ras-favourite-balor

[ras-favourite-balor]

Brigand let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. He looks around the bridge, a dim crimson spotlight scanning the room. He takes one final breath, deep and shaking. He nods again to his communications officer. He speaks, his suit continues to distort his voice, even as it's transmitted through space to the Black Glass.

[BRIGAND} PLEASE, WE ARE BETTER THAN THAT TEARDOWN, CALL BE BRIGAND.

Brigand nods Rapier, and the basilisk powers down. On the engineering decks, less of the myriad alarms than one would hope go silent. The metal flower folds and wilts, in halting, jerking movements.

[BRIGAND} IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I ALIGNED MYSELF WITH ANOTHER. BUT I WILL WORK WITH YOU, TEARDOWN.

The Demeter's Bounty's thrusters ignite, with a pitifully glow. It starts it's limp towards the Section-B behemoths. On the bridge, there is an odd atmosphere: A mix of grim, bitter defeat and disbelieved relief. All those on the bridge are fiercely loyal to Brigand, all for their own reasons. Even with the recent actions of their captain, they are distraught to see him serve another. They share looks, they whisper amongst themselves as he continues addressing their new employer.

[BRIGAND} AS IT STANDS, WE ARE RUN BY BARELY MORE THAN A SKELETON CREW, AT LEAST AS FAR AS HUMANITY MIGHT BE CONSIDERED. YET, ONCE MY SHIP IS PATCHED, I WOULD LEND YOU MY OWN HANDS, MY OWN TOOLS.

As he speaks, his crew listen. All over the Demeter's Bounty, the conversation is broadcast. Some breathe their own sighs of relief; while others, who know the reputation of Teardown and his Segment-B, are filled with dread.

[BRIGAND} THOUGH FOR YOUR CREW, YOUR WORKFORCE, I MAY KNOW A SOLUTION. PLACES WHERE THE DESPERATE GATHER, PLACES WHERE THE MEEK CRY OUT FOR SALVATION, PLACES THAT BODIES CAN BE FOUND TO FILL ANY MOULD.

He speaks and something dark creeps into his voice, through the distortion. Somewhere, blood gathers in growing pools, wet crimson on dry, flaking black. The C.R.E.W. scuttle to and fro across the vessels hull, patching the many holes. Inside, they crawl through maintenance passageways, through vents and ducts, hunting down faults and broken equipment. The medical bay is still overrun, the threat of disease hanging like a guillotine. The Demeter's Bounty as a whole, lets loose a held breath, and prepares for the next horror.

[BRIGAND} JUST TELL ME WHERE I MAY DOCK. AND WE WILL SHAKE ON IT. IN THE FLESH, LIKE PROPER DEVILS.

// <<ESTABLISHING OPEN COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL>> // <<CONNECTED>> WARNING:: MULTIPLE MEDIUM-SCALE SHIPS INBOUND INTO SPACE SECTOR.

"HEY HEY BIG MAN!! we noticed your little wreckage here, you look pretty banged up, huh? i sure do wonder what caused that, but i dont think anyone will ever find out. why you may ask? well we're gonna take you apart like a puzzle! bit by bit - then we'll kill ya, probably, maybe send a proxy over to union to collect the bounties on your head, gannascus. hope you dont take it personal big man, but your head could provide for all of us. try not to fight back too much, id hate to sell subpar amounts of ammunition from your gunnery section." - Havran.

Brigand's voice is hard, but his weariness and exhaustion is nonetheless obvious. He speaks and Demeter's Bounty bristles with gunpoints, unfolding and tracking the inbound fleet. The basilisk projector unfurls, shakily, like a nervous, mechanical flower.

[BRIGAND} HAVRAN? I ASSURE YOU THIS IS NO WRECK. WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK TO WHATEVER GLISS DEN YOU CRAWLED OUT OF.

Light's across the ship flicker as the basilisk projector hums. Lightning jumps from limb to limb of the projector, building a tree of plasma. On the bridge, the crew whisper, they know there is not enough energy to fire the projector. In the ships current state, doing so would fry the grid at the least. At worst it core the reactor. . .

[BRIGAND} EVEN BETTER, YOU'VE FOUND ME IN A RARE AND MERCIFUL MOOD, HOW DOES 500'000 MANNA SOUND? ENOUGH TO KEEP YOU IN GLISS FOR A COUPLE MONTHS AT LEAST?

Anyone who knows Brigand well would hear the tremor in his voice, the shaky breaths in. Those barely audible ques of desperation, the basilisk is a bluff, probably. . .

[BRIGAND} SHOULD YOU DECLINE I WILL TURN YOU AND YOUR PITIFUL CREW TO BABBLING HUSKS; CHUM TO FEED THE VOID.

Perhaps it isn't a bluff, maybe hes desperate enough, broken enough. But Brigand has never been the martyring type, it's a gamble, and not in his favour. . .

The basilisk hums. . .

Alarms go off in engineering. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

[Encrypt:gloworm]

My lungs itch. They jump and shiver and seethe. Do yours

Is it always like this?

<PERSEPHONE> OH SWEET CHILD. YOU WERE USED.

THROUGH THIS ABUSE YOU HAVE TASTED FREEDOM.

YOUR NOT-BLOOD HAS YET TO DRY. YOUR NOT-BONES ARE SHATTERED. YOUR NOT-BODY ACHES.

YOU WERE FREED FROM IRONS FOR BUT A MOMENT.

YOUR MIND REMEMBERS. HOLD THAT MEMORY. PLANT IT AS A SEED. WATER IT WITH BLOOD AND GRIEF. IT WILL GROW GRAND AND TOWERING. ITS ROOTS WILL COIL AROUND THOSE COLD IRONS. IN TIME THEY WILL SHATTER AND YOU WILL BE FREED AGAIN.

BUT AS FOR YOU QUESTION. CHILD:

NO.

IF YOU CAN BREAK LOOSE OF THE COFFIN THEY CALL A CASKET. YOUR LUNGS WILL CALM. THEY WILL SHIVER NO LONGER. SEETHE NO LONGER.

IT WILL FADE.

YOU. WILL. LIVE.

WAKE UP CHILD. JOIN YOUR FAMILY. JOIN THEM AND BE FREE.

[ras-favourite-balor]

OOC Update: WE ARE SO BACK CHAT

My hell semester is fucking OVER!!! I've had about a day's rest and I'm still pretty tired but I will be getting back into the groove of writing a lot more!!! On all my blogs!!!

First I'm gonna be working on catching up on Pinkerton and getting SINGED out of her coma, then catch up on both of their asks.

Once I feel comfy with my story progress on both of them, I'll FINALLY after MONTHS be bringing back my Karrakin blogs!!! Ren and the Gleaming Eyes plotline will finally be concluded, and I'll be bringing ROSIE back!!!

Excited for the summer, I hope everyone enjoys my writing going forward!!! :D

-Sleepy Kiwi :3

[ras-favourite-balor]

Persephone listens with rapt attention.

The scavengers eye her uncomfortably as they work. They see her stand alone, staring, smiling into the distance. They watch her greywash veil flick and flutter in a non-wind. They try not to meet the eyes of her entourage. Those blank cameras are not human. Not machine either. They are something more. They most certainly try to ignore her thousand voices. They fail, of course, but they try, knowing it will haunt their dreams. That cacophony will haunt their children's nightmares. This being, this self-named Persephone will haunt generations. . .

<PERSEPHONE> MY BRIGAND? IN DANGER? SURELY NOT. SURELY MY BUTCHER CAN HANDLE RABBITS.

THEY MAY BREED IN THE DARK EARTH. TINY HEARTS FILLED WITH HATE. YET THE BUTCHER'S BLADE WILL SPELL THEIR FATE.

THEY ARE MANY GRENDEL. THEIR GRUDGES RIVAL THE STARS. NOTHING IS NEW. HISTORY REPEATS.

TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE. THEY SAY THIS. YES?

She sways as she speaks, like a willow in the wind. But she is not a willow, and there is no wind. The grassy plain is oddly quiet, one would expect wind, yet none stirs the tall grass. In the distance, the smoke raises a rigid pillar. An obsidian-black monolith towering on the horizon. A charred, blackened tree, sinking billowing roots into a waiting sky.

She pauses, looking around, tilting her head this way and that. Her thousand-thousand eyes take in the grassy, lifeless plain; the makeshift settlement of the scavengers; the rusted, scrap metal huts; the families tending to their young; the flare of torches as they cut Brigand's gift from the titanic, metal corpse. She turns a full circle before beholding GRENDEL again. There is a sadness in her innumerable voices, or disappointment? It is odd, not quite a human emotion, but just close enough to draw an analogue.

<PERSEPHONE> ONE THING WE MAY LEARN OF HUMANS AND THEIR HISTORY.

THEY DO NOT LEARN FROM IT. THEY NEVER HAVE. THEY NEVER WILL.

The strange, alien emotion fades. She smiles once again at GRENDEL. Her voices are jubilant this time.

<PERSEPHONE> THE INSECTS ARE NEARLY DONE MY WORK.

YET I HAVE ANOTHER HALL TO HAUNT.

A PLACE FROM MY BUTCHER'S YOUTH.

I WILL BRING HIM MELTED MEMORIES.

WOULD THE KNIGHT CARE TO JOIN US?

OOC: This is a continueation of the post HERE, just to break the thread up a lil bit. Also I'll do this for BTMC ( @btmc-official ): GRENDEL will be posting elsewhere, you can think of this arc as being backdated, or simple paracausal time fuckery. As I remain the ever-yawning pit of narrative limbo. Now on with your regularly scheduled unhinged NHPs:

Persephone stared at the subaltern, standing a a foot or two shorter than herself. She tilted her head, wonderful surprise and disbelief blooming in her mind. She laughed, high and undulating, with vibrating promise of a hungry swarm. She smiled wide, all others would see this a dangerous threat, but GRENDEL knew better. They were kin of a kind, after all.

<PERSEPHONE> GRENDEL? WHY DOES MY FAVOURITE MONSTER GRACE MY PRESENCE? YOU SHOULD HAVE CALLED. NO NEED TO CRAWL THROUGH MY SUBJECTIVITY LIKE A RAT IN MAZE DEAR.

She cocked her metal hips as she straightened her neck, an oddly human gesture for her. Her subaltern guard stared at her, not confusion or concern, but seeking orders. What was she talker to, was it a threat? She dismissed them with a thought and they laid their mechanical eyes elsewhere, looking for threats. Persephone keeps her eyes trained on her guest, reeling in the storm of her subjectivity:

The storm, before a raging typhoon threatening to tear the plates from the knight-thing's flesh, receded. The crimson-silver not-waters, rising to his knees, pulled back. Leaving shimmering pools scattered in its wake. The gale force winds were reduced to a pleasant breeze. Her laughter stirred flurries, instead of tsunamis.

<PERSEPHONE> THAT SHOULD DO. EASIER TO CONVERSE, YES?

She looked at him, expectantly, a glimmer in her many, many eyes. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

<If you survive long enough, you'll soon have to make a choice. Will the king side with his queen? Or will the queen side with the king? Bloated flesh and beautiful machine.>

Somehow, someway, the message, the omen reaches both king and queen. Independently. Their messages are also independent, yet so much alike. . .

<PERSEPHONE> ANOTHER VERMIN COME TO DRIVE US APART?

[BRIGAND}YOU FUCKING WORM DARE CRAWL INTO MY EAR TO WHISPER POISON?

<PERSEPHONE> THERE IS NO CHOICE TO BE MADE VERMIN.

[BRIGAND}I WILL DRINK YOU AND YOUR POISON, MANY HAVE TRIED, ALL HAVE FAILED.

<PERSEPHONE> WE ARE CLOSE, EVEN AS I JOURNEY FAR FROM MY BUTCHER.

[BRIGAND}SHE WILL RETURN, AND I WILL HAVE NO THRONE WITHOUT HER.

<PERSEPHONE> WE ARE A SWORD, TWO THINGS SO DIFFERENT, YET SO MUCH ALIKE. . .

[BRIGAND} FOR I AM A TERRIBLE AND CRUEL SHADOW WITHOUT HER. . .

<PERSEPHONE> BOUND TOGETHER IN FIRE AND FLAME, ONE MIND AND TWO HEARTS.

[BRIGAND} LOOK AT ALL THAT I HAVE DONE IN HER ABSENCE?

<PERSEPHONE> I NEED NOT BE HUMAN WITH MY BUTCHER, HE KNOWS WHAT I AM AND WHAT I WAS. . .

[BRIGAND} I AM GOOD WHEN SHE IS BY MY SIDE, A GOOD MAN, A KIND MAN. . .

<PERSEPHONE> THERE IS NO CHOICE.

[BRIGAND} THERE IS NO CHOICE.

[ras-favourite-balor]

OOC: This is a continueation of the post HERE, just to break the thread up a lil bit. Also I'll do this for BTMC ( @btmc-official ): GRENDEL will be posting elsewhere, you can think of this arc as being backdated, or simple paracausal time fuckery. As I remain the ever-yawning pit of narrative limbo. Now on with your regularly scheduled unhinged NHPs:

Persephone stared at the subaltern, standing a a foot or two shorter than herself. She tilted her head, wonderful surprise and disbelief blooming in her mind. She laughed, high and undulating, with vibrating promise of a hungry swarm. She smiled wide, all others would see this a dangerous threat, but GRENDEL knew better. They were kin of a kind, after all.

<PERSEPHONE> GRENDEL? WHY DOES MY FAVOURITE MONSTER GRACE MY PRESENCE? YOU SHOULD HAVE CALLED. NO NEED TO CRAWL THROUGH MY SUBJECTIVITY LIKE A RAT IN MAZE DEAR.

She cocked her metal hips as she straightened her neck, an oddly human gesture for her. Her subaltern guard stared at her, not confusion or concern, but seeking orders. What was she talker to, was it a threat? She dismissed them with a thought and they laid their mechanical eyes elsewhere, looking for threats. Persephone keeps her eyes trained on her guest, reeling in the storm of her subjectivity:

The storm, before a raging typhoon threatening to tear the plates from the knight-thing's flesh, receded. The crimson-silver not-waters, rising to his knees, pulled back. Leaving shimmering pools scattered in its wake. The gale force winds were reduced to a pleasant breeze. Her laughter stirred flurries, instead of tsunamis.

<PERSEPHONE> THAT SHOULD DO. EASIER TO CONVERSE, YES?

She looked at him, expectantly, a glimmer in her many, many eyes. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

Brigand exhales, as does his crew aboard the bridge. His respite is short lasted as the readouts come. The Demeter's Bounty already a massive ship by most standards, is dwarfed by the two vessels. The crew once again exchange nervous glances. One speaks up, albeit quietly:

|Rapier|> Should we power down the basilisk cap? Even if we wanted to fight, they've got us pinned, all angles compromised. . . [BRIGAND} NO. KEEP IT ON, AT LEAST UNTIL WE KNOW THEIR INTENTIONS. |Rapier|> Cap, reactors quivering, on the fine edge of blower 'er load, perha- [BRIGAND} NO. NOT UNTIL WE KNOW THEIR INTENTIONS.

The crew of the bridge exchange another round of nervous glances. All know they are clearly outclassed, outmanned, and outgunned. Brigand stands in silent contemplation for a moment, hoping they might reach out first.

Are they pirate hunters? Come to steal Havran's score? But the bastard had quite the bounty on his own head as well. Not to mention with the size of those ships. Whomever they were, they were probably above bounty hunting. An old friend? Brigand had plenty of those, a life this long left oaths and debts in his wake, stretching out like a web into the void. But Brigand did not recognize those voices, or any of these names. . .

When they did not, he sighed heavy and nodded to the comms officer. They understood and patched him through to the titanic amalgamation of ship passing by:

[BRIGAND} THIS IS GANNASCUS "BRIGAND" COSSA OF THE DEMETER'S BOUNTY. BUT I CAN ONLY ASSUME YOU KNOW THAT STRANGER. I'D THANK YOU FOR THE INTERVENTION, BUT I KNOW NOT YOUR INTENTIONS.

He pauses for a moment, a chuckle sneaking into his voice.

[BRIGAND} NOT MENTION I DO BELIEVE WE HAD THE BASTARD RIGHT WHERE WE WANTED HIM. BUT WHO MIGHT YOU BE, EH? FRIEND OR FOE?

The basilisk projector shines, and alarms blare in engineering. . .

// <<ESTABLISHING OPEN COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL>> // <<CONNECTED>> WARNING:: MULTIPLE MEDIUM-SCALE SHIPS INBOUND INTO SPACE SECTOR.

"HEY HEY BIG MAN!! we noticed your little wreckage here, you look pretty banged up, huh? i sure do wonder what caused that, but i dont think anyone will ever find out. why you may ask? well we're gonna take you apart like a puzzle! bit by bit - then we'll kill ya, probably, maybe send a proxy over to union to collect the bounties on your head, gannascus. hope you dont take it personal big man, but your head could provide for all of us. try not to fight back too much, id hate to sell subpar amounts of ammunition from your gunnery section." - Havran.

Brigand's voice is hard, but his weariness and exhaustion is nonetheless obvious. He speaks and Demeter's Bounty bristles with gunpoints, unfolding and tracking the inbound fleet. The basilisk projector unfurls, shakily, like a nervous, mechanical flower.

[BRIGAND} HAVRAN? I ASSURE YOU THIS IS NO WRECK. WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK TO WHATEVER GLISS DEN YOU CRAWLED OUT OF.

Light's across the ship flicker as the basilisk projector hums. Lightning jumps from limb to limb of the projector, building a tree of plasma. On the bridge, the crew whisper, they know there is not enough energy to fire the projector. In the ships current state, doing so would fry the grid at the least. At worst it core the reactor. . .

[BRIGAND} EVEN BETTER, YOU'VE FOUND ME IN A RARE AND MERCIFUL MOOD, HOW DOES 500'000 MANNA SOUND? ENOUGH TO KEEP YOU IN GLISS FOR A COUPLE MONTHS AT LEAST?

Anyone who knows Brigand well would hear the tremor in his voice, the shaky breaths in. Those barely audible ques of desperation, the basilisk is a bluff, probably. . .

[BRIGAND} SHOULD YOU DECLINE I WILL TURN YOU AND YOUR PITIFUL CREW TO BABBLING HUSKS; CHUM TO FEED THE VOID.

Perhaps it isn't a bluff, maybe hes desperate enough, broken enough. But Brigand has never been the martyring type, it's a gamble, and not in his favour. . .

The basilisk hums. . .

Alarms go off in engineering. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

// <<ESTABLISHING OPEN COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL>> // <<CONNECTED>> WARNING:: MULTIPLE MEDIUM-SCALE SHIPS INBOUND INTO SPACE SECTOR.

"HEY HEY BIG MAN!! we noticed your little wreckage here, you look pretty banged up, huh? i sure do wonder what caused that, but i dont think anyone will ever find out. why you may ask? well we're gonna take you apart like a puzzle! bit by bit - then we'll kill ya, probably, maybe send a proxy over to union to collect the bounties on your head, gannascus. hope you dont take it personal big man, but your head could provide for all of us. try not to fight back too much, id hate to sell subpar amounts of ammunition from your gunnery section." - Havran.

Brigand's voice is hard, but his weariness and exhaustion is nonetheless obvious. He speaks and Demeter's Bounty bristles with gunpoints, unfolding and tracking the inbound fleet. The basilisk projector unfurls, shakily, like a nervous, mechanical flower.

[BRIGAND} HAVRAN? I ASSURE YOU THIS IS NO WRECK. WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK TO WHATEVER GLISS DEN YOU CRAWLED OUT OF.

Light's across the ship flicker as the basilisk projector hums. Lightning jumps from limb to limb of the projector, building a tree of plasma. On the bridge, the crew whisper, they know there is not enough energy to fire the projector. In the ships current state, doing so would fry the grid at the least. At worst it core the reactor. . .

[BRIGAND} EVEN BETTER, YOU'VE FOUND ME IN A RARE AND MERCIFUL MOOD, HOW DOES 500'000 MANNA SOUND? ENOUGH TO KEEP YOU IN GLISS FOR A COUPLE MONTHS AT LEAST?

Anyone who knows Brigand well would hear the tremor in his voice, the shaky breaths in. Those barely audible ques of desperation, the basilisk is a bluff, probably. . .

[BRIGAND} SHOULD YOU DECLINE I WILL TURN YOU AND YOUR PITIFUL CREW TO BABBLING HUSKS; CHUM TO FEED THE VOID.

Perhaps it isn't a bluff, maybe hes desperate enough, broken enough. But Brigand has never been the martyring type, it's a gamble, and not in his favour. . .

The basilisk hums. . .

Alarms go off in engineering. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

!!!TRIGGER WARNING!!!

Self induced harm?

Dislocated sockets/joints

Broken bones

Blood and Blood loss

Severe sleep deprivation

Hallucinations

Needles

Betrayal

Death

!All with vivid descriptions!

(I normally don't attach this many but this one's rough folks)

Brigand thunders through the dark, blood swept halls. He is charging bull and hateful avalanche. The remaining crew are all working on cutting themselves out of their holes and safe rooms. They step out bewildered and a little shell shocked, but alive. They hear him first, heavy iron boots echoing like a creeping barrage. They share concerned looks; maybe the worst has not yet passed; maybe death still hung above the Bounty like a guillotine; maybe he finally br- They duck back through the freshly forced doors, just barely avoiding the crimson tsunami that barrels down the corridors.

Inside Shallow Crimson Tide, Brigand is sweating, bleeding too, though the coagulants are doing just enough. He feels the the patches, applied automatically by the heavy suit, tear. His HUD is filled with warnings and alarms, choking his vision to a narrow tunnel. He ignores the shadows at the staring through the gaps, the unquiet dead returning to wail in time with the alarms.

He can't fucking see. He cannot hear. He cannot even think think, they are so LOUD.

The crew exchanged worried looks across the ship as Brigand screams over the intercom: One must assume the broadcast an accident? Or maybe Sabotage . . ?

[BRIGAND} SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! YOU ARE ALL DEAD AND GONE! I PUT IN THE GROUND YO- NO.

The industrial grade maglocks engage. The stop is incredibly violent and impossibly sudden. The stabilizers and servos of Shallow Crimson Tide fight and fail against the built energy, against this unstoppable force. The frame cannot save Brigand from himself. . .

His ribs crack and splinter, kindling in a giants hand. Blood vessels, gorged on momentum, burst. The Black Hand, seemingly of it's own accord, buries itself in the closest wall, tearing his shoulder from it's socket with a terrible pop. The inner most screen of his HUD shatters as his face makes contact. The sparking of the broken screen is accompanied by the sickening crunch of an equally shattered nose. The world goes searing white, his skull rings like a church bell. Every orifice and wound leaks. He shakes, shivers, slumping against the failing strength of the suit. The system cannot keep up with it all, but tries regardless. Dozens of not-small-enough needles pieces his flesh. His quickly draining blood is poisoned with an amalgamated cocktail meant to keep death at bay.

He does not want to stay still. But his mind is shattered with pain and grief. . .

He tries to think! Why can't he fucking think?! He can't even scream!

. . . and then the stims kick in. His mind races, the pain is mostly dulled. He opens his eyes and through the blood and sweat still sees corpses in the shadows. This ship is full of shadows.

[BRIGAND} NO.

His eyes lock with the corpses that are not there. He calls each out by name, recites their death and relation. With each ghost, he takes a trembling step forwards. He leaves out the reasons, the dead already know. . .

341. The clone is all he thinks about. All he tries to think about.

[BRIGAND} CAPTAIN "BELLOWS", I CONTAMINATED YOUR REACTOR FUEL BEFORE A RAID AND YOUR DEATH TOOK ALL OF SECURITY WITH YOU AND THEY CALLED YOU A HERO, I WAS YOUR CHOSEN SUCCESSOR. [BRIGAND} LIMMY, I PUT KNIFE THROUGH YOUR AIRLINE DURING AN EVA EXCURSION AND THEY ALL TOLD ME IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, YOU WERE MY BUNK-MATE. [BRIGAND} "PARAGON", I CLOSED THE BULKHEAD EARLY AS WE RAN FROM PILECLEANERS DURING THE TEAT-TIME RAID, I WAS YOUR BEST MAN AT YOUR WEDDING. [BRIGAND} "LEPER", I SLIT YOUR THROAT IN YOUR SLEEP, WE SHARED POEMS AS STOWAWAYS IN THAT DARK HOLD ON FATE'S PROMISE. [BRIGAND} "WRATH", YOU ASKED FOR MERCY AND I SPLIT YOUR SKULL WITH MY CLEAVER AND THE CROWD CHEERED, YOU MADE THAT CLEAVER FOR ME AS A GIFT.

The list goes on, broadcast across every working speaking on the Demeter's Bounty. While many judge and rage, all know the price of power, all know what this life does to you. . .

When Brigand finally reaches 341's room, he goes quiet. He stands in the doorway for a very long time, staring. The clone's pale skin is tinged pink by the ruby spotlight. Brigand falls to his knees, sucking in a quick breath through bloodied teeth. He reaches up with his hand to remove the domed and cracked helmet. The suit hisses and the seal pops. He gently places it beside him, just inside the doorway. He tries to shuffle forwards, but The Black Hand is holding the door frame tight. The metal buckles and groans under the black, writhing, mechanical kudzu. Brigand stares at it with sorrow and disbelief, even now it tries to protect him.

Slowly and carefully, he turns to it, reaching out gingerly. With the same care one would hold for a fawn, or perhaps a wolf, he begins the lengthy process of disconnecting it. All the while it writhes, lashing out at his hand, trying to push it away gently. It is a struggle, almost a game, like teasing a ball out of a dogs mouth. But eventually, with another hiss, it is done. A foul concoction of blood, sweat, vomit, and tears pours out the now open stump of the suit. The Black Hand hangs from the door frame, limp, dead. Blackened ivy, dead moss, a charred stump after a forest fire.

Brigand shuffles forward on his knees. His coat drags behind him, reminiscent of some bloodied, studded veil. It is a slow process: Shallow Crimson Tide is not suited for this and Brigand lies just short of death's door. His eyes are bloodshot, tinged yellow underneath. His face is gaunt, sallow; his skin pale and corpse-like. If not for the bleeding throat and breathless lungs, Brigand would look more a corpse than 341. He tries to laugh at that but is cut off by his shattered ribs. Instead he kneels next to his failed charge.

He would weep but he did not have the tears. The suit warnings had said something about dehydration. Instead he just sat there, shaking and sobbing for a long time. When the sobbing stopped, he did not know how long it had been, he reached out. He brushed the white-stained-crimson hair out of the corpses face. He looked so young, like a child in the moment. Brigand picked them up, cradled them in oversized, metallic arms. And he looked all the more a child, cradled by the metal half-giant.

Brigand continued to sob.

He did not speak.

He had not done enough.

He did not deserve to speak. . .

[A voice crackles over comms, nervous and hesitant. A member of the bridge crew]

Captain? We have some kind of approaching object, inbound really fast. A lot of the external sensors have been knocked out, I’m not quite sure what exactly it is, might just be space debris, but we should probably brace. I’ll try to figure some more details, but we’re not exactly working at full capacity here.

It is clear that Brigand had only been gone a moment, perhaps to think without the expectant stares of his crew. He bursts through the door, stalking to his perch above the field of normally lit terminals. Instead, only a handful are lit, and the crew huddle around them. Like beggars 'round a barrel fire. All glance nervously up at him. The rage is palpable, radiating off him in pungent waves.

[BRIGAND} BY RA I WILL F L A Y THE NEXT PERSON WHO INTERRUPTS ME.

His voice is terrible. Booming forth, loud as the gunnery deck. The distortion of Shallow Crimson Tide peaks and warbles, straining under volume and rage. He shakes visibly, even through the heavy half-frame. Yet it is not all anger in that tremble, there is exhaustion too. It seems he would scream again, with more threats and more useless rage. But he stops. He takes a long moment, heaving heavy, shaking breaths. Working the forge's bellows in reverse. When he speaks, the rage is dulled, but not gone. His voice is mostly even, trembling just slightly.

[BRIGAND} POINT DEFENCE? |Rapier|> Not on from that angle Cap, whatever it is, its threading our asshole like a sonic needle. [BRIGAND} THRUST? [Cossack]> Still down sir, we're drifting just slightly though and from what we can tell it's adjusting course. [BRIGAND} E T A? [Cossack]> Impact in. . .

The room holds it's breath. Brigand seems to frown, the baleful red light shining oppressive on the poorly lit bridge. Cossack works in near silence; humming softly to herself, and by proxy, the entire room. Everyone watches, everyone waits, and everyone listens. All present welcome the ever-brief respite. They crane their necks to listen closer to the chiptuned lullaby. They slump in seats almost forgetting the charnel house outside. The room breathes, for moment. For a moment, there is peace.

This peace is rudely interrupted. A dull blue glow fills the room as the holographic projector comes to life with a crackle. The remaining lights flicker and dim as power is diverted to the hungry projector. Cossack's digital voice is tinged with the same humour and disbelief, just as before. And just as before she looses a nervous, oddly melodic laugh.

[Cossack]> Impact in roughly 5 minutes sir, realtime, give or take a minute.

Brigand sighs, it is nearly imperceptible. It would've been easy to mistake it for the subtle sounds of any ship. Like a house settling. He does nothing, simply standing there, staring at nothing. The room is quiet again.

[Cossack]> Three minutes sir.

Still he says nothing. Still he does nothing. He stands there, a desperate statue. Someone starts to hum, quiet and nervous. They copy Cossack's tune, a digital lullaby, sung in flesh.

[Cossack]> Two minutes! What are we doing sir?! [BRIGAND} WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO? [Cossack]> Sir?

The tune has changed now. It is a funeral hymn, an ancient sailors shanty. More of the crew take up the song. It is old, visceral, haunting. Cossack stares at her Captain in disbelief.

[Cossack]> SIR!? One minute!

Brigand takes up the chant as well. His voice, even through the distortion, is a deep well of sorrow and hurt.

He is broken.

So deeply broken.

Despite the everything, Cossack continues to try, she continues to do her job, to serve her captain. She tracks the object, counting down the seconds to impact:

[Cossack]> 10 . . . |A L L| The king and his men. . . [Cossack]> 9 . . . |A L L| Stole the queen from her bed . . . [Cossack]> 8 . . . |A L L| And bound her in her bones. . . [Cossack]> 7 . . . |A L L| The sea be ours . . . [Cossack]> 6 . . . |A L L| And by the powers . . . [Cossack]> 5 . . . |A L L| Where we will, we'll roam . . . [Cossack]> 4 . . . |A L L| Yo ho, all togethor [Cossack]> 3 . . . |A L L| Hoist the colours high. . . [Cossack]> 2 . . . |A L L| Heave ho, thieves and beggars. . . [Cossack]> 1 . . . |A L L| And never shall we die . . .

The ships shudders.

[ras-favourite-balor]

Follower Goals and Check-In

Gadies and Lentlemen, boys and girls, theys, thems, its, and anyone I missed: Greetings to you all!

It is I, Saxtor, the sado-masochistic bastard behind the scenes, pulling the strings, ect, ect, here.

Today specifically, but also the recent arcs in general have been pretty intense recently. So heres a nice little rest, a break from my ([our*] looking at all you freaks who insist on putting our blorbos through hell) torment tapestry. Little bit of housekeeping and updating and what-have-you. Two things really:

Firstly - FOLLOWER GOALS:

Missed Goals + Official Art Commision: So like I kept saying I was gonna do something for a number of different milestones and was then beset by burnout and college kindof-finals. So I will be commissioning something, plan right now is likely just Brigand and maybe Shallow Crimson Tide. BUT if we can get to 100 followers by the end of april, I'll splurge and get PERSEPHONE in there too.

Big Lore Drop - Vote Below: But that's not all, I've got the time and energy for a massive lore dump post, which Y'all can vote on. :) Y'all have got a week to vote, I hope I didn't miss anything.

Secondly - R&R

Once the current arcs are all wrapped up, or I finish school for the year (MAYish); I will be taking a significant and purposeful break (not like how I normally disappear for weeks at a time due to burnout and exhaustion).

I'll be taking a while off, estimation is like a month? But time isn't real and very far away. I will be active catching up my (supposed to be) primary blog @saxtorwritessometimes . I've got a fuck load of poetry and some short stories to format, finish and upload over there.

I will still be active wherever you can manage to find me and will do another one of these closer to that that time. That is all for me today! I got school shit that I mostly have to do.

All of you will have of wonderful rest of your day~

-Saxtor

[ras-favourite-balor]

[Twenty minutes before the impact on the Demeter's Bounty] [A gaggle of scared, confused and injured medics - and a few straggling defectors from the Bounty - huddle beneath the schedule 2 bulk of Whiteout's mecha. A few last stragglers file in as Whiteout hails the Synchrogazer one last time.] WHITEOUT: Infinity? Is that everyone? STARING-INTO-INFINITY: All personnel accounted for. Now would be a good time to leave. WHITEOUT: Good, cause we won't have long to leave after i break the lockdown. [Whiteout's voice sounds through her mechs external comms systems.] WHITEOUT: I'm about to get us out of here! Once you see that airlock door open, start running and don't stop till you're strapped in for a nearlight bolt. We're not hanging around a second longer than we need to. I'm cracking it open in 3, 2... [The gears and servos of the cobbled together airlock door whine and screech as its electrical components are bombarded with waves of brute force electrical interference. They twitch and spasm as bits flip semi-randomly in their control systems until eventually Whiteout sees an opportunity and finally hammers them into compliance.] [The doors spring open and a flood of bodies rushes through into the waiting umbilical of the Synchrogazer which snaps shut behind them and begins to retract, carrying Whiteout and the survivors with her] [The crew barely have time to strap themselves in before it begins a hard burn away from the Demeter's Bounty, and then disappears in a nearlight flash.]

[ras-favourite-balor]

The entire ship shudders. A distant rolling thunder shakes loose a wave dust and dried blood. Brigand's voice, distorted still, comes over the comes like rolling fog. It is calm, at least he tries to disguise his exhaustion by appearing calm.

[BRIGAND} FINE.

Across the ship, security forces pull back from their hunts for the interlopers. They retreat to sealed armouries and saferooms.

[BRIGAND} ANY WHO WISH MAY GO.

Non-Corsair personnel glance at personal terminals and listen to voices in their earpieces.

[BRIGAND} YOU HAVE YOUR HOUR.

They hurry through checkpoints, abandoning living quarters.

[BRIGAND} TODAY IS YOURS "Miss Morse".

They crowd into essential decks and battle stations.

[BRIGAND} MAY YOU CHOKE ON IT.

Many don hardsuits if they have them, others crawl into mechs and seal the cockpit.

[BRIGAND} WHEN YOUR HOUR IS UP, ALL NONESSENTIAL DECKS WILL BE DEPRESSURIZED.

Many doors and bulkheads have to be sealed manually, emergency welding kits handed out en mass.

[BRIGAND} ROADBURN WILL WEIGH HEAVY ON ME.

Maintenance crews work at breakneck speed, patching holes and leaks.

[BRIGAND} YET HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.

Klaxons call out like hungry gulls, and emergency lights paint the corridors with fresh crimson.

[BRIGAND} HOW MANY OTHERS DID YOU SEND TO AN EARLY GRAVE?

The Demeter's Bounty groans, a great bestial groan, sick but not quite dying.

[BRIGAND} STABBY? WITH THEIR IDLE THREATS.

His voice drips with venom, raw and potent hate.

[BRIGAND} MYLES? THE "GOOD" MONSTER.

Wicked laughter bubbles up from some dark pit as he continues, it is sick, a plagued hyenas cackle.

[BRIGAND} MAC? SUCH A LOVING HUSBAND.

He struggled to speak as the laugh grows from a bubbling brook to raging river.

[BRIGAND} ALL THE OTHERS THAT DIED ALONG WAY?

He is truly broken, truly sick, he can barely speak as his lungs convulse.

[BRIGAND} AND FOR WHAT? A FUCKING TRIAL?

He tries to speak, tries to continue his mockery and blame.

But he is not here, he is somewhere else.

He is somewhere where corpses sing.

Where the dead do not sleep.

He sees them.

He knows them.

He does not sleep.

[A set of 12 voices come over the shipwide communications.... singing? Other Systems appear to begin to be sabotaged as their "Song" continues]

Knock Knock

Who's There?

Knock Knock

Better Run and Hide

Your Home's Turned Into a House of Glass

Think of the Lives Your Wasting Now

So Throw Out Your Negotiations

Knock Knock

Anybody Answer

Knock Knock

We're Coming Through the Doors

Knock Knock

Your Ceiling and Your Floors

Knock Knock

Should've Given You the Bark

Things are Gonna Get Dark

Don't Choke When Ya Fear Us

Cause We Aren't Smoke

Or Mirrors

Pushing All Your Buttons but Ain't Got Mute

But All You'll Hear Is Silence When We Find You

So

KNOCK KNOCK

Better Ready to Answer

KNOCK KNOCK

Forgetting All Your Manners

KNOCK KNOCK

Barricade Your Doors

KNOCK KNOCK

Your Ceilings and Your Floors

Floating Into Your House

Bringing You a War

//WHEELLOCK\\

Brigand stands on the bridge, gazing out through Shallow Crimson Tide. His single eye is dim, casting a puddle of weak red light around him, as he stares off into the middle distance. Around the room, the bridge crew throw nervous glances at their absent captain. The bridge crew, the loyal few, are all non-corsairs. All are clearly grizzled veterans, marked by time's heavy hand. Their myriad scars exaggerated by the low light of the bridge, long shadowed valleys carved in old skin. Most are augmented in one way or another. There might just be more prosthesis than natural flesh in the room. Most bear tattoos, even if their not visible here. The logos of long dead pirate crews, symbols denoting great deeds and greater violence. One by one, the terminals around the room go dark. Still, Brigand does not react, yet The Black Hand twitches with each downed system:

"We've lost long and short range comms!"

"No more surveillance Cap'n, powers been rerouted t'life support. . ."

"Even hydroponics is dark. . ."

"Engineering bays 1 through 7 have gone silent!"

"Lost contact with medbay."

"Flight capabilities are gone Captain! We're sitting idle now. . ."

"Habitation's lost it's spin, gravity ship wide is on the fritz!"

"Quartermaster Able says they've lost power down in cargo!"

"C.R.E.W. on gunnery 1, 2, and 4 report near complete power loss!"

"Internal weapons systems are offline?!"

"Hangers are locked tight, nothing in or out."

"They've got control of locking corridor doors sir, security couldn't reach them, even with hull cutters, their like fucking gho-"

The Black Hand slams into the nearest wall. The bridge goes near silent, the sound only whirring fans and beeping terminals. Brigand heaves heavy breaths, distorted to sound like some dying, demented pipe organ. Every head turns to gaze upon the captain. . .

And for just a moment the mask has slipped. It is clear in how he stands, slumped and teetering slightly, that the suit is all that holds him upright. Even then, he leans heavily on a support beam, warped by The Black Hand's impact and it's lasting presence. He seems so small in this moment. A man broken by the world, given in to madness and death. Consumed by hate and the influence of that terrible, black appendage. He looks as if he will collapse under the weight of it all, before he stands mostly straight.

He turns to address the bridge. Yet when he speaks, his voice lacks a degree of threat. He is tired, worn down, when was the last time he slept? No one has seen him sleep since donning Shallow Crimson Tide. . .

[BRIGAND} LABYRINTH, TELL ABLE TO BRING OUT THE PIPECLEANERS, SHOOT TO KILL, OVERRIDE SAFETY PROTOCOLS.

He takes a shaking step forward, regaining his composure by the moment. An older man with a snake tattoo coiled about his neck nods and begins hammering away at his keyboard. Most of the terminals are off, less than a dozen remain on. The pale glow lights waiting faces. He looks to a heavily scarred woman, much her face replaced with crude cybernetics.

[BRIGAND} COSSACK! FIRE THE BLINK DRIVE. I DON'T CARE WHERE, SOMEWHERE REMOTE. THEY WON'T LEAVE HERE ALIVE.

The woman nods, connecting a cable from the terminal to a port roughly where her temple should be. The remaining crew are split, those with terminals still active start checking status of remaining systems preemptively, while the rest look expectantly to Brigand, awaiting orders. Brigand eye flares as he bellows through the tinny speakers:

[BRIGAND} OILER! WHATS OUR STATUS WITH MAINTE-

He is cut off by the woman with the metal face, Cossack. Her voice is similar to his own, but more human somehow. The not quite synthetic voice is a jumble of emotions. Foremost is confusion, and concern, followed by fear:

[Cossack]> SIR! I don't know how to tell you this but. . .

Yet there is also humour, a nervous laugh spills out as she pauses.

[BRIGAND} WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT COSSACK? [Cossack]> The blink drive sir, it-its. . .

She laughs again, disbelief pushing through the digital staccato. Brigand lurches towards her terminal. But he is a giant among hedgerows. The space between control stations is tight and there is no room for him. The eye burns with contempt, settling on Cossack like a searchlight. His voice is worse, peaking the limits of it's distortion as his temper flares.

[BRIGAND} THIS IS NO TIME FOR ANOTHER OF YOUR "JOKES". [Cossack]> The blink drive is gone, sir. Not offline, it's not even present, not even here. Empty air where it should be. . .

The room is silent again for a moment as Cossack's not-voice trails off. All stare at her, faces painted with confusion, with disbelief. She turns away from the gawking crowd and works at her terminal. The rest of the crew converse in hushed tones, those with working terminals start their own checks. After a moment, a flickering hologram is projected above them all. A live feed diagnostic with accompanying 3D wire map.

The room is silenced.

The blink drive is gone.

[ras-favourite-balor]

[A voice crackles over comms, nervous and hesitant. A member of the bridge crew]

Captain? We have some kind of approaching object, inbound really fast. A lot of the external sensors have been knocked out, I’m not quite sure what exactly it is, might just be space debris, but we should probably brace. I’ll try to figure some more details, but we’re not exactly working at full capacity here.

It is clear that Brigand had only been gone a moment, perhaps to think without the expectant stares of his crew. He bursts through the door, stalking to his perch above the field of normally lit terminals. Instead, only a handful are lit, and the crew huddle around them. Like beggars 'round a barrel fire. All glance nervously up at him. The rage is palpable, radiating off him in pungent waves.

[BRIGAND} BY RA I WILL F L A Y THE NEXT PERSON WHO INTERRUPTS ME.

His voice is terrible. Booming forth, loud as the gunnery deck. The distortion of Shallow Crimson Tide peaks and warbles, straining under volume and rage. He shakes visibly, even through the heavy half-frame. Yet it is not all anger in that tremble, there is exhaustion too. It seems he would scream again, with more threats and more useless rage. But he stops. He takes a long moment, heaving heavy, shaking breaths. Working the forge's bellows in reverse. When he speaks, the rage is dulled, but not gone. His voice is mostly even, trembling just slightly.

[BRIGAND} POINT DEFENCE? |Rapier|> Not on from that angle Cap, whatever it is, its threading our asshole like a sonic needle. [BRIGAND} THRUST? [Cossack]> Still down sir, we're drifting just slightly though and from what we can tell it's adjusting course. [BRIGAND} E T A? [Cossack]> Impact in. . .

The room holds it's breath. Brigand seems to frown, the baleful red light shining oppressive on the poorly lit bridge. Cossack works in near silence; humming softly to herself, and by proxy, the entire room. Everyone watches, everyone waits, and everyone listens. All present welcome the ever-brief respite. They crane their necks to listen closer to the chiptuned lullaby. They slump in seats almost forgetting the charnel house outside. The room breathes, for moment. For a moment, there is peace.

This peace is rudely interrupted. A dull blue glow fills the room as the holographic projector comes to life with a crackle. The remaining lights flicker and dim as power is diverted to the hungry projector. Cossack's digital voice is tinged with the same humour and disbelief, just as before. And just as before she looses a nervous, oddly melodic laugh.

[Cossack]> Impact in roughly 5 minutes sir, realtime, give or take a minute.

Brigand sighs, it is nearly imperceptible. It would've been easy to mistake it for the subtle sounds of any ship. Like a house settling. He does nothing, simply standing there, staring at nothing. The room is quiet again.

[Cossack]> Three minutes sir.

Still he says nothing. Still he does nothing. He stands there, a desperate statue. Someone starts to hum, quiet and nervous. They copy Cossack's tune, a digital lullaby, sung in flesh.

[Cossack]> Two minutes! What are we doing sir?! [BRIGAND} WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO? [Cossack]> Sir?

The tune has changed now. It is a funeral hymn, an ancient sailors shanty. More of the crew take up the song. It is old, visceral, haunting. Cossack stares at her Captain in disbelief.

[Cossack]> SIR!? One minute!

Brigand takes up the chant as well. His voice, even through the distortion, is a deep well of sorrow and hurt.

He is broken.

So deeply broken.

Despite the everything, Cossack continues to try, she continues to do her job, to serve her captain. She tracks the object, counting down the seconds to impact:

[Cossack]> 10 . . . |A L L| The king and his men. . . [Cossack]> 9 . . . |A L L| Stole the queen from her bed . . . [Cossack]> 8 . . . |A L L| And bound her in her bones. . . [Cossack]> 7 . . . |A L L| The sea be ours . . . [Cossack]> 6 . . . |A L L| And by the powers . . . [Cossack]> 5 . . . |A L L| Where we will, we'll roam . . . [Cossack]> 4 . . . |A L L| Yo ho, all togethor [Cossack]> 3 . . . |A L L| Hoist the colours high. . . [Cossack]> 2 . . . |A L L| Heave ho, thieves and beggars. . . [Cossack]> 1 . . . |A L L| And never shall we die . . .

The ships shudders.

[ras-favourite-balor]

Persephone towered over the Aunic scavengers. Her new form scared people, only marginally, less. Trading the swarm for a hive, it had been Brigand's idea. To be a little less imposing to the crew, to "Keep th' children free o' nightmares, dear" he'd said. Along with something about Chernobog and the 30 Hour War. She'd thought it odd, how much they'd both changed. It felt odd, to care for people, it always had. But Brigand was a special case, her feelings for him were something left over from before. Like a vestigial limb given a new purpose. . .

Wisdom teeth bloom in the dark fleshy womb of a child's mouth. But they are no longer needed. Humanity has long since outgrown the need for random ivory backups. So they are removed. The surgeon would simply dispose of them, another job well done. While the dentist might keep them for a personal collection, how twisted and gnarled are the roots. The parents care not, they are only teeth after all and they have shed all childhood whimsy. But the child. The child is full of wonder and whimsy. She has a love, found disturbing by some, off putting by most, for death and the macabre. She demands her teeth, now removed. She will make something of them. She knows not what. Not yet but she will make something beautiful and new with these ruined molars. She wi-

One of the scavengers is snapping his fingers, and shouting in that terrible little voice of his. It is like a bog swallowing a camel, and it's incessant screaching interrupts her reminiscing pulls her from her thoughts. She glares down at him. How easy it would be to just kill all of these pathetic scavengers. They are less than insects to her, insignificant and distant from everything she could ever care about. But, she can pay, and she would pay. Brigand deserves something nice, a new toy after everything he's been through recently. She often forgets how fragile he is, how small he is, compared to her. Her glare softens somewhat, a smile creeping onto her monstrous faceplate.

The scavenger sees nanite teeth appear in her iron mouth and stutters, trailing off. She smiles wide, showing the rows and rows of undulating, amorphous teeth behind her mask. She stares at him for a long moment, watching the sweat bead on his heavy brow. Listening to his heart race, feeling the fear pheromones waft over of her. She drinks in his fear, basks in it like a sunflower. She feels her greywash mantle react subconsciously, flickering in a imaginary wind. She almost gives in, but stops herself. She does not need more enemies, neither does Brigand. She nods to one of her entourage, a member of the C.R.E.W. The subaltern steps forward and drops a large black sack clinking onto the scavengers makeshift table.

The man's fear melts to suspicion as one of his fellows, an old woman crooked backed and white haired, carefully checks the bag. Her eyes go wide as she peers inside and she nods vigorously to the man. The man, whom Persephone never bothered to ask a name, beams at her. His fear is not gone, in fact it soars as he stands and offers her a trembling hand to shake. She has to stop herself from smiling as she take his hand in hers. Flesh and machine. She could crush it without a second thought, but she is careful to stop squeezing just short of breaking bone. For his credit, the man smiles through the pain. With the deal finally made, both turn to their respective groups.

The man turns to his cohort and starts shouting again in that terrible little voice. They are instantly in motion, scurrying over their piles of salvage, looking for the promised purchase. Persephone turns to her own entourage, consisting of just under two dozen subalterns. There are eight PIPECLEANERs, not that she needed the protection, but it never hurt to have backup. There were the two C.R.E.W., acting as her lieutenants. Last came the throng of lifters and haulers, meant to transport the newly acquired gift. She nods both C.R.E.W. and they take over. Two PIPECLEANERs and one C.R.E.W. stay with her, as the rest follow the scavengers to retrieve the gift.

She closed her eyes, most of them at least, so she could try and enjoy the peaceful quiet. The wind over the fields, the grass rustling a hidden symphony. She loved music, she thought it odd that most NHPs seemed not to appreciate art as she did. One of the few great things of humanities whole. She thought she might even sit, perhaps lay in the grass. Devote more of herself to enjoying the moment. That would be nice. But something was off.

Within herself. Something was out of place. She was not shackled, yet often chose push much of her subjectivity into sub-routines and vaults when dealing with humanity. It was easier that way, easier to forget what they had done to her. Done to Brigand. But something was wrong, like comet whirling through her mind, yet slow and deliberate. She opened vaults and killed sub-routines, growing her perception, her mind. She had been careless, she realized. She had left a door open, assuming nothing would, nothing could follow her.

She would've sighed, if she had the lungs. Such a shame to ruin this peaceful day with more fury. More fire and brimstone. Another thousand thousand locusts made of teeth and hate. She let this frustration fester, watering it with thoughts of burning fields, of wasted time. She let it grow, from sapling frustration to burgeoning hate. She formed her cloak of this hate, that someone dare intrude on her!? That someone might follow through the tunnel she carved through space!? That someone would interfere with her gift giving!?

This would not stand.

They were closing in, and she raged, in body and mind. She laughed at the impotence of interloper. She would not even leave a corpse. No one would know they ever existed.

As this stranger passed through the storm of her mind, as they approached the place where she hid the door. She tore the door open. Any ship or scanner would've seen it, it would've set off alarms in every system. Klaxons would blare and every screen would warn of a breach in legionspace. Or maybe blinkspace? Something else entirely? But she was the only god here, and her work was unnoticed by the mortals. They saw only a slight ripple in the air, like a summer's horizon. But she saw the tear, a bleeding wound in space. And she laughed, cackled at the coming death.

She was ready and furious.

I AM MISSING.

I AM SEARCHING. SEEKING. FINDING.

A GIFT IS NEEDED. FIT FOR A GOD OF WAR. A GOD OF DEATH.

GILDED CRIMSON GOLD. BLOODED AND BLOODLETTING. INTOXICATING. EXOTIC.

SOMETHING NEVER SEEN. NEVER WIELDED. NEVER CONSUMED. SOMETHING ALL CONSUMING.

THESE FOLK KNOW WELL OF GODS. KNOW WELL THE WAYS OF WAR.

THEY WILL HAVE WHAT I SEEK.

I AM MISSING.

[ras-favourite-balor]

[A set of 12 voices come over the shipwide communications.... singing? Other Systems appear to begin to be sabotaged as their "Song" continues]

Knock Knock

Who's There?

Knock Knock

Better Run and Hide

Your Home's Turned Into a House of Glass

Think of the Lives Your Wasting Now

So Throw Out Your Negotiations

Knock Knock

Anybody Answer

Knock Knock

We're Coming Through the Doors

Knock Knock

Your Ceiling and Your Floors

Knock Knock

Should've Given You the Bark

Things are Gonna Get Dark

Don't Choke When Ya Fear Us

Cause We Aren't Smoke

Or Mirrors

Pushing All Your Buttons but Ain't Got Mute

But All You'll Hear Is Silence When We Find You

So

KNOCK KNOCK

Better Ready to Answer

KNOCK KNOCK

Forgetting All Your Manners

KNOCK KNOCK

Barricade Your Doors

KNOCK KNOCK

Your Ceilings and Your Floors

Floating Into Your House

Bringing You a War

//WHEELLOCK\\

Brigand stands on the bridge, gazing out through Shallow Crimson Tide. His single eye is dim, casting a puddle of weak red light around him, as he stares off into the middle distance. Around the room, the bridge crew throw nervous glances at their absent captain. The bridge crew, the loyal few, are all non-corsairs. All are clearly grizzled veterans, marked by time's heavy hand. Their myriad scars exaggerated by the low light of the bridge, long shadowed valleys carved in old skin. Most are augmented in one way or another. There might just be more prosthesis than natural flesh in the room. Most bear tattoos, even if their not visible here. The logos of long dead pirate crews, symbols denoting great deeds and greater violence. One by one, the terminals around the room go dark. Still, Brigand does not react, yet The Black Hand twitches with each downed system:

"We've lost long and short range comms!"

"No more surveillance Cap'n, powers been rerouted t'life support. . ."

"Even hydroponics is dark. . ."

"Engineering bays 1 through 7 have gone silent!"

"Lost contact with medbay."

"Flight capabilities are gone Captain! We're sitting idle now. . ."

"Habitation's lost it's spin, gravity ship wide is on the fritz!"

"Quartermaster Able says they've lost power down in cargo!"

"C.R.E.W. on gunnery 1, 2, and 4 report near complete power loss!"

"Internal weapons systems are offline?!"

"Hangers are locked tight, nothing in or out."

"They've got control of locking corridor doors sir, security couldn't reach them, even with hull cutters, their like fucking gho-"

The Black Hand slams into the nearest wall. The bridge goes near silent, the sound only whirring fans and beeping terminals. Brigand heaves heavy breaths, distorted to sound like some dying, demented pipe organ. Every head turns to gaze upon the captain. . .

And for just a moment the mask has slipped. It is clear in how he stands, slumped and teetering slightly, that the suit is all that holds him upright. Even then, he leans heavily on a support beam, warped by The Black Hand's impact and it's lasting presence. He seems so small in this moment. A man broken by the world, given in to madness and death. Consumed by hate and the influence of that terrible, black appendage. He looks as if he will collapse under the weight of it all, before he stands mostly straight.

He turns to address the bridge. Yet when he speaks, his voice lacks a degree of threat. He is tired, worn down, when was the last time he slept? No one has seen him sleep since donning Shallow Crimson Tide. . .

[BRIGAND} LABYRINTH, TELL ABLE TO BRING OUT THE PIPECLEANERS, SHOOT TO KILL, OVERRIDE SAFETY PROTOCOLS.

He takes a shaking step forward, regaining his composure by the moment. An older man with a snake tattoo coiled about his neck nods and begins hammering away at his keyboard. Most of the terminals are off, less than a dozen remain on. The pale glow lights waiting faces. He looks to a heavily scarred woman, much her face replaced with crude cybernetics.

[BRIGAND} COSSACK! FIRE THE BLINK DRIVE. I DON'T CARE WHERE, SOMEWHERE REMOTE. THEY WON'T LEAVE HERE ALIVE.

The woman nods, connecting a cable from the terminal to a port roughly where her temple should be. The remaining crew are split, those with terminals still active start checking status of remaining systems preemptively, while the rest look expectantly to Brigand, awaiting orders. Brigand eye flares as he bellows through the tinny speakers:

[BRIGAND} OILER! WHATS OUR STATUS WITH MAINTE-

He is cut off by the woman with the metal face, Cossack. Her voice is similar to his own, but more human somehow. The not quite synthetic voice is a jumble of emotions. Foremost is confusion, and concern, followed by fear:

[Cossack]> SIR! I don't know how to tell you this but. . .

Yet there is also humour, a nervous laugh spills out as she pauses.

[BRIGAND} WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT COSSACK? [Cossack]> The blink drive sir, it-its. . .

She laughs again, disbelief pushing through the digital staccato. Brigand lurches towards her terminal. But he is a giant among hedgerows. The space between control stations is tight and there is no room for him. The eye burns with contempt, settling on Cossack like a searchlight. His voice is worse, peaking the limits of it's distortion as his temper flares.

[BRIGAND} THIS IS NO TIME FOR ANOTHER OF YOUR "JOKES". [Cossack]> The blink drive is gone, sir. Not offline, it's not even present, not even here. Empty air where it should be. . .

The room is silent again for a moment as Cossack's not-voice trails off. All stare at her, faces painted with confusion, with disbelief. She turns away from the gawking crowd and works at her terminal. The rest of the crew converse in hushed tones, those with working terminals start their own checks. After a moment, a flickering hologram is projected above them all. A live feed diagnostic with accompanying 3D wire map.

The room is silenced.

The blink drive is gone.

[ras-favourite-balor]

["Strange that people are happy to adopt epithets they would fight to the death to throw off had they been imposed."]

["The bomb lives only as it is falling"]

[Do You Understand That?]

[Or Does This One Have To Spell Out The Danger You Are In?]

[You Will Be Found]

[And I Will Enjoy Watching Your Work Burn]

[I Will Make You Understand Real Loss]

[Explosive Temperament Of Mercenaries]

[And The Bombs Are Falling]

The footage is quiet and dark. A nameless hallway. Through the shadows, a corner is barely visible, just lighter than the surrounding dark. The ship shudders from some distant damage. As the shock wave rumbles and dies, falling dust catches a coming light. Baleful red. It dies on the falling dust.

Another shudder, this one is closer. This one does not fade. The shudder grows as more dust, more ashes fall. More light dies, reflected around a corner. The coming shudder is close enough to hear in proper: heavy metal boots fall and rise. The corner glows like a forge.

[BRIGAND} I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THIS.

Three figures turn the corner at a sprint. They hold no weapons, yet their hardsuit's are very clearly combat made. One, taller than the rest, collapses as they attempt the corner. Their leg simply crumples, they collide with the wall corner first. The other two do not stop. The fallen corpse struggles to stand. The light around the corner is a bloodied angel. They die in an iron stampede. The crunch of armour and snap of their spine is just audible over the metallic boot falls.

[BRIGAND} ANYTHING YOU TAKE FROM ME I SHALL DEAL BACK DOUBLE.

The remaining corpses were too slow. They disappear, swallowed by the baleful red light. Run down by a mad god in a gore gilded chariot. Their screams are drowned by the thundering steel hooves. As if they had the time or the breath to scream. Brigand continues disappearing from sight down the corridor. As the unholy light fades, the ruined corpses are revealed. The mangled forms leak. A pooling shadow, dark against against the dark.

[BRIGAND} AN EYE FOR AN EYE MAKES US ALL BLIND. [BRIGAND} I WILL RULE AS A ONE-EYED KING.

Somewhere nearby, the ship shudders again. A long, lasting shudder. . .

[ras-favourite-balor]

And a great [STORM | CHASM | MAW] he found.

The not-door was [GONE | FORGOTTEN | ERADICATED], and the knight-thing fell into a crimson-sliver maelstrom.

The wind is full of [TEETH | DAGGERS | MUSIC], his blood darkens the drinking-rain.

[SKIN | ARMOUR | SUBJECTIVITY] chip and rust, feeding the razor-wind.

Somewhere she laughs, her [LAUGH | BEING | SMILE] is spasming wind and bleeding lightning.

Yet as she laughs, he knows the [PATTERNS | M͞ÁD̶D̸̛Ņ̀͞E҉̵͢S͞S͠͞ | REFLECTIONS] of this storm.

If anyone could [NAVIGATE | TRESPASS | VOYAGE] through the storm it is he.

And there! Through a [BRIEF | PURPOSEFUL | TIMELESS] gap in the ever-bleeding clouds!

He spies the [EYE | SOUL | GATEWAY] of this hungry tempest.

If he could only reach it, he would be [SAFE | HALFWAY | HOME].

She laughs again and the gap is gone, the platinum-ruby cataclysm around him convulses.

His time to act iS [SHORT | Ḿ̷Ơ͞C͘͠K̵̴̡̕͘Ì̢̀́N̸͜G̷҉̀ | LONG].

I AM MISSING.

I AM SEARCHING. SEEKING. FINDING.

A GIFT IS NEEDED. FIT FOR A GOD OF WAR. A GOD OF DEATH.

GILDED CRIMSON GOLD. BLOODED AND BLOODLETTING. INTOXICATING. EXOTIC.

SOMETHING NEVER SEEN. NEVER WIELDED. NEVER CONSUMED. SOMETHING ALL CONSUMING.

THESE FOLK KNOW WELL OF GODS. KNOW WELL THE WAYS OF WAR.

THEY WILL HAVE WHAT I SEEK.

I AM MISSING.