank CS from his hiding place, and out onto the open hangar floor.
The crowd roared as he was brought out. No matter how much pleading or talk would come, they weren't going to listen.
They didn't care what reasons he had. What offers he could make. They had their orders and their methodology. Diplomacy means nothing to these animals.
The Rogues went for what weapons they could find, as more pointed their weapons in Civil Servant's direction. They had tightened their posture. The majority of them appeared to be seasoned fighters - infantry from the looks of it. Remnants of a bygone fighting force.
Like a corpse laying on top of material treasure being dragged out his coffin, the robbers desecrating the being while ravaging at what goods lie below. The notion of talking was driven away as soon as that fist tried to punch his face like instinct once the hatch had been cracked, the hand of said Rogue facing immediate regret as he flicked off the pain from hitting his reinforced pilot helmet. CS only managed to deflect a few hands before the flurry of rifle stocks were being used to disable his own defensive attempts, trying to grab him by the helmet and rip it off, CS instead helped and launched himself out of the pod and into the direction of said person, his feet kicking several people in the face as he slammed himself and the unfortunate aggressor underneath him.
CS was brunting the pain of a dozen blows, drawing on it before he slammed both hands on the ground at either side and glided himself back on his feet and knocking out the one below with a passing boot slam upon his landing. The rest of the goons were in punching distance. To them they were merely a few seconds away from landing their blows onto CS, but behind that visor the 'dead man' drew his breath.
Guns are drawn, they're not firing, five disposable personnel to investigate his coffin, they're all waiting for a weapon in his hands to become an excuse... Hooked up on greed, some are distracted in salvaging, three others focused on himself. Answer, defensive, unnamed, take blows and make them know you're a containable problem. He launched himself off his feet one again, taking air as much as he could and planted two boots on two more faces, while arms hooked around the face of the only person that had also clenched CS by his flight suit.
Taking all three down on the floor with him.
What ensued was a ground level slug fest between with CS not letting these people rise above their knees all while taking as many blows as he could... Chipping away at the strength of what these brutalists had... The goal was to make them rethink any future attempts but let them settle with having him somewhat compliant. Although the resistance would continue until someone had the decency to ask him to stop first.
Their relentlessness soon shifted to slight desperation as this captive put up the biggest struggle yet. One of the Rogues lost his balance as CS kicked at him. Two more soon emerged from the crowd with a spiked board and a cattle prod. There wasn't a figurehead here to negotiate with. Just grunts, following their routine to a letter. The crowd begun to chant in rhythm the words "Give! It! Up!" as they beat their chests and stomped to make as much noise as possible. To drown out any thought and distract their prey.
In combination with the dim lighting, the sheer numbers and the increasing ferocity of their beating, the odds remained heavily in the Rogues' favor. Each action - whilst calculated, had all the charm of a wild animal on the offensive. The harder he fought back, the more intense their swings became. The more vicious the tools they employed. They weren't going to give up, nor were they taking anything less than full submission. These were slavers. Brutal by their very nature. Hardened by the actions they've taken to survive on their own. They wanted everything he had.
They wanted to break him.
Casting a glance through the crowd to the doors, some people were on the move under weight of something. Two Rogues were dragging the slumped body of a woman - clearly in Technocracy colors, down the corridor. Blood was dripping from her head. Whether he knew them or not, it was Bucketts - the co-pilot. Dead. An indication of the fate of the others.
One of the masked Rogues pulled the slide back on his sidearm audibly as the two from the crowd approached with their weapons. He waved his gun in CS's direction, a comfortable enough distance away that it'd be out of reach while the others continued to grapple with him, trying to grab his equipment and hit every weak spot they could find.
"Do ya' wanna' end up like them?! Huh?!" The Rogue barked over the others. The shouting kept coming. The blows kept landing. The new pirates to the party brandished their weapons in the air, taunting the seasoned operative with a worse wave attacks. The shock prod crackled with unstable and unhealthy levels of electricity. If anything was going to hurt badly, it'd be that.
When brute force fails, they'd use new tools.
If this fails, they'll just kill him on the spot and drag his body to the Chop Shop.
"Your choice! Live or die!" The Rogue issued an ultimatum. It's true - nobody was present to negotiate. Nobody in charge on the deck for CS to talk to.
Would it even matter if there was?
CS saw a glimpse of that barrel being flashed in his direction, someone was unhappy with his resistance enough to put a stop to it. His pockets were almost picked clean of his emergency supplies and several oh his knifes we're already either being picked by someone else or laying somewhere on the floor. The punches kept coming even with the request but cattle pods and spike boards were a point of no return.
His movement became solely defensive, slowing some pace and rolling himself over to take blows on his arms and helmet as much as possible, shielding his face before while he took some pause in trying to disable is attackers. The grounded rogues were finally finding their feet as they stood up to take a their rewarding final kicks in. The entire time his body moved and jerked from each deliverance of violence, not even a wheeze out could be heard as he laid motionless on the ground.
Wrists crossed with his palms facing out, held over his visor as he managed the last few blows, he finally had the time to collect himself and observe his helmet systems screaming with errors and warnings, a list of injury reports and system failures, It would be some time before the suit system could self recover, but the even after a punishing melee, the mind was unscathed in this determined man-machine.
CS wriggled himself to sit upright, crossing his legs as he kept his palms open outwards and covering his visor from the flurry the hostile crowd. Although one sight, a body, technocrat... Bleeding out in the open while being dragged like a desecration across the field. He knew for certain a way to describe this vessel, life is cheap, don't become expendable. This was undeserving and needed rectifying soon.
CS remained still, his body inhaling and exhaling rapidly without even a wheeze heard from him. Getting out alone wouldn't be easy and right now is not the time to try... Next opportunity, that's all he needed to last for.
-- October 25th, 13:41 HR [Copernicus]
The Rogues had settled as their captive grew less resistant. They took the bait, believing they had one. In all earnestness however, they were simply glad to be done this part of the job. As far as the crew were concerned, the hard part was over. Wrangling in these people would likely be the toughest part of their day. The Rogues pat him down, disarming him of any weapons they could find by tossing them out onto the floor. After a thorough search, they grabbed CS and lifted him to his feet like a prisoner.
With his arms locked in place, they bound his hands for safe transport. Seems he's the only one that they'll try to walk out. With a shove, the Rogues pushed CS into marching on, to follow a trail of people who were headed towards the Subjugator's brig. The pirates were overjoyed - another victory, despite the odds. They obviously weren't thinking very far ahead, with how visibly satisfied they'd become with themselves over instant gratification. It maybe took about ten minutes for them to get him off the hangar floor, and perhaps another five to escort him to the bridge.
Apart from the dead pilot of Leviathan's gunship, CS saw nobody else from the attack.
The march took a few more minutes, as the dimly lit and filthy halls of the Subjugator were traversed. CS is smart enough to keep track on his surroundings, likely looking to memorize a path or spot anything of importance. Though the lighting didn't help with retention. Some sections were completely blacked out, and required a flashlight to navigate safely. The escorting four guards to the two that marched Civil Servant towards his new home stayed vigilant on their captive.
As they rounded the last corner, they stopped at the first door on their left. The mag-locked blast door lifted with a screech as the aged metal made its distress known to all. The inside of the cell was dry, unlike the others. It didn't have a plumbing problem, but it wasn't lit at all. The guards shoved CS in after unlocking his binders, and let the door close behind him.
He was alone. There were no vents to crawl out of, and no latch on this side to fiddle with. No way out of this one. It didn't bode well at all.
-- October 25th, 13:51 HR [Copernicus]
Not ten minutes later, the guards would return with another captive. They lazily tossed the unconscious man - another of the Technocrats with Leviathan - into the cell face first. The man landed with a clunk as the door sealed up behind them once more. The darkness separated the two from line of sight.
This place was like a prison. It sucked the hope out of its victims. Drained their patience, their willpower. Everything about it felt wrong. Even the air was full of a stench that spoke volumes to the mistreatment done to others and to the ship itself. This wasn't a place people typically survived for very long. There might still be hope that their ringleader may come down to talk. After all, he was flying Bundschuh colors, and the Rogues surely know better than to get involved in political matters without anything to directly gain.
Right?
It was no matter. The brutality of the Rogues was a message enough that these were a force you they didn't want to tweak in the wrong way. More evidence of such behavior had been delivered through the cell doors once again and locked in the darkness with him. A unsettling break for the technocrat that laid unconscious on the floor, the lack of light tormented the inability to see one's wounds or check on their health after such an ordeal, fortunately for Foulke that his cell mate had eyes in the dark...
He allowed time for the second rumbling shake of the room and muffled metallic screech came to an end, knowing the guards have likely left to continue in ravaging their plunder. Silently gliding over near the unconscious technocrat and kneeling himself down to look closer... Blood from the head but not a puncture, better to ensure their survival he thought immediately, rolling him on his side and ensuring that the wounded side of his head was free from pressure. Not much else could be done with a lack of any medical supplies on him, only thing he had left was his suit, helmet and empty webbing.
Ensuring that he wouldn't become another corpse in his cell, he would at least keep an eye out for him while he comb through his environment with every details, any hidden eyes or ears would be hard to seclude from the covert ghost himself. His hand caressing each wall in the cell, feeling the gentle vibration of the station and listening out for the most faint of whines and buzzes... A ship can tell a lot about itself when you speak it's language, and she was in pain, pushed beyond her limits and forced to travel space being hardly cared for by her parasitic crew. This upset him, more than he would care to admit to anyone...
He needed to take some rest before anything could happen, he stood back up and moved back towards the darker and furthest region away from the cell door, sitting himself back down and crossing his legs once again. He unzipped his flight suit jacket ever so slightly, slipping his hand in and taking out a pair of dog tags from within, another hidden personal jewel that he grasped by the chain and let the stamped steel dangle by it's weight.
The air still in here, stagnant and dry. He would meditate until he'd hear Foulke take a breath and regain consciousness.
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