Vice Grip

[Marcus Itera]

Two parsecs from Ikotchi Space...​

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"What are you doing?" Yelled Aelgar, his voice barely audible over the howling alarms of the ship. He, like so many others, fled deeper into the armoured bowels of the ship, hoping to take refuge from the oncoming catastrophe.

The pirates came.

A cruiser swept down upon the light corvette. Their weapons gouged ragged scars in the ship's ancient hull, several going so far as to breach it. The horrid aliens boarded the ship in an attempt to loot all it contained, be it treasure to line their pockets or slaves to sell. It had seemed the bastards had mistaken the ship for a freighter. They were met with sword's edge and blaster bolt, a bloody skirmish eventually driving the leeches from the ship's wounded hide. What few weapons batteries remained active gave the fleeing pirates a devastating broadside bombardment, ensuring they wouldn't be bothering them any longer. But the damage was done.

Critically wounded, she was forced to limp away at a crippled pace. Desperate for a moment of rest and without adequate supplies, the crew of Aelgar's ship took vote and issued him a simple decree, either land at the nearest planet with sufficiently advanced life or face a mutiny.

Unfortunately for the Itkochi trader captain, limping away was only going to make the hunting beast only more hungry for its prey. The vessel hobbled on, ion drives pushed to the max to keep its crew, onboard mercenary contingent, and precious cargo safe.

"Cap'n," came the hushed voice of his First Mate, "Sir, we have to stop. If we keep up this pace, the ship itself is more likely to kill us than those damned raiders."

Aelgar spun around so fast spittle flew from his lips. Anger contorted his face, dark rings hung beneath his yellow eyes. "We cannot stop, Barith. I'm going to get us all, and this cargo, back to port even if it kills me. I can't let those things out there take all of this. We've got millions here. We all were gonna be rich, weren't we?"

Barith visibly hesitated, shifting his gaze. "Yes... but I'd rather be rich in life than in wealth."

"I don't care. We're going to press on." He glanced at the bridge with its smoldering consoles and the frantic technicians and engineers darting to and fro, "We're close to home. Maybe they'll come to our rescue?"

"Possibly. Should I try to hail any patrol ships?"

Aelgar nodded. "Do it."

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The Harrowbane licked its wounds.

A stalking vessel, meant for rending and cleaving through all opposition sent its way. Yet now it appeared even a mere armed freighter was now sulking far behind its prey. Far enough for short-range scanners to detect them and far enough to where some crewman couldn't peer out of a viewport and spot them.

Pockmarks marred the hull, shields hung dangerously low on the power gauge, and Marcus was sure his boys couldn't take another beating like that.

"Gods above," the man breathed, clasping his hands behind his neck, gently fingering the implant. "Who the frak were those mooks? The ones with the blue visors, skulls emblazoned across 'em?"

Miranda's avatar shook its head. "I've no idea. No known records of them anywhere on the HoloNet - no traces of them in PMC listings, not a mercenary group, not security contractors. They're invisible in cyberspace."

"Impossible."

"Very possible."

The mercenary sighed and leaned further back in his chair, eyes sweeping over the bridge before landing upon @Blackthorne. Jaw muscles taut, he sighed once again and rose to meet her.

"I don't know if my people can do that again." He held out his hands to her, palms facing upwards. "I lost eleven men and women out there, I'm pretty sure they didn't even lose half that many. That's a damn third of my people dead."

 

[Blackthorne]

She had watched from the security of the Captain's seat on the Bridge as Marcus and his team were violently rebuffed. He'd faired less well than the Harrowbane which, at this point, would require a good bit of repairs before heading back out into deep space again. If there was a point where irritation boiled over into a defiant rage of what had just happened, it was likely the moment the man approached her in her seat and offered those woeful hands. Captain Blackthorne stared at him with a simmering fury so heated her eyes might've melted his faceplate had he still been wearing his helmet.

If there was any shred of evidence that she cared for his losses it did not show then.

The Captain very slowly stood from her chair, gaze locked on the Merc before her, and stepped down from the raised dais.

"Kiin, you have the helm. Prepare for a second assault and get us back to that ship."

Kiin looked up from his station where he ran diagnostics of the ship's systems, "...Aye, Captain, our shields are only holding at 40%, they could cripple us with another prolonged barrage."

Blackthorne's gaze panned from Marcus' face down to his hands, she thought she spied blood, "You're going to hit them hard and fast, launch the last remaining Harpoons and then detach as soon as I get inside,"

"...Captain?"

"you're to disengage immediately and head for the Cove for repairs, am I clear?"

"You...want me to leave you on that ship?"

"Am I clear?"

Kiin looked to Marcus, unsmiling, and in some way hoped the man would speak up, say something to what was essentially a suicidal task, but it made no difference in the end. The Captain had turned from him and moved to exit the bridge, hackles flared and steps clipped.

"...perfectly clear, Captain."

 

[Marcus Itera]

He could practically feel her temper flare. Anger for the losses, fury for the failure, and all of it fell upon the man standing before the captain of the Harrowbane.

Quiet, cold resentment boiled deep within him.

His empty hands dropped to his sides, clenching furiously as the dried blood caking his fingers cracked. Marcus had held Gil as he bled to death, begging for someone to stop the crimson fluid from pouring out of his chest. The young twenty year old had died without anything to him name. No cash in the bank, no family or a home to return to - so Marcus had made it his point to be that family for him and provide that home for the young ex-marine. Now his carcass sat aboard that godforsaken freight ship and those blue-faced demons had probably already jettisoned his corpse into deep space without so much a murmur of prayer.

They were old warriors, convicts, and wanderers coalesced under the banner and a dream of one man. A nomadic family of killers for hire.

"Are you going to let his death be in vain?" A synthetic voice soothed his icy anger. "He died because you provided for him. Gil and the others volunteered to do this. You didn't make him - you didn't make them come."

Mechanical eyes caught the furious woman storming off, relaying orders of yet another suicide mission without hesitation.

"Frak," Marcus snarled, eyeing Kiin with a knowing look before he took off after the woman. "I'm going too."

And within minutes, he was back in his armor that had been marred with scorches and battered with vibro-knucklers.

The blood of his friends still clung to it.

[member="Blackthorne"]

 

[Blackthorne]

"Engaging DERP and FSDP systems -" Kiin settled into the Captain's chair and disappeared behind the holoscreens blinking into life around him. His fingers scoured across them with a deftness that only came with years of practice, experience, and a barely-contained sense of trepidation. They had one chance to make this second approach. One single shot. If he botched it ...

well, they could all be dead.

Don't feth it up.

"We'll circle around ahead of them, these systems should keep them from detecting us, and launch out assault from the front," the man grit his teeth as he engaged the High-Powered Auxillary Thrusters and pushed the engines to capacity, "right where they aren't expecting it."

By the time Marcus had found his armor and the last remaining boarding hatch the Captain was already there, the final layers of her own armor adorned - nothing so sleek as his. Hers was of a more mystical protection; overlapping layers of hardened, alchemized leather and metals. It likely didn't look like much, but Blackthorne wasn't intending to give these cretins a target. A sword clung to her side, a dagger at the other, a lightsaber hilt remain hidden at her back. She was pulling a rebreather helm over her head as the ship gave a jolting shudder.

"30 seconds, Captain. Standby to engage."

Blackthorne glanced at Marcus, no words to offer, and moved to release the hatch lock early, heaving it open. Alarms began blaring around them. She stepped inside and grabbed onto a railing.

"Captain what's happened?"

"Do not stop, Kiin, get that ship targeted. Now."

"10 seconds ... target locked on."

"Disengage harpoon cable as soon as it's hit the mark. Get in here Cinders."

"Captain it will slingshot you-"

"DO AS I SAY."

"Firing Boarding Harpoon 5 in 3 ... 2 .. 1 ..."

 

[Marcus Itera]

He had nothing else to say.

Tagging along wasn't even his idea. The AI stuck in his head had urged him, both mentally and chemically - specifically that of his adrenal medulla. Adrenaline flooded his veins in unfurling waves, amping up the beating of his aching heart and stimulating those muscles fatigued from violent, forceful close combat. It was a fight or flight response, one that he couldn't possibly refuse. This body was no longer his own, at least for the moment.

Half of the mercenary's mind pleaded to be let free, so they could drop it all. The other side demanded aggressive action immediately.

"Frak.." He breathed.

Suited up and kitted out with his SMG, sidearms, and other utilities, he gave himself one last look over before proceeding into the blaring airlock after [member="Blackthorne"]. The red klaxons wailed on and on, fueling the desire to just get his damned self into the boarding harpoon and put his feet on hard ground once again.

"Get in here Cinders."

'Cinders' trailed her accordingly, slipping into the harpoon without an ouch of hesitation before latching it shut and strapping in.

With a thundering boom that was soon swallowed up by the voidness of space, they were off.

 

[Blackthorne]

No going back from here.

No second chances on a fool's errand.

No distant beaches to wash upon.

Just a jagged rock in an endless, bleak sea.


The roar of the harpoon filled her senses and rattled the Captain down to the marrow, a mind cleared only by the inferno of rage made it possible to brace her body against the forces rendered. Marcus had his suit and she? Well, she had powers not yet seen unleashed to their fullest clawing against the intangible cage of self control. Rigid, unyielding discipline instilled through years of tutelage beneath hard Masters.

As the Harpoon slung through space and sliced across the distance between Harrowbane and target she had a brief glimpse through the Force of their faces. Eye whites blinking through the gale of turret fire and those soulless blue skulls within the helms of the enemy.

​

Whoever they were -​

brace for impact.

Blackthorne grimaced against the weight of her body slamming against the grip of her fingers holding her in place.

they were about to learn why you didn't feth with the Captain of the Harrowbane.​

These particular Boardin' Harpoons had been upgraded by her team. Their unique setup allowed direct boarding via the tether line: a coiled channel chute of flexible material connected to a hull-carver attachment at the base of the harpoon. Once stung there was a momentary countdown while the harpoon's Coma Gas filled the ship and rendered the unprotected occupants unconscious. During this time the Hull Carver activated; slicing into the sheet metal separating the interior of the ship from the cold of space.

The receiving chamber in which they had ridden the harpoon over in wasn't meant to be used in this way. The human body wasn't meant to withstand the trauma of forces experienced during the flight, let alone during the impact. It was meant to receive the boarders from the chute, after-the-fact, enabling an immediate and direct insertion of Pirates into the targeted ship rather than having to wait for an extension to make contact and hope it didn't break in the process.

On any other given day that would have been a thrilling experience and Dahl could feel herself in an alternate reality cackling with delight. Presently she used the moment of pause while the carver went to work to regain her bearings and watch somewhat listlessly as the chute flailed along behind them, having been detached from the 'Bane.

Her breathing slowed, dual heartbeats grew steadier, she found her bearings and heaved herself up towards the receiving chamber hatch, bracing against the sudden lack of gravity and inertia to weight them in place. The lock lever groaned in protest before giving way to a gaping hole through the hull. Blackthorne curled and pulled herself through feet-first, feeling the grab of artificial gravity take her in the rest of the way.

She dropped down into a hallway of failing lights, blaring klaxons, and the random unconscious ship crew littering the walkway.

Who would round the end of the hall at that very moment but one of those smiling skull-heads.

 

[Marcus Itera]

Blasting through space wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.

Relaxing with beer in hand and girl in arm sounded about right, but fate had other plans for him. Namely in the sense of blasting through the vacuum at several hundred kilometers per hour, saved only by the fact he wore crushgaunts that gouged holding clamps into the hull of the boarding torpedo. The suit helped too after a few moments of being hit by the sheer force of the torpedo slamming into the hull of that damned freighter.

"Pressure's stabilized. Oxygen supplies will last for another forty five minutes if we stay out here; an hour if you can slow your breathing."

Since his precious air was too valuable to waste on words, Marcus clicked his molars in acknowledgement. Freeing the submachine gun of his back's magnetic clamp, he dropped into the vessel once the landing hatch blasted open.

Alarms wailed in response, circuitry and jagged metal marred their entry way, and the lights of their boarded sector flashed sporadically before settling into a rather dim state. Must've hit a power vein or something.

Whatever the case, the lack of quality lightning couldn't save the crewmen hastily taking off from them.

Raising the SMG, the mercenary let loose with a full burst of .45 special. Slugs found bodies and durasteel bulkheads, ricocheting for even more damage on his targets and that of the ship.

Miranda's voice came once again. "You missed two."

"I'll get 'em next time," he growled in reply.

[member="Blackthorne"]

 

[Blackthorne]

Coma Gas lingered in the hall way despite the best efforts of the ship's air filtration systems. Power would continue to flicker, leaving the fog roiling along the causeways long enough to ensnare several more victims unlucky enough to not be afforded their own rebreathers. Blackthorne advanced forward down the hall, following the blue glow of the skull bobbing along the top as it made haste down around a corner and disappeared from view. She didn't wait for [member="Marcus Itera"], figuring the man would likely move to find his team...or whatever remained of it.

There was a task to be done at hand, and that task required an audience with a certain other captain. The man in charge of the Mercenaries capable of turning away Marcus and his own - a group she had come to a healthy measure of respect for after seeing them in action. Might have also been some hell to pay for upsetting Cinders by killing his men. Maybe. Pirates didn't often admit to such things.

Purposeful strides took her down the length of the hall and to the corner where she'd lost sight of her quarry. The woman stopped short of the wall and pressed her back against it, leaning to look around just enough to spy the business end of the blaster gun pointed right for her. A split second meant the difference between a bolt going between her eyes or over her head - she claimed it with inhuman speed: crush gauntlet seizing the barrel and pushing it up, shattering it in her grasp as her body swiveled around and aimed her free hand for the enemy's solar plexus.

To that she issued a sudden burst of the Force, point blank, the equivalent to being nailed by a rampaging zakkeg full-stop. The blue skull of the faceplate was splattered with red before he smashed into the wall at the far side of the adjoining aisle. He began to asphyxiate on his own blood but was granted relief when the butt of his own blaster rifle smashed through his face plate.

Again.

And again.

And again.

By the time the weapon clattered to the floor there wasn't even anything scarcely resembling a face left. Blackthorne stepped over his prone body and pressed on, following the sounds of footfalls further down the next hall.

 

[Marcus Itera]

The startling awakening of the limping freight vessel was an honest surprise to Aelgar. The sensors operators hadn't reported anything particularly noteworthy as their most recent assailant had also staggered away to lick its own wounds. However, the rocking of the whole vessel as something smashed into it resulted in near instantaneous chaos. Freight workers scrambled for shelter deep within the bowels of the ship, or under whatever bulkhead they could find as security and engineering crews began to scour the wounded vessel.

Kham Felian was one of the first to respond. Adorned in obsidian armor with a resplendent cobalt faceplate resembling that of a human skull, he'd been dutifully cleaning his equipment following the previous engagement and just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. While stalking his prey slowly typically came to mind first, responding with violence and force of action was the right move in this sort of deal - but he was wrong.

And it cost him dearly.

So there he lay; what was left of him at least. Bloodied carcass with nothing left to distinguish him from the other four Frontjaegars aside from the laughing coffin tattoo emblazoned across his neck.

The Frontjaegars knew he'd died when his life support signal went dark. They knew where he died too.

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Cutting down innocent folks wasn't exactly his style per se. The media liked to portray mercenaries as heartless killers willing to supercede intergalactic law on war and do as they wish, but those types of companies were far and few. The rest were just men and women with nowhere else to go, wanted to make some money earned in blood, or craved that adventure that poor Gil did.

But it felt so frakking right.

Watching those bodies crumble to the deck was more intoxicating than any drug, more pleasure-inducing than sex, and so much more satisfying. Marcus knew he shouldn't have felt that way, but he did - and was scared him the most is that he didn't want to look away or change his behavior.

"Lifeform scanners have more beings approaching. Motion sensors haven't picked up anything else on this deck within ten meters, so I think we're good for now." Miranda reported, sighing as her cobalt eyes glossed over the fallen crewmen.

"Gotcha. Let's move, doll."

The mercenary glanced backwards just in time to watch her drop what used to be an assault rifle into a pool of blood expanding from a corpse.

"We've got work to do."

[member="Blackthorne"]

 

[Blackthorne]

It was events and situations like these that vastly blurred the line between Mercenary and Outlaws. If Blackthorne had a front row seat to the internal machinations of the man's brain at that very moment she would have called him a cod-pickin' liar. He put on a good front for his boys and she did not doubt his honest concern for their well-being. But if he for an instant thought he could continue pulling off the "I only do this to pay the bills" then he had another thing coming.

No one stared at dead and falling bodies like that without enjoying the scenery.

Footsteps moved to join the man at his beck and call and the Pirate was there beside him looking murderously casual. This was his show after the last curtain fall; he knew the ship best and, with luck, knew where to find the bodies of his fallen. Blackthorne was just here to ensure the job got done this time and that she didn't lose one of her most useful allies.

A hand gestured forth, gauntlet gleaming angrily under the emergency lights, "Lead the way, luv," she fell in stride behind him as he moved off down the hall.