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| - Cockpit ........................................................................... The hatchway opens up to a small metal platform which overlooks a compact command center. Light filters out from hidden coves, evenly illuminating the bridge consoles. A rainbow of telltales and monitors add a touch of color, breathing life into the maze of metal and machinery. A few steps down, the main terminals are arranged in a rough semicircle, following the curvature of the ship's bow. Twin stations centered beneath the main canopy face forward, while another pair face the port and starboard, situated on either side of the cockpit just before two bulky turrets outfitted with the gunnery controls and targeting computers. The whole space is tight-packed, with little room to move when all positions are occupied. ........................................................................... Torr sits in front of his usual console, feet kicked up in the usual fashion, and his usual cigarette in hand. He takes a drag, eyes watching the viewscreen, but not looking particularly interested. Torr This man is fairly tall, broad in shoulder and deep chested. He has green eyes, which always seem to be sharply attentive to the situation at hand. His hair is fairly short, and rises in dark spikes over his forehead. His face is tanned to a golden tint, and it is marked with a few scars which never saw enough medical attention. The most noticable scar is thin, though runs about two inches down the side of his face from below his eye to just above his chin. He is wearing a blue button up shirt, long sleeved with the tails un-tucked and the top two buttons left undone, revealing a bit of skin. Hung around his neck is a silver chain, about a centimeter thick in diameter. Over the shirt he wears a charcoal black jacket. It appears to be made of a tough black material, and interwoven with thin plates. Hanging from an eyelet near the waist is an empty holster, and from another an empty sheath. Apparently the man is going light on the weaponry for now. Around his waist is a black leather belt, off which hang a few storage compartments. Strapped in tactical position around his right leg is a large black holster, empty at the moment. His pants are made of a tough but light black material. The pants are loose fitting, and descend all the way down his legs but are bloused over the top of a pair of black combat boots. The fronts of the boots each have four large buckles, straps for tightening the boots running through the buckles and around the outside of the combat footwear. The male half of the Jackal's dynamic duo remains alone here in the cockpit; the only sounds that speak to him being the low hum of the freighter's internal systems and a steady blip... blip... blip... ... Blip... blip... blip... but over the sounds of the sensors, another sound can be heard. THUD. ... Blip... blip... blip... CRASH. It's coming from further into the ship. Torr sighs slightly. "Christ," he mutters, pulling his feet from the console, and standing. He takes a drag and stands, leaning over to the intercom and keying it on. ---- IND Jackal Intercom Broadcast ----------------------------------- Torr -- From the Bridge : Hey Mika, you fucking around with shit? Don't make me drag my ass back there. Oddly, there is no reply, snide or otherwise from Mika. All Torr get is another series of crashes assaulting his eardrums, followed by a dog barking. ... Blip... blip... blip... "Fucking Christ," Torr mutters under his breath. He stands, moving back toward the hatch. He pauses to shakes his head and take a drag, then steps through. Crew Quarters ........................................................................... The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. This space is ingeniously outfitted; its furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal bunk modules containing a bed with built-in cabinetry, storage lockers, and privacy screens. Forward, a compact efficiency kitchen is located starboard, while to the portside is a small refresher unit. Between the two we find a little fitness space with a punching bag and workout center and a cozy niche with a fold-out sleeper couch and holoviewer. Gentle light flows down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing, softly illuminating the room. Its deckplates are sturdy and diamond-gridded and provide a tough, rugged utilitarian feel, but what really completes the atmosphere is the bold, stylized jackal's head painted in fiery scarlet with bold, confident strokes on the hatches leading fore and aft. ........................................................................... A quick sweep around the room serves to inform anyone present that Mika is not here. Her shoes are kicked off by the bunk she shares with Torr, however, and her headscarf is on the bed, so she's got to be around. The door to the washroom hangs ajar and the lights are off. Magnum is nowhere to be found, either, but his barking echoes throughout the ship. All that smashing around gets louder. Something smacks *hard* against the other side of the far wall. Torr sighs slightly, shaking his head once more. "Jesus, now I'm really starting to get fucking jealous," he calls out. His pace starts him across the room, moving him toward the hatch connecting to the next compartment. Port Cargo Hold ........................................................................... The cargo hold is a utilitarian affair, a simple space framed by the reinforced bulkheads and deck acess plates. Tie downs and anchor pins line the area in a flexible grid, allowing all manner of cargo stored and secured. A quad set of mounting bars run the length of the small bay, allowing the installation of seating if required. The hold is fairly massive, sized for approximately 20K of cargo. Hidden behind large access panels and equipment banks are the varied multi-purpose support equipment, to allow for a variety of transport environments. On the starboard side of the hold is a heavy access hatch, providing the link between the cargo container and the freighter. ........................................................................... This game of hide-and-go-seek ends here in the port hold. Magnum, the poor little puppy, stands there with every last short hair on end, barking his protests as an unknown assailant combats the Jackal's captain. Mika is bloodied, bruised, but holding her own, performing her deadly ballet with a knife-wielding Timonae. Crates have been crushed and shelves bowled over in the heated duel. It's when Mika dives in for a hard jab to her opponent's stomach that it takes a turn for the worse, however -- he easily twists away from the blow, driving his knife down hard into her shoulder. It penetrates. Completely. She is skewered on the end of that blade, crying out with an agonized yelp. Mika Voluptuous, curvaceous, well-endowed: these are all words that are completely inappropriate for this humanoid female. Capping off at just over a meter and a half in height, she's a rangy little alley cat with a decidedly cocky air about her, as if she walks through her world without so much as a blink. Swinging to just past her slight shoulders is her rich mahogany mane, straight as nails, faintly sunbleached and streaked with rivers of blonde. Her skin bears the telltale signs of someone raised in the sand and surf; from head to toe she is a light, even tan and dusted liberally with freckles. Standing astride a small, beak-like nose are a pair of large, vibrant eyes, their sea green irises every bit as expressive as her thin lips and generous mouth. She wears a bright red tube top that wraps snugly around her lanky form and loose-fitting, khaki-colored denim pants. The jeans are worn through at one knee and cinched with an ill-adjusted belt whose excess hangs from a loop, their frayed hemlines spilling over the tops of a pair of scuffed black boots. But like every girl, the most is said about her personality in the way she accessorizes: the twin holsters at either side and the commlink carelessly hanging from her belt are complimented by a pair of military-issue dog tags strung around her neck. And crowning it all is a red headscarf, the stylized jackal's head boldly emblazoned upon it matching the tattoos on her wrist and abdomen perfectly. Torr sees the scene and sizes it up immediatly. "What the fuck is this shit?" His weapon is in hand, almost as if by magic. The fluid motion of drawing the firearm is carried out in an instant. He trains the weapon on the assailant. "Get the fuck away from her," comes his cold response. Once Mika has been reduced to a quivering, writhing mass of pooling crimson on the floor, the silver-haired alien snaps his attention onto Torr. He's quick to the draw... but not quick enough. Before his thumb can even brush the power switch on his assault pistol, greyish eyes are staring down the business end of the hotshot's sidearm. One cautious step is taken backward. Torr keeps the weapon trained on the intruder, eyes narrowed slightly. Now that he has the upperhand, he doesn't fire. "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing on our ship." "Lady smile, friend," the Timon attempts to placate, raising his long, slender hands to chest-level in a show of surrender. "Simply doing my job, here." Surrender? Hardly. A ring around his finger bears an unusual stem, and smoke begins to pour from a grenade hanging from his belt before exploding in a flash of white light intended to temporarily blind. He is prepared, however, ducking his head at the last moment and shielding his eyes. Torr blinks at the blast, shaking his head. He remains in the doorway, blocking it as best he can. Though he can't see, he growls softly. "Fuck, you're going to fucking pay for that shit." He continues to blink, trying to clear his vision. And the intruder is nowhere to be found, but there is a clatter of something thin and metallic of being pulled into place somewhere in the room. Nobody else is here, save for Mika, whose nerveless fingers ineffectually try to wrench the dagger that has impaled her shoulder. Magnum has taken up a position at her side, hackles raised and growling low. Torr blinks a few more times, eyes moving to focus on Mika. He moves from his position in the doorway to her side, kneeling at her side. "Fucker left a free weapon. Lucky us. Hows bads that shit, and where the fuck'd he come from." Irritated would be the one word that describes Kisa this morning. Signs of withdrawals might be obvious: the good doctor's hands tremble slightly, her eyes are shot through with streaks of red, and there's a perpetual frown on her face. "Mika? Where the fuck are you, Mika?" Kisa Here stands a woman of moderate height, brushing on the edges of five foot three. Maybe a smudge taller, or shorter, depending on how she stands. Slender by nature, her body is honed to be a tool, able to go long hours without sleep, or good nutrition. Her skin is a light olive color, lacking the tan of someone who enjoys the effect of the local stars. Her dark brown hair, almost bordering on black hangs down her back, mostly at different lengths, the longest strands hitting the curve of her waist. The hair has a slight wave to it, frizzing out very faintly, but nothing unmanageable. Almost as dark as her hair are her eyes, a coffee brown. Around her eyes are dark circles, indication of lack of sleep. A plain black tanktop of stretched cotton outlines her slender body, ending just above the bones of her hips. From those obvious protusions are slung pants of the same fabric, layered to provide a bit of warmth and practicality. A drawstring, true to the nature of scrubs, keeps the trousers firmly in place, a line of olive skin ocassionaly visible between the two pieces of her usual outfit. Practical working shoes adorn her feet, well-treaded and tightly laced. The only adornment on the woman is a thin, stringlike bracelet made of nondescript material. Mika's words are gritted out through teeth clenched so tightly is must be painful. Tears practically rain down from green eyes. She's panting so rapidly she teeters on the brink of hyperventilation. "D-d-didn't... 'xactly... 'ave t-t-time t'ask," the captain manages. "Blinkin'... blinkin' KILL HIM." "Mika's bleeding her ass out on the floor," Torr states, glaring back at Kisa. "Block the fucking door, you see shit, feel shit, stop it," his voice is cold, a hard command. His eyes begin moving around the room, his perception heightened. Eyes turn toward a grate in the wall. He moves over to it, and moves to pull it off the wall. Don't gotta tell the good doctor twice. The woman shuts the door behind her with a thud, folding her arms across her chest as she leans back against it. "Mika, if you can move, get your ass over here. If not, if you can, get it above your heart. Where's it at?" The grate is easily removed. Screws on the floor would indicate that it's been opened recently -- and common sense would dictate by whom. Sure enough, the shadowy form of the Timonae can be seen shimmying through the duct, his tall, lanky body shielding Torr's face from the chilly blast of recycled air that would normally spill out. On the floor, we hear two sets of whimpers. One from the frightened Magnum, and the other from the young woman he nudges with his doggie nose: Mika. "Sh-shoulder..." she replies to the doctor, making no attempt to move. Indeed, she has been stabbed through-and-though, a Jackal-ka-bob with a Timonese stiletto jammed through her. Torr leans partway into the vent, tucking his weapon back into his holster to free up both hands. He moves into the duct far enough to make a grab for one of the timonae's leg. "Kay, Mika," Kisa answers, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Torr, can I get to her yet? Am I done blocking this fucking door? She's fucking bleeding. Mika, I want you onto your side, wounded shoulder higher. Got that? Do it, honey. I know its gonna fucking hurt." Here we have another crash, as the attacker's pant leg is seized by the big meaty hand of the sociopathic Martian. He kicks, and he flails, but alas, he simply does not have the room to maneuver in there. He is at Torr's mercy for the time being. With her uninjured hand, Mika works to prop herself up, shakily, shakily, shakily, and heaves herself with a pained, rattling moan onto her side as per Kisa's directions. Blood cascades like a sick waterfall from the wound, the gentle tan of her skin marred with a scarlet more fierce than that of her top. Tears drop onto the floor. "Just fucking take care of her Kisa. Fucking do it now," come Torr's words, his tone cold and tightly controlled. Then his attention is back on the attacker. He gives a heave, pulling back hard, doing his best to yank the alien out of the duct. Kisa crosses the short distance between herself and the injured Sivadian, dropping onto her knees. "Oh fuck," the doctor whispers, probbing the wound. "Torr, I don't have my fucking pack. I need my /shit/." One hand comes up to brush at Mika's face. "You're alright, sweetheart." So Kisa /does/ have bedside manners! "Give it a sec. I gotta get something to stop this bleeding." Nails drag down the metal with a stomach-squicking *screeeech* as the Timonae makes his last futile attempt to resist Torr. Futile being the operative word here, because he is hauled right on out. Nothing is emitted from his lips beyond a grunt, however. Mika trembles there on the floor, glazed-over eyes staring at nothing in particular. Magnum licks at her forehead. "Get your shit, Kisa," Torr states. "And get the box under my bunk. Quick." His eyes remain unflinching on the timonae, then he strikes out at the alien's face. SMASH! That's what you get for hitting ladies, jackass. It's a lovely union, Torr's fist and Timonae's face, one that is fruitful and whose offspring are cracked cheekbone and bloody nose. The man grunts with the force of the blow, teeth clenching even as one is knocked loose. But he doesn't say a word. Our dear little Mika is still heaped in an ungainly sprawl in her own sweet water of life, Magnum her faithful sentinel. "Who the fuck sent you," Torr asks, tone cold. He pulls his pistol free from the holster with one hand, the other hand used to pin the alien to the wall. He levels the weapon at the alien's knee, and pulls the trigger, sending out a burst of energy. And in comes Kisa, the box from beneath Torr's bunk in one hand and some med supplies frantically grabbed from the robodoc's stash in the others. It doesn't take her long to make her way back to Mika, dropping to her knees. "Kay, honey," she whispers, tossing everything to the ground and sorting through for a needle. "This is gonna make it go away, I fucking promise, kay?" How utterly disgusting is it to see someone's knee just *explode* like that? And just how unsettling is the primal scream that erupts from the pit of his stomach, a scream that reverberates off the walls just as hard as the sound of that energy blast? "MAZA'S BURNING HERPES!" shrieks the Timonae. "THE WIDOW! Oh my-- my-- the Widow sent me!" "K-Kisa...?" Apparently, Mika has just now realized that the doctor is in fact present, and watches her blankly through her unfocused eyes. Torr snorts. "Oh, the fucking widow. Christ thats really fucking informative." He glances toward briefly, holding out his hand. "Gimme the fucking box," then eyes are right back on the alien, coldly sizing him up. "Who the fucks the widow?" "Yeah, sweetheart, Kisa's the fucking name," the doctor replies as she uncaps the needle and reaches for Mika's exposed arm. "Kay, honey, you ain't gonna feel a fucking thing. I swear." And she's gently turning the wrist and looking for a vein. "Hold still, baby. Just a sec, Torr. I gotta get her outta pain." The scene is one of... well... it's not something you'd expect to walk into on any other ship, but this is Jackal. Crumpled in the middle of the hold is Mika, bleeding profusely from a stab wound to the shoulder. Kisa is tending to her while Torr interrogates a bleeding Timonae. "I don't know her name!" the assailant insists. "She didn't give her real name! That's all she told me!" Mika sucks in a jagged breath at the needle enters her vein, but is otherwise still, twitching every now and again from involuntary muscle spasms. She's going limp, and fast. Torr shakes his head slightly, ignoring Kisa. "Not fucking good enough," he states coldly. He siezes at the timonae's hand in a rapid movement, grabbing if he can a finger. If he gets ahold of it, he does his best to snap it backward, breaking at least one joint. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Kisa repeats as she injects and withdraws. "Fuck!" Nimble hands reach for gauze pads, tearing them open before pressing them around the wound and trying to impede the flow of blood. "Fuck, fuck. Come on, Mika. You gotta stay awake, love. C'mon, fight it. You're immortal and all that shit. Ya ain't gonna die here. Just a shoulder wound." Entering the cargo bay from the outside is a very pale looking Verrus, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder almost at the ready. A cigarette rests beetween his thin lips; his eyebrows are knit. Upon observing the scene, he frowns. "What the fuck is going on?" Verrus The man stands 5 feet and 9 inches tall. He is possibly considered handsome, though not in the classical sense. There's something about his deep green eyes, his prominent Roman nose and lips and his defined facial structure that could possibly lead somebody to this conclusion. His hair colour is a dark looking brown, and is tied in a ponytail which reaches slightly past his shoulderblades. His features, very musculatory, are very defined, shoulders, arms, legs, abs and other places packed on with a large layer of compact muscle. One might say the typical thug or mercenary. He has a small scar under his right eye, which looks like it could have come from a bladed weapon. His eyes relay a sense of calm alertness. This man wears a black flak jacket over a white undershirt, which is bare of any decoration. Over the vest is a fairly large black leather jacket with plenty of pocket space and vertical black buttons, as well as an almost invisible black zipper under. When revealed, a large silver eagle gripping lightningbolts in its talons is tatooed onto the man's left upper arm. On his hip is strapped a Pulse Pistol. He wears a silver chain necklace, on which dangles what looks like a tiny marble bust of a bearded man in the Classical style. On his legs are a pair of dark blue jeans, slightly faded near the knees but in otherwise good condition. Finally, on his feet he wears a pair of dark beige-brown construction boots. It hurts, and it hurts ba-a-a-a-ad, but the finger doesn't snap. "She's got a bounty on the Slayton girl!" the Timonae howls. "Sixty-five thousand credits if I brought her the head of the Slayton girl! Oh, Lin's infinite mercy, get me to a fucking doctor!" Sorry Verrus, but Mika's in no position to give you the usual friendly hello. Dull green eyes stare dead ahead and breath comes in unsteady heaves. And she fights. Fights as hard as she can, grabbing ahold of the burning pain, the prick of the needle, the touch of the doctor's hands as a tether to reality. Verrus leaves Kisa, the doctor, to apply first aid and medical treatment as she needs; he however spares her a sympathetic glance. His eyes then fall on the Timonae, heavy with contempt. "You had a contract to take out Harm?" He looks at Torr. "Who is this fuck?" "Mika, Mika, honey," Kisa whispers, her fingers feeling the knife running through her shoulder. "I gotta pull this out, okay. Verrus, get your useless fucking ass over here and hold her down. Stop asking fucking questions." Torr shakes his head. "Yeah that shits not enough," he states. His eyes are hard, lifeless almost, like a pair of rocks set in his face. He brings his pistol to bear again, aiming at the as yet undestroyed kneecap. "Where is Widow. How do you contact her?" He hears Verrus. "Kisa has my shit in a box, bring it over here." Quickly now, Verrus moves the aformentioned box accross the room, slightly kicking it with his boot before dropping his assault rifle near the entrance and running over to Kisa. "Alright. Stay calm." His hands lower onto Mika's form, trying to gently restrain her. Another scream from the Timonae as his good leg is threatened. "Ungstir! For fuck's sake, she's on Ungstir!" he supplies, blood dribbling from his lower lip. "On the fucking Rock! Lady burn my tongue if I'm lying!" Mika is unable to resist Verrus. ... Not in that way. But he has no trouble holding her down, even when she begins to thrash from the pain -- she hasn't got much strength to really put up a good fight. "Are you fucking stupid?" Torr asks of the Timonae. He keeps the weapon trained on the man for a moment. Then he holster's it, pulling a rope from his box and looping it around the Timonae's wrists, if possible, and then tieing it to a nearby mounting bar. "Ungstir's a big fucking rock. Where the fuck is she on Ungstir. How'd you fucking plan on delivering Slayton's head to her?" Kisa tears open two more packages, containing stiff, four inch by four inch bandages. After they're set aside, her fingers reach for the dagger. "Okay, love. Breathe deep, honey. On the count of three... one.. two.." And then she's yanking the knife out, her own expression painful. Verrus doesn't flinch, his head bobbing slightly back and forth as if he was agreeing with the practice. His hands remain gently pressed on her body, not seeming to mind when the woman's blood is splashed all over them. The Timonae goes silent, wincing from both the excruciating pain he's in himself, and from the ship-shaking screech that is ripped right from Mika's lips as the knife is jerked out. "How do you think I was going to deliver her head!" he answers as he's bound, his desperate attempt to free himself being weak at best. He reconsiders the smarting off with another look at the stone-faced Martian. "She's on Resilience. Ungstir-Two, you ever been there? Resilience, I swear!" "Kay, baby, its through," Kisa replies, sitting back to collect on of the stiff pads. Its lifted and pressed firmly against the wound. Then, she's going for the other, pressing it to the corresponding hole on the Captain's back. "You can go now, Mika. Go to sleep, honey. I got you. Those are hemostatic agents. Its gonna stop. Sleep, baby." And finally, Verrus releases his big meaty hands from Mika's shoulders, brushing hair away from her face with a slight smile. Rising, he asks Kisa, "She'll be okay?" And then to Torr, "What happened?" Don't gotta tell Mika twice. She's kayoed not ten seconds later, lids heavy from exhaustion and blood-splattered torso lurching with dry heaves. When she goes under, she goes under hard, nothing more than a beat-up ragdoll. Her Timonae friend isn't quite so lucky. "I told you everything I know!" he exclaims, hot tears coming down in buckets from his gray eyes, silver hair matted with sweat and dirt from the ductwork. "The Widow has a bounty on Slayton's head! Sixty-five thousand credits! She's on Resilience! That's all! Maza's fucking TITS, let me go!" "Fucker was attacking Mika when I walked in," Torr states to Verrus. Then he pours a small pile of powder onto the alien's stomach. It begins to hiss and his skin bubble. "Where the fuck where you going to meet her on Resilience? You weren't fucking just going to show up in the port and wave Slayton's fucking head around and hope you run into the widow. Tell me or that shit will burn right through you." "She's gonna be fine," Kisa answers quietly as she goes about her doctor-y stuff, unwinding a long roll of gauze. With two fingers, she holds it slightly above the wound. The other hand lifts Mika's arm enough to pass the roll under.. and she winds around, securing the two pads, until its all gone. "Iuppiter.. Ye Gods, you defile this place by your very being. Out with it and we will release you." Verrus says, brashly and loud, nodding at Kisa. His hand drops inside his jacket; he pulls out his Glock G21 .45 pistol, letting it drop at his side for effect. That hurts. Oh God, does it hurt, flesh being eaten away by that little army of fiery Pac-Men, and cold beads of sweat slide down the Timonae's face as wide, horrified eyes watch. He bites back a scream, eyes closing tight. "'hopper... 'hoppers..." is all he can manage, before the lights go out. Nobody's home. Torr puts the container back into his box, then seals the thing. He pushes it off to the side, and then turns back to the tied up Timonae. He unties the alien, and pulls him to his feet. He begins moving wordlessly out of the hold, half dragging the alien behind him. "Kill him, Torr," Kisa calls out over her shoulder, dark eyes flashing in the Martian mercenary's direction. "Just put a fucking bullet in his head. He's a worthless piece of shit, anyways, and I don't wanna hafta fix him up." "Yeah. Unfortunately, that's the way shit works in our world. /Our/ world is different, you know that. He can go back and tell that bitch that he failed and that you guys are coming for him. Put one in the back of his head and you'll have nothing to worry about. Do it in space and then eject him out of the airlock." Comes Verrus's suggestion, waving his .45 at the unconcious Timonae being dragged by Torr. "Not wasting my ammo on this piece of shit," Torr states coldly. "Just fucking spacing him." He moves out of the compartment, bloodied and battered timonae in tow. Crew Quarters ........................................................................... The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. This space is ingeniously outfitted; its furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal bunk modules containing a bed with built-in cabinetry, storage lockers, and privacy screens. Forward, a compact efficiency kitchen is located starboard, while to the portside is a small refresher unit. Between the two we find a little fitness space with a punching bag and workout center and a cozy niche with a fold-out sleeper couch and holoviewer. Gentle light flows down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing, softly illuminating the room. Its deckplates are sturdy and diamond-gridded and provide a tough, rugged utilitarian feel, but what really completes the atmosphere is the bold, stylized jackal's head painted in fiery scarlet with bold, confident strokes on the hatches leading fore and aft. ........................................................................... It doesn't take long for Kisa to find her way to a sink, the lather a light pink with Mika's blood as she scrubs.. and scrubs.. and trembles. "Fuck," she mutters to herself, staring down at her hands. The timonae lies in a heap near the hatch between here and the fore areas of the ship, knee a bloody mess, his face slightly less damaged. The still burning stomach is concealed. Torr moves in from the fore, glancing around breifly before reaching down to heave the alien up again. As Verrus returns from dropping Mika off to rest, Verrus rests a hand encouragingly and lightly on Kisa's shoulder. He smiles weakly, stating, "You did a good job, there, Kisa." He tosses his assault rifle onto his bed and then proceeds to follow Torr. Motioning towards the alien with his pistol, Verrus continues, "Put him out of his misery. I'll put a bullet in his head if you won't; he'll be suffering outside in the vacuum for a minute and a half; he was just doing his job, you know how it works." "Don't touch me," Kisa hisses over her shoulder, her dark eyes flicking downwards at the contact. "I don't need congratulations on my fucking job. I got a fucking diploma for it. One way or the other, Torr, get rid of him. I ain't even got Mika's fucking blood off my hands, and I ain't mingling them. Oath. You know the routine." Torr turns a cold gaze on Verrus. "Fuck you. This isn't your fucking ship. We run shit my way here. He deserves to fucking suffer. Think Mika's fucking enjoying herself right now? He fucked with us, hes getting fucked." Torr drags the body toward the airlock. Airlock ........................................................................... An amber warning light washes the small airlock, chasing dull shadows across the gray hullsteel walls. It's sized for approximately five crew, with plenty of space for gear and equipment. Access panels and storage lockers frame the space, providing a sparse atmosphere of simple utility. Along one wall there is a rack for several EVA suits, along with ports for keeping the suits' systems charged and online. A hatchway emblazoned with a stylized jackal's head in bold red leads starboard into the ship's forward corridor, and is fitted with a windowed partition. ........................................................................... "Alright. Let's do things your way." The Martian ex-Legionary lowers his pistol and slips it back into his chest holster, the one inside his flak jacket. He watches the proceedings, lips pressed into a neutral expression. "I don't fucking around with the way shits run on TK, you don't fuck around with the way shits run on the Jackal," Torr states to the man, glancing back at him. He drops the body in the center of the airlock. He moves back to the pressure door seperating the airlock from the hatches leading to the after of the ship, then waits for Verrus to join him. "Yeah. Do mind and speak to me like a FUCKING HUMAN BEING, Torr. I'm doing it the way you want. Your ship. My error. Done. Finito." Verrus shakes his head, cracking his knuckles and following Torr. "Let's do it." Torr snorts, shaking his head slightly. "Christ," he mutters, then seals the pressure door behind them. The outer door of the lock cycles open, revealing the large blue globe that is Tolecnal. Then the air hisses out, dragging the body with it like a rag doll. He watches it go with a slight smirk on his face, then reseals the outer hatch. Verrus watches the man's body become rigid; his facial expression assumes one of pain and he is sucked directly out of the airlock. Within a minute, his body his expanded to double it's side. His internal organs and blood boil from the lack of pressure. His body tries to breath, and.. unfortunately, a part of his body looks like it has expanded too much and explodes into the vacuum. Verrus watches passively, nodding. Torr snorts. "Rule number one, fuck with us, we fuck with you," he states coldly, a general blanket comment to those present. Then he turns, moving back into crew quarters.
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