The Edge of the Empire

[Progflaw99]

Pressing forward Rolf and the small strike team along with him found more of the same. Empty corridors, half lit up consoles. It was eerie, as if some foul deity had called them all home - a rapture. Even as the Grand Moff's recognizable voice cut through the comm channel, Colonel Amsel was struggling with the very question she aired. *Why would they leave... why couldn't we detect any lifesigns?* and perhaps most importantly, *Where are they?!* Ahead along the corridor Rolf could see their destination. According to the initial scans, they'd arrive at the site of the strange breaches in the hull which lay just beyond. Raising a closed fist and taking a knee, Rolf responded to the Grand Moff. ::Fortan One to Fortan Actual. Ma'am, everything we're seeing down here matches what our intel suggested. As to the reason for the lack of contact - your guess is as good as mine. We're approaching objective Aurek now.:: Observing the readouts in his HUD Rolf checked the status of the environmentals opposite the large blast doors in front of them. Minimal readings were returned. It was hard to say. With a glance over his shoulder he motioned for the rest of the team to follow.

What awaited Rolf and Co. on the other side of the blast door was unexpected, almost too much to process all at once. As the quiet hiss of the hydraulics holding the doors closed released the Colonel caught a glimpse of something near the floor just beyond the ever widening crack. A canister, something about the size of a man. Maybe a hair larger. Around it, on the floor, was a mess of blood and viscera - the first sign of any kind of life aboard the ship. Doors continuing to widen, the second thing that caught the soldier's attention was the sudden realization that the grav plating past the blast doors must have been malfunctioning. Debris, presumably from the massive holes in the bulkhead, was floating about the corridor. The holes themselves appeared welded shut, whether by design of the canister before them or efforts to repair the vessel by the Ssi-Ruuvi he didn't know. :: Fortan One to all teams. We have positive contact. Standby for report. ::

With the toggle of a control the veteran activated his magboots, locking himself to the deck with each step towards the center of the once cordoned corridor. His senses were on full alert as he investigated the scene further. The canister appeared to be a mechanism of some kind, contents no longer present. Scratch marks on the floor and on its surface. *Did they try to bite into it?* he wondered. It was evident something had bled but how long ago was impossible to tell. :: Get me some samples of this, swab the interior of the canister too. :: Rolf opened up a channel to Fortan Actual as his men gathered samples and took images. :: We've come across a container of sorts, looks like a release mechanism. Recommend full quarantine and decontamination procedures. We don't know what we're dealing with. I've got analysts collecting samples now - still no lifesigns. Overriding objective and heading for the bridge. If we're lucky there will be some sort of log. I'm recommending we standy on all other action at this time - we don't know what the catalyst is for whatever this container used to hold. ::

His message was directed at Fortan Actual but broadcast across the teams channels as well. Samples and evidence collected, Rolf signaled his men to begin their reroute to the bridge.

[member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Rexus Wenck"] | [member="Omari Vyken"] | [member="The Major"] | [member="Daan DT-130"]​

 

[Zanthier Madine]

[ Objective - Analyse residue | Equipment - boarding armor, deep fryer rifle, medkit ]
[ Tag - [member="Rolf Amsel"] ]
†††

It had already become evident that Zanthier Madine was a very different medical officer than Aes'ona Terrani had been. For one, at present, she was completely comfortable in the middle of Amsel's boarding party and with a blaster hanging from her shoulder. Alone, of course, she would have been terrified, as she had spent her life patching rather than creating injuries, but here and now? She had complete faith in the Colonel and his men.

When called upon for her services, she swung her rifle to her back. Out of a pocket of her utility belt, she pulled a pair of sterile gloves which she slipped on before unclipping the medscanner from her hip. "Right away, sir," she replied, voice only slightly affected by her containment face shield, before motioning one of the trooper analysts to follow her. The doctor found it a little difficult to walk over to the man-sized canister--it was like walking in deep, water-logged mud--but she managed. The trooper began snapping evidence holo photos of the various pieces of evidence, the scratches and grey dead matter stuck to the inside wall of the canister, covered in white crystals that one might have thought was mold had they not realized their environment, of paramount interest. Madine switched on her medscanner and inched closer to the substance.

Not even a moment after it passed over the white crystals did the red notification light in the top left-hand corner blink twice and beep angrily. An error message popped onto the screen, informing Madine that the identification she had attempted had only been half successful:

​

'Error ::​

Unknown specimen​

RNA unreadable'​

She furrowed her brow at the screen. The strain's exact name was unknown to her device or her own bank of knowledge, but the software had generated a basic morphology diagram, which showed the sample clearly as a virus. Still processing the raw, incomplete data presented to her, Madine began, "There are traces of a viral agent here, Colonel. Looks dormant," she continued, thinking aloud. That it did--it seemed to lack a capsid envelope around its overall boxy, hexagonal shape encased in a more complex lattice. And that much made sense; the extreme temperatures of space coupled with its radiation that slipped through the compromised bulkhead before repair could have crystallized the viruses together.

She then hovered the tablet over the grey matter. 'Deceased human tissue, male,' the scanner informed her. "Human remains as well, long dead." She paused to power off her medscanner, then continued, "If I had to guess, I'd say that this" she motioned to the canister, "​acted as a makeshift quarantine for the ship. When the host died, the agent became inactive."

With that assessment, she powered off the medscanner and got to actually taking samples, three of which she secured in a biohazard case. She kept the last in her medscanner, continuing to work on naming the strain as she rerouted to the bridge with the others.

 

[Cynthia Alucard]

Colonel Cynthia "Cyn" Alucard
Designation: Mother Pixie/ Wing Leader
Classification: Wing Commander
Allies: [member="The Major"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Rolf Amsel"] | @Robogeber | [member="Tanomas Graf"]

Tired eyes filled with long hours of finishing reports, and longer hours yet of finalizing several flight rosters for the rest of her Pixie Wing. Regardless she continued to head down to the briefing room of where Pixie squad two were ordered to ready themselves for their next assignment. Nine fully suited pilots all stood at attention the moment their Wing Commander Cynthia stepped into the room and their squad leader stepped forward with a crisp salute and greeting.

Hands clasped together behind her back and nodded one to everyone present, "Pixie Two-One, your squad has been assigned to join the patrol of unknown possibly hostile fleet. Reports indicate low energy readings, but have not yet confirmed the cause of a seemingly dead fleet." Cynthia explained, they all knew the importance of having so many unknowns in any mission.

Danger. Caution. Effective communication and no tolerance for any 'jumpy' or 'spooked' pilots. A careful gesture towards all present, "-Any contact must be reported and you are free to respond appropriately should hostilities continue. Captain Harth, I will leave the leashes to your pilots in your reasonable hands." Cynthia nodded towards her Squad leader.

A soft chuckle from those in the room indicated that the joke hit home, after all they were assigned to act as hunting dogs in search for any prey. Unfortunately Captain Harth does not enjoy long leashes. A small smile emerged from Cynthia and nodded once more. "Pixie Squad Two, I shall leave you to your pref-flight instructions and shall watch eagerly what my Pilots accomplish."

All present Pilots saluted once more as Cynthia left the briefing room and made her way back to her room turned office. While the prospect of not joining her pilots out in space spurred a quite sour look on her face, it certainly provided Cynthia a chance to see the administration side of the First Order Navy. As she approached her desk in her room Cyn grabbed her datapad and quickly watched the reports of her TIE pilots had already launched and begun their flight mission.

"Mother Pixie, this is Pixie Two-One actual, all pilots accounted for and we are beginning our search. Over." Captain Harth commed Cynthia.

Cyn smiled and nodded once to herself, "-Pixie Two-One, this is Mother Pixie, copy and good luck. Over and out." Cyn replied.

Her eyes wandered over to her flight suit ready to be worn once again, the rest of her old squad had stayed under her and were itching for the chance to fly once more with their old squad leader. Perhaps I'll get that chance.

 

[Progflaw99]

As the lead elements of the strike team moved foward the Colonel looked back to the strange container and the analyst crouched beside it. Her words made sense at first but rapidly expounded beyond even the technological savvy of the senior soldier. What did ring a bell was the mention of a virus. Rolf motioned for the doctor to collect her things - they needed to continue on. :: Maybe the Bridge will hold some more answers. :: He shook his head, visibly agitated. ::I've got a bad feeling about this.::

:: Fortan One to Fortan Actual. Closing in on the Bridge now. :: Carefully they progressed deeper into the ship. Rolf had expected to see a strange interior design coupled with the nonsensical engineering legacy of the Ssi-Ruuvi but instead they progressed easily, almost as if he'd traveled the vessel's corridors before. It made him feel uneasy, soft creaks and short hums as the vessel no doubt struggled to carry on despite the obvious lack of crew. *Extremely unusual* thought the man.

As they came around a wide bend in the corridor yet another set of large blast doors greeted them, these however differed greatly from the last. Violent streaks of scarlet frock adorned the bulkheads just beside the halfway parted doors. Ringed pools of blood were scattered, viscera and gore spread in a tumult across the deck. Beyond, sparks gently cascaded from several consoles... *What hell has descended here...* wondered Rolf. ::Get behind me.:: he instructed Dr. Madine. :: Eyes up men, breach and clear - now. :: As his men moved to order, Rolf keyed up command.

::Fortan One to Fortan Actual. Arrived at Objective. Evidence of conflict - no weapon blasts. Rommulus, stay frosty.::

[member="Zanthier Madine"] | [member="Rexus Wenck"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Omari Vyken"] | [member="Tanomas Graf"]​

 

[Hansen]

Lieutenant Colonel Daan DT-130
FIV Executioner, Furia Orbit
Allies: [member="Robogeber"], [member="Rolf Amsel"], [member="The Major"], [member="Tanomas Graf"]
Nearby: N/A

"Easy on the throttle and angle, pilot." Daan instructs with outward nobility and courtesy typical of an upper-class First Imperial, a tone she had no doubt picked up on from the venerable Natasi Fortan, the Grand Moff herself. The friction wrapped around the Banshee's deflector shields, creating a fiery bubble that ostensibly consumed the craft as its' armoured hull passed through the planet's atmospheric veneer high above the Surface. Daan goes through the process of checking and re-checking her powered armour's sub-systems, pupils expanding and narrowing on the myriad of aqua-coloured data feeds that appear on helmet-mounted display noting that the power supply unit was rather under-performing.

A curious sense of unease settled on the senior commissioned officer while cycling back over to the other First Imperial Commchannels using the Banshee's antenna, she heard the familiar voices of Rexus Wenck and Dergan Twgg; two Death Troopers of the previous generation. Daan couldn't dismiss their capabilities although she did look down upon their team 'ALPHA' as it was known, they were amongst the most ruthless special forces operators in the known galaxy and even though they were strictly speaking beneath their station and subordinate to DT-130's authority, Daan was not so arrogant to be elevated above fear of Project: AFTERLIFE's augmentations and the personnel thusly augmented.

"Fortan one, this is Gundark-Alpha say again your last? Over." Daan's eyes narrow with her head turning in towards shoulder slightly, her gut curdled somewhat with the blood within her veins cooling. Signs of conflict and yet no signs of carbon scoring or weapons fire? That implied to Daan the grim possibility the Ssi-Ruuk crew aboard the ship were slaughtered in melee, anything physically powerful enough to slaughter their hulking lizards up close was something to be respected......And feared.

 

[Progflaw99]

Powerplant: Clear​

Airframe: Clear​

Weapons: Clear​

​

Flight Status: Ready​

​

:: Devil Six, Ready for launch. ::

His voice sounded robotic, all emotion washed out over the comm. Or maybe that was just his headset. It was hard to tell amidst the tumult of emotions running through the young man's being. A quick glance over his shoulder brought his co-pilot into view. Well, more of a gunner really - though technically they were both qualified for TIE flight operations. "Rieper, how's everything looking with the new targeting system?" Only just yesterday their TIE had been updated, the systems techs had uploaded a new firmware update - unfortunately Ryker's flight been out of rotation and hadn't yet been able to test it for themselves. "Looks about the same, I haven't read all the patch notes." Lieutenant Atreides grinned behind the faceplate of his helmet. He should have expected that. Rieper preferred to fly by feel, not knowledge of the numbers and the letter of the 'law'. So far it had worked out. "Well, just be sure if we get jumped, you're ready on the trigger, eh?" Ryker was merely waiting on the flight leader, it was he who would give them the order to jettison themselves into the great void.

[member="Pierce Fortan III"] | [member="Siegmund Greyhelm"]​

 

[Natasi Fortan]

Flight Suit: Zipped​

Gin Flask: Chilled​

Blessed Bartoo: Frosty​

​

Flight Status: Ready​

​

Pierce stood alone in the pilot's dressing room, ostensibly seeing to the fasteners of his boots. Really, he just needed this moment alone for a certain preflight ritual. He opened his locker; on the top shelf, just about eye-level, were a pair of framed photographs. The one on the left was of a Galidraani noblewoman he knew -- well, knew -- in a lacy corset and thigh-high stockings. The Dirty Duchess, as Pierce had come to affectionately think of her, was leaning forward, hands on knees, making a kissing face -- classic pinup fare.

The other photo was of a man in an officer's uniform (crisp) and cap (jaunty), an absurd little mustache dusting his upper lip and a twinkle in his eye. Colonel von Brinkerhoff was long gone -- alive, as far as Pierce knew, but gone from the First Order for some years now. Half best friend, half mentor, he had been pivotal in Pierce's advancement through the ranks of the First Order Starfighter Corps. Pierce sighed quietly as he regarded the pictures, then picked up the cigarette pack from the shelf and shook two of the cigarettes out of the package. He stood them up against the picture of Roderik.

"For after," he murmured, touching his temple in a salute before replacing the pack and shutting the locker again.

Two minutes later he was settling into his fighter seat, and BB-10R2 was fitted into the gunner seat. He clicked his communicator.

:: Devil Five to Devil Flight: initiate preflight checks. ::

[member="Ryker Atreides"] | [member="Siegmund Greyhelm"]​

 

[Graf's Archive Account]

Lieutenant Siegmund Greyhelm, 'Devil Seven'​

Location: First Order Destroyer​

Status: Ready for Flight​

​

Siegmund Greyhelm took a long drag of the lit cigarette in his hand, holding it in for a moment before exhaling it through both of his nostrils. He coughed and wheezed for a split second, the feeling of nicotine washing over him once again after having spent a year clean from the little paper devils. His gaze trailed across the busy hangar bay until he locked eyes with the Ssi-Ruuvi fleet, a hint of dread marring his current tobacco-induced euphoria. The man had served in the Starfighter Corps during both the Great Galactic War and the Ssi-Ruuvi Incursion, the latter having been the most panic-inducing of the two.

The edge of the lieutenant's mouth curled downward into a frown, prompting him to crush the cigarette in his gloved palm, suddenly disinterested in it. He grabbed the helmet sitting on a crate next to him and slid it over his head, hearing a satisfying hiss as it vac-sealed his suit for fighter operation. Greyhelm stretched slightly and climbed up to the hatch of his fighter, dropping into the pilot's seat after acknowledging his gunner with a curt nod. Closing and making sure the hatch was secured, he strapped himself into the seat and listened intently as the voice of a certain captain came over the communications frequency.

"Initiating pre-flight checks." He muttered calmly to the person behind him, waiting to hear confirmation from the man. "C-confirmed." The gunner slurred, prompting Greyhelm to pause for a moment, returned to his process after a few seconds of silence. He thought nothing of it as the systems booted and the flight display lit up, his hands gripping the flight sticks firmly, ready to go.

:: Devil Seven, Ready for launch. ::

[member="Pierce Fortan III"] | [member="Ryker Atreides"]​