::: WARNING- CANOPY COMPROMISED :::
Compromised. That's amusing. I guess the eggheads at Lakon never thought the phrase "Canopy MISSING" would be necessary when they programmed the Betty in this crate. Though, I have to admit... I'm amazed she's still flying. Sure, it takes some tricky use of the lateral thrusters to keep her on course, being that she's down one engine. Still, she just might make it.
::: WARNING- LIFE SUPPORT CRITICAL. THREE MINUTES OF OXYGEN REMAINING :::
But I may not. Seemed like easy money, but perhaps this is the story that ends with the Feds victorious and me dead.
Dead. That's what she said my "professional name" should be. Dead Dargan. Because anyone who survives this business as long as I have must already be dead. Because in this business, it seems like somebody's always gunning for you. If it's not the Fed's trying to whack you for hauling "questionable merchandise" into a "reputable" system, it's the Crime Lords trying to whack you because you sold their product to a different buyer who offered you a better deal. Or it's the pirates that are simply looking for a quick payday from what you've got in your hold. Or just some lunatic in the pub that didn't like your face.
Dead Dargan. Had a menacing ring to it, I suppose.
Menacing. Yeah... because being two and a half minutes away from sucking vacuum in a busted up ship with no canopy is pretty menacing. About as menacing as a rookie Janeway bumbling about the galaxy in a rusty Sidewinder.
Janeway. That was what she said she wanted to be. "A Janeway. An explorer. Out in the farthest reaches of space. Beyond the reach of the law, or the Factions, or the bosses... No jobs. No flight plan. No destination. Just you, me, and the black." And she'd have been happy, too. She'd have given it all up. The excitement. The credits. The glitz. We could have spent the rest of our lives wandering aimlessly around the cosmos in the Autumn Twilight, charting systems where no one else has ever been, and she'd have been perfectly fine with it. Of course, that was all before she got caught in the crossfire of a "faction disagreement".
::: WARNING- HULL INTEGRITY CRITICAL :::
Not to worry, babe. I may very well be joining you in the hereafter this time. Of all the places to run into a FedSec patrol. It's getting awfully crowded in my sky.*
There it is. Ridley Scott Station. Now, if this bucket o' bolts can hold herself together for another ninety seconds, I just might have a snowball's chance in...
... Hell, maybe she was right. Maybe it's not about the credits. Maybe life is simpler than that. Maybe it's just simply about keeping yourself flying. And from what I hear, Bowmen never stop flying. I do enjoy sailing the black...
Who am I kidding? I don't know the first thing about navigating uncharted space. I'd be a blind man trying to swim across an ocean. Unless...
Maybe I just need the right partner. Somebody who knows the ropes. Somebody who can teach me a thing or two about a thing or two. Somebody like that codger in the pub the other night, mumbling something about "finding like-minded Bowmen to cross paths with". What was his name, again? Cyril? Cedric? The drunks all called him the "Finicky Ferret".
::: DOCKING REQUEST GRANTED :::
Thank you, Ridley Scott Control. Now... you might wanna clear everything off that deck that isn't bolted down, because I'm coming in hot.
Okay, babe... you win. If I can manage to touch down on that pad in what's left of the Twilight's one piece, I'll see what I can do about tracking down this Mr. Ferret...
::: WARNING- OXYGEN RESERVES DEPLETED :::
... or, I'll see you in a minute.
*completely shameless rip-off from Captain Malcolm Reynolds, "Firefly"
Compromised. That's amusing. I guess the eggheads at Lakon never thought the phrase "Canopy MISSING" would be necessary when they programmed the Betty in this crate. Though, I have to admit... I'm amazed she's still flying. Sure, it takes some tricky use of the lateral thrusters to keep her on course, being that she's down one engine. Still, she just might make it.
::: WARNING- LIFE SUPPORT CRITICAL. THREE MINUTES OF OXYGEN REMAINING :::
But I may not. Seemed like easy money, but perhaps this is the story that ends with the Feds victorious and me dead.
Dead. That's what she said my "professional name" should be. Dead Dargan. Because anyone who survives this business as long as I have must already be dead. Because in this business, it seems like somebody's always gunning for you. If it's not the Fed's trying to whack you for hauling "questionable merchandise" into a "reputable" system, it's the Crime Lords trying to whack you because you sold their product to a different buyer who offered you a better deal. Or it's the pirates that are simply looking for a quick payday from what you've got in your hold. Or just some lunatic in the pub that didn't like your face.
Dead Dargan. Had a menacing ring to it, I suppose.
Menacing. Yeah... because being two and a half minutes away from sucking vacuum in a busted up ship with no canopy is pretty menacing. About as menacing as a rookie Janeway bumbling about the galaxy in a rusty Sidewinder.
Janeway. That was what she said she wanted to be. "A Janeway. An explorer. Out in the farthest reaches of space. Beyond the reach of the law, or the Factions, or the bosses... No jobs. No flight plan. No destination. Just you, me, and the black." And she'd have been happy, too. She'd have given it all up. The excitement. The credits. The glitz. We could have spent the rest of our lives wandering aimlessly around the cosmos in the Autumn Twilight, charting systems where no one else has ever been, and she'd have been perfectly fine with it. Of course, that was all before she got caught in the crossfire of a "faction disagreement".
::: WARNING- HULL INTEGRITY CRITICAL :::
Not to worry, babe. I may very well be joining you in the hereafter this time. Of all the places to run into a FedSec patrol. It's getting awfully crowded in my sky.*
There it is. Ridley Scott Station. Now, if this bucket o' bolts can hold herself together for another ninety seconds, I just might have a snowball's chance in...
... Hell, maybe she was right. Maybe it's not about the credits. Maybe life is simpler than that. Maybe it's just simply about keeping yourself flying. And from what I hear, Bowmen never stop flying. I do enjoy sailing the black...
Who am I kidding? I don't know the first thing about navigating uncharted space. I'd be a blind man trying to swim across an ocean. Unless...
Maybe I just need the right partner. Somebody who knows the ropes. Somebody who can teach me a thing or two about a thing or two. Somebody like that codger in the pub the other night, mumbling something about "finding like-minded Bowmen to cross paths with". What was his name, again? Cyril? Cedric? The drunks all called him the "Finicky Ferret".
::: DOCKING REQUEST GRANTED :::
Thank you, Ridley Scott Control. Now... you might wanna clear everything off that deck that isn't bolted down, because I'm coming in hot.
Okay, babe... you win. If I can manage to touch down on that pad in what's left of the Twilight's one piece, I'll see what I can do about tracking down this Mr. Ferret...
::: WARNING- OXYGEN RESERVES DEPLETED :::
... or, I'll see you in a minute.
*completely shameless rip-off from Captain Malcolm Reynolds, "Firefly"
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