Suspended there, in the stygian ink of this star-less stretch of Space, the GS-100 Salvage Ship known as the Lucky Mynock eased ever closer towards it's prey. But, let not the name fool you, for luck was a word many a Spacer would say had deserted the Mynock a number cycles ago -- back when the elder Fennaris, father of Lev and Rosalyyn, had passed on. Back then the ship sported a crew of fifteen, and their operation spanned five sister vessels.
Fortunes change, and sometimes those distortions bend and break against your favor. They lost the crew, lost the support of their sibling ships. But the Wroonian twins, Lev and Rosalyyn, they remained. Income paltry at best, but they would endure. Permanently on the look out for the big score, that one Salvage operation that could turn a couple of Fringe Scavs like them in to a legitimate outfit once more.
Thus the unfortunate circumstance that brought them here.
To worsen matters, it'd been no easy journey either. First, a deal fell sour, and Lev -- poor Lev -- found himself enslaved, sexually, to a Gamorrean Warrior Queen known as Bloodtusk. It was the type of experience you had to warn your audience to sit down before it's theatrical re-telling, sick and twisted. Even some of the mangiest, most ragtag, Deep Spacers from the Companion Discs couldn't handle it in vivid detail. But they managed to abrade through -- barely.
Forged Salvage Permits landed them incarcerated on some World that didn't even have a name, just a random string of numbers that neither Lev, nor Rosa could entirely remember at this point. PF-778.22/1, or some nonsense like that. Locked away on that planet, the two of them increased the entire sentient population of the World to twenty-three. Why there was even a Jailhouse there was the more pertinent question.
A couple of Outlaw Techs performed a series of shoddy upgrades on the Mynock that rendered her dry docked for seven months, between the illegal modification fines, quay fees, and repair bills it took an additional five Standard months just to get her space bound again.
But finally, here they were.
A Bothan Explorer -- one of their more reliable contacts -- had informed them, while trailblazing Hyperspace lanes through Companion Disc Esk, he and his team had came across some vintage Old Republic-Era Freighter. Knowing just how unmeasured and rabid the Collector's Market could be, they were quick to cut a deal. The NavCodes were exchanged, and they'd finally arrived at the first potentially meaningful score they had known in a ruthlessly long while.
"I've never seen Hull scoring like this, " Lev asserted. "I don't know what type of hazard they piloted through -- or when. But that sure ain't gonna buff out. I don't even know if they make this kind of plating anymore."
"Sithspit, stop whining! We haven't even given it a proper once over yet." Rosa cried back, coaxing the Salvage Vessel ever closer with the persuasion of a true veteran. "Just keep an eye on that Docking hatch, little brother." She was an astonishing seven minutes older than Lev.
"Should have dumped you with that Hutt back on Nyrvona." he groaned.
"I've still got the Comm Frequency for the Gammoreans. . . "
"I've said to stop bringing that up!"
"Docking Hatch?"
"We're good, " Lev snapped a matte black lever on his command terminal, lurching the boarding umbilical from their ship forward with a gasp of motors and heavy hydraulic release. "Odds or evens?"
"Odds, " Rosa replied almost on instinct.
"One, two, three. . . shoot" The twins spoke concurrently before tossing their fingers forward. The sum was three.
"Ouch. . . better suit up, lil' bro. I bet it's real cold over there." She teased diabolically.
Lev, releasing an undecipherable string of depraved, vulgar, and degrading profanities under his breath. Gave his sister's head a stiff shove as he lofted upwards from a cracked, poorly aged Kashyyykian Leather seat with grudging disdain. His body swaying out of the cockpit with laggard and lazy stride. He really wasn't in the mood to enrobe in the environmental suit, there was just something about them he did not like. Something that made his eye twitch and his heart race. Likely a fearful remnant of witnessing first-hand the sudden and cataclysmic depressurization of some unfortunate Salvager years back.
"Lev, take the laser cutter with you. I'm not getting even a faint electrical reading, no way you're gonna pry that door open."
"O.K!" He huffed with a boorish growl.
With a fair few hours of work, and an unholy volume of cussing spat on to the glass of his dome-like helmet. Lev had cut through the Docking Door of the old Freighter and pressurized the cabin structure of the vessel.
Rosalynn, some time later, with a hefty jacket whose better days were well behind it began her way through the docking umbilical. Hands in her pockets, hood draped atop her blue head, and breath misting in to thick clouds from behind her full, lush lips. The entire tube, and the surprisingly empty compartments that rested beyond it murmured with a purr of energy that surged through chunky cables that were strewn and convolved along the floor; feeding power to the electronic and mechanical tools Lev was wielding, from generators back on the Mynock.
Heating globes, and light cylinders were placed at measured intervals, vaulting the eerie Freighter interior in a jaundiced yellow glow. With the pads of her boots spattering in the growing condensation that wept from the walls and ceiling as the warmth urged the icy build ups back with unrelenting persistence, she carried on. Other than a preliminary glance, they hadn't done any exploring yet to see what exactly they had found here. Right now it was looking like whomever the previous owner had been, they cleaned this place out well before abandoning the ship to disrepair and neglect.
"How's it looking up there, Lev?" His sisters voice dully echoed.
"Man, these boards are absolutely fried." Knuckles bleeding, he angled the main piloting console control board as much as he could afford without fully dismantling it from the structural frame it was connected to, his gaze probing through the gap and tracing across singed wires and circuitry that had been scorched black. "Rosa, I hate to say it, but I seriously have a feeling this is just going to cost US credits. Collectors want their toys pristine. We'd probably have to Crusade through all of Hutt Space to find a junker selling parts, and they'd just bend us over and thrust real hard. I mean real hard. You remember those Reek Shows on Ylesia? Harder than that! Like, oh yes, thank you, sir. May I please have more." He fussed, making a vulgar thrusting motion with one fist, while clapping his palm and fingers around the forearm with the other.
Firmly he wadded away the crimson streaks from the ragged scuff that reddened his fist with a dirty cloth taken from his back pocket, unaware he'd even been bleeding up until that point.
"Hey, " the girls voice resonated over the consistent hum of energy from the power cables once more.
"W. . what?" Lev stiffly replied after he unceremoniously blew snot from his numb nose in to the same filthy scrap of fabric.
For a short stretch Rosalyyn offered him no reply. "Hey. . . hey come check this out!"
"Where are you?" He tagged back, quickly beginning to traverse out of the cockpit and through a narrow, winding hall.
"Main Hold -- I'd guess."
Wayfaring his way through the vapid and bare ship interior, Lev managed to finally navigate back to Rosalyyn. A dark hold, equally, it was as empty as the rest of this boring vessel. Save for one particular item of note -- or two, given it was seated atop a large metal chest of some sort -- a Droid. Off the top of his head, the large frame of the machine didn't sing much in any tune he could recall. Another relic, much like this ship that was from a past neither he, she or the last two generations of their family had been a part of.
"You think it's worth anything?" Rosa asked quietly, her head turning until she could spot the shadow-hugged features of her brother.
"It's a combat droid of some sort, I'd guess. Probably a bodyguard?" He ventured, given the dull, grim sensation that welled within the pit of his stomach when gazing upon the chassis of this machine. It was undeniably ugly, and designed in such a way that should have naturally made organic sentience like he and she, feel uncomfortable.
"I'm gonna check it out, better than nothing if we have to ditch the ship entirely."
"I mean. . . I don't know if I'd touch that thing, you don't know what protocols it could be running."
"Eh. . "
"I'm going to get some food, you coming?" He asked, drifting back out in to the hall.
"Nah, I'll just imagine I'm eating a Flirty Zeltron from Mad-Eye Jai's Burger & Fries." Rosa replied, she couldn't stomach swallowing another crumb of their dismal ration supply.
"Vong that! All about the Dashing Corellian."
"I swear, I must have kicked you in your head in utero. No sense at all!"
"75/25 Gronda Meat Patty charred to perfection. Smoked Corellian White Cheese, three strips of crunchy Marsh Pig Bacon." He began reciting, "Corellian Haystack Onions, Sweet Doaba Guerfel Mountain Pickles. . . topped with that Kolene Chili Tomato Sauce on a Tyrena Egg Bun!" He gasped desperately, stomach roaring.
"Shut it, for real. . . man!" Rosalyyn sighed.
"Nah, you for real. . . don't mess with that thing." Her brother insisted with flinty pitch "I'm going to hit the main engineering hold when I get back, see if we can't piggy-back power from the Mynock to limp this dead bantha to Port."
"Yeah, yeah. Just go pick up that Environmental Suit you left back there and take care of it. I mean the recharge rack is right next to it, seriously."
High-Density Food Board, and a deliciously bitter protein paste that was so atramentous in it's color it could only be likened to a black hole. Honestly, even in the sickly flourescent glow of the Lucky Mynock galley, it seemed as if all light ceased to exist over the tube spread smear that he knifed over the brick like top of his ration. Meal of Champions, he tried to insist while chawing firm upon one of it's angled corners. "Oophmff. . mfmgh. . . yeah you. . love it." He verbally demanded his brain to believe between violent crunching that he thrice prayed wouldn't fracture or break his teeth. "So-o. . g. .ood."
Crunch, crunch.
Crunch. . . crunch.
Lev paused, mouth agape. He couldn't decipher whether the reverberation that just flatly animated through the Mynock had been a voice or a sharp bang. Careful stride carried him back towards the docking umbilical, head cocked attentively, heedful of any sound that may provoke an immediate reaction.
"You're not messing about with that Droid, are you?" The Wroonian male inquired in to the dimness of the derelict ship on the opposite end of the docking passage.
It was fairly common knowledge that you never trusted a Droid, not fully anyway. They were just too. . . different -- or perhaps indifferent. Surely, Rosalyyn wasn't falling victim to some poor lapse of judgement.
"What'd we agree on?! NO messing around when we're working, Rosa. Serious. It's too dangerous to pull stupid pranks." Lev barked, splashing with heavy steps over the wet floor, brandishing a pry bar he had used hours earlier.
When he took the corner back in to the Main Cargo Hold his perception culled tightly on the scene. The Droid stood strongly at the far end, Rosalyyn pinned to the wall in front of it. A hook-like hand grasping her face, letting the whole weight of her body dangle beneath her as she hang two feet elevated from the floor.
"Down!" Lev felt the words leap from his lungs, his tone commanding, almost how one would chastise a disobedient pet. "Right now!" The Wroonian pivoted his body with a great lurch, banging a fierce strike of the pry bar across the Droid's shoulders. A strike of such fury that Lev felt it's impact vibrate through his entire core painfully.
But the Droid, it barely budged.
"I said, put her down, RIGHT NOW!" Lev demanded further, letting the volume raise even louder in his voice.
He began to reel in once more, tightening for an even stronger swing. But this time his irrational assault did not go unresponded to. Before the swing had even slashed half way towards it's point of full extension the Droid's body snapped suddenly to the side, it's free arm batting the shaft of the solid metal tool with a force so furious the blue organic male recoiled with the trajectory. Agonizing bolts of pain webbed over his hands as the bar lurched loose from his grip, an almost lyrical chime chanting it's melody proudly before the makeshift weapon clanged to a sudden end on the opposite side of the Cargo Hold.
"Good. Karking. Vong!" Lev cried achingly, the abrupt and ruthless shift of momentum his body had not been prepared for bunting him off his feet to the floor with a thud. "T--take it easy, 'fella." He tried to quickly change tact.
"'F. . . ella. 'F..ella." The vocoder had not been used in centuries, the syllables emanated with wefted static and a distorted hum as Six-O tuned his frequency.
What was the creature he currently clutched by it's soft face? He examined her closely through a ceaselessly glowing red sensor. His metal fingers pressed great divots in her blue cheeks, lacrimation from her inferior organic viewing optics streaming quite regularly. Tears, yes. He remembered organics were renown for producing those in his presence.
Did the Droid dream? He'd spent over three hundred years in that Otherspace, and another one hundred lost to the Fringe.
Wroonian, he calculated with an 89% probability. The odds these two were related computed at an even higher percentile, twins no less Six-O concluded, simultaneously scanning the facial and cranial structure of the two through his three-hundred and sixty degree field of vision. Diagnostics of all manner scrolled by at blistering speed, everything had to be checked. Then re-checked. His weapon systems had been depleted many cycles ago, his chassis was in need of joint maintenance. He'd have to assess his current killing potential on these less than worthy targets. But from their destruction equations could be formulated, and accurate readings displayed.
A baffle protocol cycled in from his Psychological Warfare Programs. His logic processors informed him this was unnecessary, but to properly extinguish organic life, sacrifices in logic sometimes were required. Thus he overrode the abort process that had attempted to block the sub-routine in question.
"Take it easy. . " the man repeated, barely a second had plodded by since the organic had last vocabulated those same syllables.
Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel.
Z. R. Cash began to croon through the scratch and buzz of Six-O's vocabulation speaker, the legendary voice fully accompanied by all the familiar instrumentation of the old Rim-Rockabilly sub-genre of Galactic music. The Droid recalled fondly how he and a long since decayed companion had taken many lives during the widely reviled Antar Atrocity so many standard years ago to this very tune.
Their horns were black and shiny and their hot breath he could feel.
It continued to play as Rosalyyn remained in the grasp of Six-O, her hands clutching the metal forearm of the Droid detainer, trying to use the pull of her arms to ease the pressure and weight from her neck and spine. Six-O took careful note of her eyes, and the pitch of her muffled whines. By his estimation her fear response had been properly stimulated. It was time for this Organic to serve her prime purpose.
With a more assertive application of force Six-O began to press his metal limb more heavily on her, structurally speaking, the Organic Chassis of the Human and Near-Human Species held up with disgraceful insufficience. Why with even this exiguous employment of his strength, it took but a moment for the facial frame of this pitiful female casualty to crack and fracture, folding inward through a gaping tear that welled with the creatures hemoglobin.
Wet, pathetic gargles began to wallow from the girl, her hands releasing the Droid's arm -- twitching with uncontrollable spasms that flexed her blue flesh taut over muscles and tendons in the skinny twigs she had called arms. These only grew more intense as vast seams opened on her head and the skull jigsawed in to jagged pieces.
". . wha'. . . WHAT! WHAT! NO!!!" The male howled, Six-O had almost forgot how slow these creatures brains processed the passing of time -- the thud of Rosalyyn's dead body somehow was lost from the stomach wrenching spatter of her grotesquely broken and and torn head on the durasteel flooring of the Cargo Hold -- with haste he began to apply formula's that would translate that back in to his combat efficiency equation.
Six-O had finally return. But first, he had one more life to take.
Fortunes change, and sometimes those distortions bend and break against your favor. They lost the crew, lost the support of their sibling ships. But the Wroonian twins, Lev and Rosalyyn, they remained. Income paltry at best, but they would endure. Permanently on the look out for the big score, that one Salvage operation that could turn a couple of Fringe Scavs like them in to a legitimate outfit once more.
Thus the unfortunate circumstance that brought them here.
To worsen matters, it'd been no easy journey either. First, a deal fell sour, and Lev -- poor Lev -- found himself enslaved, sexually, to a Gamorrean Warrior Queen known as Bloodtusk. It was the type of experience you had to warn your audience to sit down before it's theatrical re-telling, sick and twisted. Even some of the mangiest, most ragtag, Deep Spacers from the Companion Discs couldn't handle it in vivid detail. But they managed to abrade through -- barely.
Forged Salvage Permits landed them incarcerated on some World that didn't even have a name, just a random string of numbers that neither Lev, nor Rosa could entirely remember at this point. PF-778.22/1, or some nonsense like that. Locked away on that planet, the two of them increased the entire sentient population of the World to twenty-three. Why there was even a Jailhouse there was the more pertinent question.
A couple of Outlaw Techs performed a series of shoddy upgrades on the Mynock that rendered her dry docked for seven months, between the illegal modification fines, quay fees, and repair bills it took an additional five Standard months just to get her space bound again.
But finally, here they were.
A Bothan Explorer -- one of their more reliable contacts -- had informed them, while trailblazing Hyperspace lanes through Companion Disc Esk, he and his team had came across some vintage Old Republic-Era Freighter. Knowing just how unmeasured and rabid the Collector's Market could be, they were quick to cut a deal. The NavCodes were exchanged, and they'd finally arrived at the first potentially meaningful score they had known in a ruthlessly long while.
"I've never seen Hull scoring like this, " Lev asserted. "I don't know what type of hazard they piloted through -- or when. But that sure ain't gonna buff out. I don't even know if they make this kind of plating anymore."
"Sithspit, stop whining! We haven't even given it a proper once over yet." Rosa cried back, coaxing the Salvage Vessel ever closer with the persuasion of a true veteran. "Just keep an eye on that Docking hatch, little brother." She was an astonishing seven minutes older than Lev.
"Should have dumped you with that Hutt back on Nyrvona." he groaned.
"I've still got the Comm Frequency for the Gammoreans. . . "
"I've said to stop bringing that up!"
"Docking Hatch?"
"We're good, " Lev snapped a matte black lever on his command terminal, lurching the boarding umbilical from their ship forward with a gasp of motors and heavy hydraulic release. "Odds or evens?"
"Odds, " Rosa replied almost on instinct.
"One, two, three. . . shoot" The twins spoke concurrently before tossing their fingers forward. The sum was three.
"Ouch. . . better suit up, lil' bro. I bet it's real cold over there." She teased diabolically.
Lev, releasing an undecipherable string of depraved, vulgar, and degrading profanities under his breath. Gave his sister's head a stiff shove as he lofted upwards from a cracked, poorly aged Kashyyykian Leather seat with grudging disdain. His body swaying out of the cockpit with laggard and lazy stride. He really wasn't in the mood to enrobe in the environmental suit, there was just something about them he did not like. Something that made his eye twitch and his heart race. Likely a fearful remnant of witnessing first-hand the sudden and cataclysmic depressurization of some unfortunate Salvager years back.
"Lev, take the laser cutter with you. I'm not getting even a faint electrical reading, no way you're gonna pry that door open."
"O.K!" He huffed with a boorish growl.
With a fair few hours of work, and an unholy volume of cussing spat on to the glass of his dome-like helmet. Lev had cut through the Docking Door of the old Freighter and pressurized the cabin structure of the vessel.
Rosalynn, some time later, with a hefty jacket whose better days were well behind it began her way through the docking umbilical. Hands in her pockets, hood draped atop her blue head, and breath misting in to thick clouds from behind her full, lush lips. The entire tube, and the surprisingly empty compartments that rested beyond it murmured with a purr of energy that surged through chunky cables that were strewn and convolved along the floor; feeding power to the electronic and mechanical tools Lev was wielding, from generators back on the Mynock.
Heating globes, and light cylinders were placed at measured intervals, vaulting the eerie Freighter interior in a jaundiced yellow glow. With the pads of her boots spattering in the growing condensation that wept from the walls and ceiling as the warmth urged the icy build ups back with unrelenting persistence, she carried on. Other than a preliminary glance, they hadn't done any exploring yet to see what exactly they had found here. Right now it was looking like whomever the previous owner had been, they cleaned this place out well before abandoning the ship to disrepair and neglect.
"How's it looking up there, Lev?" His sisters voice dully echoed.
"Man, these boards are absolutely fried." Knuckles bleeding, he angled the main piloting console control board as much as he could afford without fully dismantling it from the structural frame it was connected to, his gaze probing through the gap and tracing across singed wires and circuitry that had been scorched black. "Rosa, I hate to say it, but I seriously have a feeling this is just going to cost US credits. Collectors want their toys pristine. We'd probably have to Crusade through all of Hutt Space to find a junker selling parts, and they'd just bend us over and thrust real hard. I mean real hard. You remember those Reek Shows on Ylesia? Harder than that! Like, oh yes, thank you, sir. May I please have more." He fussed, making a vulgar thrusting motion with one fist, while clapping his palm and fingers around the forearm with the other.
Firmly he wadded away the crimson streaks from the ragged scuff that reddened his fist with a dirty cloth taken from his back pocket, unaware he'd even been bleeding up until that point.
"Hey, " the girls voice resonated over the consistent hum of energy from the power cables once more.
"W. . what?" Lev stiffly replied after he unceremoniously blew snot from his numb nose in to the same filthy scrap of fabric.
For a short stretch Rosalyyn offered him no reply. "Hey. . . hey come check this out!"
"Where are you?" He tagged back, quickly beginning to traverse out of the cockpit and through a narrow, winding hall.
"Main Hold -- I'd guess."
Wayfaring his way through the vapid and bare ship interior, Lev managed to finally navigate back to Rosalyyn. A dark hold, equally, it was as empty as the rest of this boring vessel. Save for one particular item of note -- or two, given it was seated atop a large metal chest of some sort -- a Droid. Off the top of his head, the large frame of the machine didn't sing much in any tune he could recall. Another relic, much like this ship that was from a past neither he, she or the last two generations of their family had been a part of.
"You think it's worth anything?" Rosa asked quietly, her head turning until she could spot the shadow-hugged features of her brother.
"It's a combat droid of some sort, I'd guess. Probably a bodyguard?" He ventured, given the dull, grim sensation that welled within the pit of his stomach when gazing upon the chassis of this machine. It was undeniably ugly, and designed in such a way that should have naturally made organic sentience like he and she, feel uncomfortable.
"I'm gonna check it out, better than nothing if we have to ditch the ship entirely."
"I mean. . . I don't know if I'd touch that thing, you don't know what protocols it could be running."
"Eh. . "
"I'm going to get some food, you coming?" He asked, drifting back out in to the hall.
"Nah, I'll just imagine I'm eating a Flirty Zeltron from Mad-Eye Jai's Burger & Fries." Rosa replied, she couldn't stomach swallowing another crumb of their dismal ration supply.
"Vong that! All about the Dashing Corellian."
"I swear, I must have kicked you in your head in utero. No sense at all!"
"75/25 Gronda Meat Patty charred to perfection. Smoked Corellian White Cheese, three strips of crunchy Marsh Pig Bacon." He began reciting, "Corellian Haystack Onions, Sweet Doaba Guerfel Mountain Pickles. . . topped with that Kolene Chili Tomato Sauce on a Tyrena Egg Bun!" He gasped desperately, stomach roaring.
"Shut it, for real. . . man!" Rosalyyn sighed.
"Nah, you for real. . . don't mess with that thing." Her brother insisted with flinty pitch "I'm going to hit the main engineering hold when I get back, see if we can't piggy-back power from the Mynock to limp this dead bantha to Port."
"Yeah, yeah. Just go pick up that Environmental Suit you left back there and take care of it. I mean the recharge rack is right next to it, seriously."
High-Density Food Board, and a deliciously bitter protein paste that was so atramentous in it's color it could only be likened to a black hole. Honestly, even in the sickly flourescent glow of the Lucky Mynock galley, it seemed as if all light ceased to exist over the tube spread smear that he knifed over the brick like top of his ration. Meal of Champions, he tried to insist while chawing firm upon one of it's angled corners. "Oophmff. . mfmgh. . . yeah you. . love it." He verbally demanded his brain to believe between violent crunching that he thrice prayed wouldn't fracture or break his teeth. "So-o. . g. .ood."
Crunch, crunch.
Crunch. . . crunch.
Lev paused, mouth agape. He couldn't decipher whether the reverberation that just flatly animated through the Mynock had been a voice or a sharp bang. Careful stride carried him back towards the docking umbilical, head cocked attentively, heedful of any sound that may provoke an immediate reaction.
"You're not messing about with that Droid, are you?" The Wroonian male inquired in to the dimness of the derelict ship on the opposite end of the docking passage.
It was fairly common knowledge that you never trusted a Droid, not fully anyway. They were just too. . . different -- or perhaps indifferent. Surely, Rosalyyn wasn't falling victim to some poor lapse of judgement.
"What'd we agree on?! NO messing around when we're working, Rosa. Serious. It's too dangerous to pull stupid pranks." Lev barked, splashing with heavy steps over the wet floor, brandishing a pry bar he had used hours earlier.
When he took the corner back in to the Main Cargo Hold his perception culled tightly on the scene. The Droid stood strongly at the far end, Rosalyyn pinned to the wall in front of it. A hook-like hand grasping her face, letting the whole weight of her body dangle beneath her as she hang two feet elevated from the floor.
"Down!" Lev felt the words leap from his lungs, his tone commanding, almost how one would chastise a disobedient pet. "Right now!" The Wroonian pivoted his body with a great lurch, banging a fierce strike of the pry bar across the Droid's shoulders. A strike of such fury that Lev felt it's impact vibrate through his entire core painfully.
But the Droid, it barely budged.
"I said, put her down, RIGHT NOW!" Lev demanded further, letting the volume raise even louder in his voice.
He began to reel in once more, tightening for an even stronger swing. But this time his irrational assault did not go unresponded to. Before the swing had even slashed half way towards it's point of full extension the Droid's body snapped suddenly to the side, it's free arm batting the shaft of the solid metal tool with a force so furious the blue organic male recoiled with the trajectory. Agonizing bolts of pain webbed over his hands as the bar lurched loose from his grip, an almost lyrical chime chanting it's melody proudly before the makeshift weapon clanged to a sudden end on the opposite side of the Cargo Hold.
"Good. Karking. Vong!" Lev cried achingly, the abrupt and ruthless shift of momentum his body had not been prepared for bunting him off his feet to the floor with a thud. "T--take it easy, 'fella." He tried to quickly change tact.
"'F. . . ella. 'F..ella." The vocoder had not been used in centuries, the syllables emanated with wefted static and a distorted hum as Six-O tuned his frequency.
What was the creature he currently clutched by it's soft face? He examined her closely through a ceaselessly glowing red sensor. His metal fingers pressed great divots in her blue cheeks, lacrimation from her inferior organic viewing optics streaming quite regularly. Tears, yes. He remembered organics were renown for producing those in his presence.
Did the Droid dream? He'd spent over three hundred years in that Otherspace, and another one hundred lost to the Fringe.
Wroonian, he calculated with an 89% probability. The odds these two were related computed at an even higher percentile, twins no less Six-O concluded, simultaneously scanning the facial and cranial structure of the two through his three-hundred and sixty degree field of vision. Diagnostics of all manner scrolled by at blistering speed, everything had to be checked. Then re-checked. His weapon systems had been depleted many cycles ago, his chassis was in need of joint maintenance. He'd have to assess his current killing potential on these less than worthy targets. But from their destruction equations could be formulated, and accurate readings displayed.
A baffle protocol cycled in from his Psychological Warfare Programs. His logic processors informed him this was unnecessary, but to properly extinguish organic life, sacrifices in logic sometimes were required. Thus he overrode the abort process that had attempted to block the sub-routine in question.
"Take it easy. . " the man repeated, barely a second had plodded by since the organic had last vocabulated those same syllables.
Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel.
Z. R. Cash began to croon through the scratch and buzz of Six-O's vocabulation speaker, the legendary voice fully accompanied by all the familiar instrumentation of the old Rim-Rockabilly sub-genre of Galactic music. The Droid recalled fondly how he and a long since decayed companion had taken many lives during the widely reviled Antar Atrocity so many standard years ago to this very tune.
Their horns were black and shiny and their hot breath he could feel.
It continued to play as Rosalyyn remained in the grasp of Six-O, her hands clutching the metal forearm of the Droid detainer, trying to use the pull of her arms to ease the pressure and weight from her neck and spine. Six-O took careful note of her eyes, and the pitch of her muffled whines. By his estimation her fear response had been properly stimulated. It was time for this Organic to serve her prime purpose.
With a more assertive application of force Six-O began to press his metal limb more heavily on her, structurally speaking, the Organic Chassis of the Human and Near-Human Species held up with disgraceful insufficience. Why with even this exiguous employment of his strength, it took but a moment for the facial frame of this pitiful female casualty to crack and fracture, folding inward through a gaping tear that welled with the creatures hemoglobin.
Wet, pathetic gargles began to wallow from the girl, her hands releasing the Droid's arm -- twitching with uncontrollable spasms that flexed her blue flesh taut over muscles and tendons in the skinny twigs she had called arms. These only grew more intense as vast seams opened on her head and the skull jigsawed in to jagged pieces.
". . wha'. . . WHAT! WHAT! NO!!!" The male howled, Six-O had almost forgot how slow these creatures brains processed the passing of time -- the thud of Rosalyyn's dead body somehow was lost from the stomach wrenching spatter of her grotesquely broken and and torn head on the durasteel flooring of the Cargo Hold -- with haste he began to apply formula's that would translate that back in to his combat efficiency equation.
Six-O had finally return. But first, he had one more life to take.
