This ship don't stop there anymore. [Sarge]

[Hazel Scheler]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SsuHAn54wPs​

You may not believe it,
but I don't believe in miracles anymore.

A nondescript space station somewhere in the nether.

The Egris sat in a dry dock bleeding oil from its gullet, spitting sparks from gaping wounds in its side. The dock Mechanic said to forget it, the thing was scrap, not worth the expense to fix. Beyond the capacity to repair what amounted to an antique, it could have fetched a decent price on the metal plating alone. Could have swung it hard for a drifter's ship - some motley piece of pieces put together with elbow grease, a wish, a hope, and a lot of soddy welds.

Maybe it was the run of bad luck. Maybe it was the lack of solid sleep and real food. Maybe it was the last four months spent drowning in stars. The Egris' Captain wasn't willing to give it up despite the futility of it all. Why, she'd gotten here--wherever here was--on less than what those drifters ships were held together with. Of all the things she'd lived through, seen through, a few little scrapes would hardly keep her grounded.

That was what she told herself as she set to work, fixing what she knew she could.

And when I think about it,
I don't think I ever did for sure.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He came aboard the Egris in armor. Why? Simple. He didn't trust dogs. Back home, they'd mostly been harmless, but considering his line of work, any beast was liable to try and kill you - especially when you showed up uninvited and unannounced. With his bolter mag-clamped to his thighplate, he came aboard the ship with all the stealth of a battletank. "Hazel." He calls, voice distorted by his helmet, even as he disengaged the seal with a hiss of escaping pressure.

That single word carried easily enough through the freighter.

She was in here somewhere, but he didn't go any further than the access ramp. That'd be even more rude than just walking into the ship.

Hopefully she's in better condition than her ship.

[member="Ivy Lasranae"]

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Weren't no more dogs to be found upon the Egris. Not for a few years now. Unless, of course, you were the sort to refer to a haggard old Merc well beyond her golden years as one. In which case there was one dog on this ship - it was liable to bite but, as she'd come to find her canines had grown dull with age.

The dog was in the engine room on her back wrestling with a cracked engine block and a handful of tools the Mechanic had lent her out of pity. Hazel was no mechanic herself, her skills and knowledge rudimentary enough to make the more basic of fixes to her ship and to herself. This was, for lack of any optimism, far above her paygrade.

"Back here," the woman hollered back to the voice that called out her name. Figured it was the Mechanic, returning to rub his chin and shake his head in dismay. Hate to turn him away, dismal company was still company.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The heavy, thudding gait of power armor heralded him in the moments the purring of his back mounted power generator setting the teeth on edge and causing a hum just at the edge of discernible hearing. He came around the corner, ducking beneath the entryway to her engine room. There she was, laying on the ground, shoulder deep in engine grease and lubricant. Would have been a good look for most women, if you were into that 'dirty, hands-on, rough-edged' sort.

He could be, sometimes.

He'd never figured out his own type. "Well, I suppose I should have expected you to be trying to fix this yourself."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Yeah?" the woman wiped grease from her face with her forearm, teeth grit as she reached in to get ahold of that last oil line. If she could just get the damn thing to stop leaking for an hour then maybe she could get a better idea of what was really going on in there.

"Well you made it pretty clear earlier that you weren't touching the damn thing, so here I am," found the line, applied the clip. That ought to do it. With a grunt the woman rolled herself out and sat up. Picturesque for that 'dirty, hands-on, rough edge' sort of look; the grease stained clothing and oil-marked skin bearing several visible bandages was really working for her. The headband eyepatch covering her right eye was a new addition, too.

"...you're not who I thought you were."

A casual brow lofted as she gave the man a long up-and-down. Hard to forget a face like that; black eyes, veins, and all.

"Nice suit."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He gave her a thin, tight lipped smile. The man wasn't exactly prone to displays of joy and enthusiasm.

"I hear that a lot." He replies calmly, taking a step more fully into her field of vision. "Nice eyepatch. How'd that happen?"

He moved to one side, taking a knee, bringing himself level with her. It felt a bit patronizing, but the armor didn't lend itself well to 'sitting' or even 'leaning against the wall,' so he had to make do.

[member="Ivy Lasranae"]

 

[Hazel Scheler]

The Merc wasn't really sure what to think of the armor and she watched it with visible wariness as he stepped in.

Those things weren't meant to be in tight quarters like this. She didn't expect kneeling in it was conducive to comfort. Though, Ivy supposed, they weren't really meant for comfort, were they?

"You wanna hear the story here? I could think of better places... with a bit more space."

And, you know, somewhere she didn't have to be on the floor in a puddle of engine lubricant. That would be nice.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He smiled at that - genuinely amused. "Space is good. Your freighter is a bit cramped, I'll admit." As ever, understating things.

A hand shifted, gesturing to the portal through which he'd come. "By your leave, Hazel." There was a glimmer of amusement in those midnight eyes.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

She glanced away for just a moment to take stock of herself and the tools scattered about, only to look up at the smile with a start.

"I prefer to think of it as cozy," her own mouth twisted into a droll sort of smile - an expression that had begun to feel foreign to her facial muscles. Leaning forward and propping her elbows on her knees, she released a short sigh, "Listen, give me a few to clean up. I've got grime in places it's got no right to be. I'll meet you outside, yeah?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He nodded at that, pulling his helmet out from the crook of his arm and twisting it into place. Pushing himself upright, he paused, halfway ducked under the threshold of the engine room. "I'll see you in a few, Ivy." He says, before his broad, armored back disappeared to the tune of giant, clanking boots.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

All manner of smile vanished in an instant but there was no comment to make to the walking locomotive now exiting her ship.


When she reappeared it was with a clean face and a fresh working Captain's uniform. Hazel paused at the top of the ramp, flat expression briefly surveying the scene outside her ship. It landed upon the power armor and stuck there intently for a moment while she chewed on internalized thoughts that were not well hidden. She decided to let it go as a fluke, a slip of the tongue.

Give him reasonable doubt despite knowing he was a smarter man than that.

The Mercenary limped slowly down the ramp, using the railing to steady her steps, "You make a habit of traveling in a mobile ship-suit nowadays?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Luckily for her, it was just him - for now. There was a steady clanking from somewhere nearby that said he'd brought friends, but he always brought friends. The man had enemies, after all. Turning his head towards her as she came down the steps, he set a palm onto the grip of his bolter and smiled beneath his helmet.

"Made a habit of it for years. It actually works out pretty nice." His shoulders shrugged, though the movement was a bit more exaggerated than it needed to be due to the size of the suit.

His head tilted to one side. "Armor can go a long way to keeping you in one piece. I got wary of injury after the 'black eye' thing came around."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"No kidding..." reaching the end of the ramp Hazel stepped off and peered upwards at him. He'd always been taller than her, so far as she could remember his height outside of armor, but this was just a little bit absurd. Her own armor made no difference in her height and while she could agree with the sentiment of having that added protection, she cringed at the idea of what it cost to purchase such a monstrosity.

...and maintain it. She could hardly even afford to maintain herself and her ship, let alone something like that. Must be nice, she thought.

"What, ah," the woman's gaze panned towards the cacophony somewhere off in the distance. She wasn't the only one to noticed it, others were pausing in their day to take a curious gander, "what brings you here?"

Has it really been years?

Feth, she's really lost track of things.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

That red helmet of his panned over, staring down at her from below slanted, glowing lenses of emerald green. "My contacts said a scrapper had pulled into the station with less parts to it's name than what you'd find in a caf blender." The static-laced voice emitting from his helmet couldn't quite hide his amusement.

"Normally, they don't tell me about random freighters dropping into nowhere stations but... I had the ship flagged, and it got bumped up the chain. Figured I'd check on you."

With enough armor to take over the station, apparently.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Wow."

Monotone, utterly bereft of humor or amusement. The Merc deadpanned the giant, blue freight train standing over her with arms crossed.

"That so?"

Really it was actually quite romantic. Or something. She'd never really had someone watching out for her in this lifetime so she didn't have much to compare it to. Hazel gave a facial shrug, shoulders following shortly after, "Thanks ... I think."

"Now if you don't mind, had a bit of a shoddy day and I need a drink. You gonna make me drink with a walking tank? I'll take the familiar face if it's available."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

His head tilted to one side, uncertain as to why she wouldn't be happy to find out he was keeping track of her. That disconnect might actually explain his 'courtship' of [member="Cira"] were it to ever be pointed out or even understood. "You're welcome." He manages to say, deciding that the thanks was genuine and that he'd misunderstood her initial hesitance.

He almost sounded glad, as if keeping an eye on his friends was a point of pride for him.

"Is there anywhere to drink on this station?" He asks, blinking through a series of retinal displays on his helmet in an attempt to figure it out. "Or we could go onto my ship. I still have some Whyren's laying around."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Hadn't gotten much past the docks if I'm honest but I don't know too many stations that don't come standard with some dumpy drinking hole. Not found one yet, anyway."

Even the nowhere stations well off of trade routes. Drink was about the only thing she could figure that came standard across the galaxy. Clear from Mandalorian space all the way out to those backwards fanatics of Moross.

"But I figure you're more likely to disrobe on your own ship, ey?" she quirked the only visible eyebrow, turning a wry half-smirk upwards, "and if it's closer my knee will be grateful for a shorter walk."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He tilted his head, acquiescing that particular point. "The ship would be closer." He'd parked himself nearby, after all. Or, rather, he'd ordered his shipmaster to park it nearby. Space parking. Docking. Yes, docking.

"No disrobing. I haven't been wined and dined first. But I suppose I could take the armor off."

Looking down to her as he started walking, he paused, offering a large sky blue gauntlet back for her to take. "Shall I carry you?" He asks, adding, after a short pause, a 'milady.'

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Mm," a deflated wince, "not the cheap date sort. Might be outta my budget." Hazel snapped her fingers, rats, and hobbled after him.

"Don't fuss, you'll embarrass me, just-" she gestured forward to the dock crowds that stood gaping, "clear the way and I'll follow at speed."

Wouldn't be hard to do, all he had to do was walk. Or tromp, as it were.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He chortled, the sound fuzzed with static. True to his word, it was only the barest of walks, her gigantic icebreaker in sky blue clearing the way.

His ship, as typical, was unmarked. Slate gray, blocky in the fashion most OmegaPyre ships were. A gigantic hypervelocity cannon barrel gaped out of the underside fo the ship, and ran the length of it's belly. Definitely old Pyre-fare. Despite the lack of faction allegiance, however, a name was emblazoned across the prow - Game Over.

Passing through the airlock, they were greeted by a single sentry with oversized gauntlets, pilot lights for inbuilt flamethrowers hissing from underneath his wrists. He tipped his head to the pair, and they passed into the ship without incidence. Sarge removed his helmet, and led her towards his own quarters. "I assume whiskey is your preference. I've some other spirits if you'd prefer something 'other.'"

A scanner over the door read his face, and opened with a hiss, and they stepped into his quarters. Like most things he enjoyed, the room was colored in earthy tones, with comfort and functionality going hand in hand. Along a wall stood what had to be his armor stand - it was a circle of silver set into the floor, with footprints visible in the metal. Stepping in, his boots were locked into place by clamps, and metal arms came out to begin removing the armor, piece by piece.

"Make yourself comfortable."