Corvetta Salvo
Always Crankin'
The Anoat System was not one known to attract many visitors outside your typical fringe scroungers and smugglers. Anoat itself was not worth much other than a layover for spacers faring to whatever obscure and largely unregulated Outer Rim gemstones they were seeking to make bank off of. Not too many lightyears away, the famous clouds of Bespin attracted both tourists and freighters alike, and that was Corvetta's destination pending her liftoff from this rock.
It was generally considered wise for any oxygen-breathing lifeforms to wear respiration equipment to avoid polluting one's lungs in the toxic atmosphere. Not only that, the air pressure here could fluctuate to strange degrees, and the humidity was horrid to those who were more accustomed to milder climates or the chill of space. Corvetta was of the latter category, her life's beginnings even removed from a celestial body. Space was her home. She had been sailing the heavens non-stop for over two decades, and what a spectacular score-and-change of years they had been. She had seen things ninety-nine percent of the galaxy would never see; seen more things than even thirty percent of spacers would ever see. And Anoat was a good example of a strange frontier, whether it was appreciated by the pilot or not.
Corvetta kept her eye on the coordinates brought up for the tiny colony that was basically a glorified refueling station. The clouds were a little thick over this world--product of corporate calamity centuries prior. The smuggler doubted the planet was ever anything spectacular in its former state, but it was still a shame to see how one stupid mistake had marred this place for the extremely long-term. She kept her hands tight on the yoke, but wrists slacked. She had the composure of someone who had done this a million times before, and indeed she was. It was no fun to let the autopilot take care of everything. In this case, it might even prove dangerous.
"Twenty-four hundred model, drifting in at point two-five-seven. Registration digits: Ysanne-Seven Six, One-Four-Lando-Amidala-Tarkin." Corvetta waited for a confirmation code. No reply after a good twenty seconds. "This is the Lost Cause, requesting landing coords." The pilot double-checked her frequencies. Everything was right on her end.
"Frakkin' Sithspit," she cursed, bringing her Corellian-model freighter into a slow descent for the mark of her choosing. Breaking the stratus layer, there was still a thin fog to obstruct full visual clarity. She could see the silhouette of the station to her starboard, but no shadows of ships were detectable. Oddly, her scopes agreed with her ocular observations. This was a little disconcerting.
But she touched down anyway. Smooth as blue butter. "Aaaaaand we are padded." Corvetta then shut down the engine systems and switched off the comms. Pulling a gas mask over her face, the pilot shuddered as she unlocked the hatch and descended on the boarding ramp even while it was still extending. Anoat looked particularly dreary today. Was it just her, or was she alone?
[member="Fabula Caromed"]
It was generally considered wise for any oxygen-breathing lifeforms to wear respiration equipment to avoid polluting one's lungs in the toxic atmosphere. Not only that, the air pressure here could fluctuate to strange degrees, and the humidity was horrid to those who were more accustomed to milder climates or the chill of space. Corvetta was of the latter category, her life's beginnings even removed from a celestial body. Space was her home. She had been sailing the heavens non-stop for over two decades, and what a spectacular score-and-change of years they had been. She had seen things ninety-nine percent of the galaxy would never see; seen more things than even thirty percent of spacers would ever see. And Anoat was a good example of a strange frontier, whether it was appreciated by the pilot or not.
Corvetta kept her eye on the coordinates brought up for the tiny colony that was basically a glorified refueling station. The clouds were a little thick over this world--product of corporate calamity centuries prior. The smuggler doubted the planet was ever anything spectacular in its former state, but it was still a shame to see how one stupid mistake had marred this place for the extremely long-term. She kept her hands tight on the yoke, but wrists slacked. She had the composure of someone who had done this a million times before, and indeed she was. It was no fun to let the autopilot take care of everything. In this case, it might even prove dangerous.
"Twenty-four hundred model, drifting in at point two-five-seven. Registration digits: Ysanne-Seven Six, One-Four-Lando-Amidala-Tarkin." Corvetta waited for a confirmation code. No reply after a good twenty seconds. "This is the Lost Cause, requesting landing coords." The pilot double-checked her frequencies. Everything was right on her end.
"Frakkin' Sithspit," she cursed, bringing her Corellian-model freighter into a slow descent for the mark of her choosing. Breaking the stratus layer, there was still a thin fog to obstruct full visual clarity. She could see the silhouette of the station to her starboard, but no shadows of ships were detectable. Oddly, her scopes agreed with her ocular observations. This was a little disconcerting.
But she touched down anyway. Smooth as blue butter. "Aaaaaand we are padded." Corvetta then shut down the engine systems and switched off the comms. Pulling a gas mask over her face, the pilot shuddered as she unlocked the hatch and descended on the boarding ramp even while it was still extending. Anoat looked particularly dreary today. Was it just her, or was she alone?
[member="Fabula Caromed"]
