Ever since Fernand was sent on his fool's errand, he was afraid to pick up the still-stained pager he got from the scary Madame. Her terrifying presence had left a traumatic effect on the poor drug mule, so much so that he preferred to fly the unknown vaccums of Sirius - being a Gaul-born - it was a temporary solution to a lingering problem. In his adventures he managed to trade his battered Tarvos to a Cormorant-type armored transport due to a Junker antiquary he met on Thunder Bay Depot. Hesistant at first but later found out to be a reliable and sturdy vessel, it would also negate the fact that Fernand would need to revist Gallia to supply himself on engine-appropiate fuel. But flying around Sirius aimlessly was not a fruitful endeavor, despite discovering many neutral stations that would be fundamental for spreading Nox throughout Sirius - all in the name of profit. He decided to take the brave step and return to the seat of the Minarchy - Provence, it was also due to the fact he was out of Nox to sell. Planet Marseilles - 29/06/827 - Dusk
Fernand felt relieved he was back at home, despite never being an inhabitant of this system - it was Gallia nonetheless. Blueish hues ranging from teal, cyan, and indigo was all that he could feast his eyes on, making the seventy-kilometer cruise to Marseilles go by in a flash. Landing on Marseilles the first thing that he did was head to the closest fast-food booth to get himself a tuna baguette, a mark of Gallic cuisine for the commonfolk. Devouring the sandwich with double-bites, barely coming out to breathe for air, one would think this man didn't eat for the entire duration of his outdoor hike to Sirius. Wiping his sauce-riddled face, the warm climate and vast views of Gallic outdoors would make Fernand get encapsuled in their beauty - until he came to.
"Merde.. I can't stay here any longer than I should." He chatted to himself. Taking out the PDA given to him by his employer - he'd stare at it until he came to the decision to throw it over the fence and into the ocean. A bold and risky move, figured he could leave planetside before any of Cartier's lackeys show up. Wasting no time, he jogs to the loading bays to reach a complex with towering giants for containers, surrounding it from all sides but the entrance. "Papieurs, sil vous plait." asks the guard. No problem for Fernand, but the check required for his passport to be identified by a scanner - no doubt linked to a database. This is where Fernand's paranoia clicked in, knowing the Corse's reputation and Cartier's prestige, they would have their goons spying and tracking those databases, especially with him being on the scopes. Again, he wastes no time and reaches inside to find the manager so that he could deal in the illicit goods, an exchange of words, credits, and gestures - Fernand is already outside with a cargo-bot full of Nox following him to the launch pad. What felt like fifteen or even twenty minutes was actually a rather speedy five, after he checked his watch, a droplet falls on it, he's anxious and sweaty. Entering the cockpit and ignitioning the vessel and pressing the button to hiss out the cargo-bay doors, he steps back out to signal the bot to unload the cargo. A few moments later - a gunshot. "Merde, merde, MERDE!" Panic and terror fills his entire body. "She's here!", he bursts out-loud, Madame Cartier's image still taunts him, failing to respond to her would definitely make her mad, that is, if at all she cared in the first place. He'd start picking up the cargo-packets from the cargo-bot to speed up the process, fumbling some packets out of his hands due to his shaky composure. Finally, he'd sprint out the Cormorant's cargo-bay, pressing the close button after him, which would also leave the cargo-bot stuck there, poor feller. But when he took the turn towards his ship's broadside - a gun to the face - was all that would meet him. A second passes for the frozen victim and he instinctively he raises his hands, and gulps his last gulp, he can't even see the aggressor's face because a dark cylinder is all that he could see.
With the point made the assailant lowers the weapon to reveal an adrenaline-fueled gaze, with otherwise little animosity within it. A bruised lip with a drop of dry blood on the chin, a wobbly stance and messy hair tied in a tail. Extravagant, expensive looking clothing underneath a dark coat, relatively dirty as if they recently got into a heated, physical argument. Certainly intimidating to a regular civilian.
Next to the aggressor was another woman dressed in a strikingly red suit, clearly out of place in the otherwise drab and industrial environment. She was clearly out of breath, having ran a distance to where they are standing now. While the assailant spoke, the other was observing the exit with a gun clutched tightly in her hands, ready to pull it up and shoot at any moment.
"Monsieur," came a voice with little time to spare, "we need transportation." Quick, and to the point. "I would rather not resort to bloodshed. Be quiet, follow my lead." Upon closer inspection, the mobster's finger sat firmly on the trigger of the gun. Perhaps indicating to the users lack of discipline- or more likely, this weapon is the source of the earlier gunshot. The yelling and commotion from somewhere out of view kept getting closer, but without a discernible point of origin. Multiple voices; how many are threats, though?
"Turn around," motions circularly with the weapon, "and take us inside." Gripping the handgun tighter, now with both hands as she shoots a gaze over the man's shoulder, scanning for danger. "No negotiation, don't say a word. Go." Sweat drips down her brow as the situation reaches a boiling point, each second with the weight of an hour.
He nods half a dozen times rampantly, showing signs of earnest and uneasiness simultaneously. "U-u-uuuhhhhh.. YES, yes.." His speech is rickety and his actions are jittery, fumbling for his credentials to release the magnetic doors to his Cormorant. With a satisfying click, followed by a beep, the three rush up the ship. Tunnel-visioning to his cockpit, Fernand wastes no second and ignites the vessel - one, two, three... seven eight nine - they're out of the atmosphere.
Without hesitation he punched coordinates to the north-west, leading to the infamous Maures Nebula, known for its thick consistency that scrambles scanners.. which is why it's also a hot spot for Brigands, or worse yet, cold-hearted Maquis terrorists. He gazes to the right, gazes to the left, even gazes upwards, but he doesn't see or feel a blaster hovering a few inches from him. "Made-moiselles..?" He intones in a fluctuated manner. "Do.. do we have a destination? This nebula will only serve as a way to lose any pursuers you've wrought my- OUR, way."
The woman in red was still recovering from what seemed like a quarter marathon they had to run through to reach safety. She was leaning along one of the cockpit's walls, standing close to the exit. While her guard was lowered, she still monitored the pilot's actions, and particularly where he was setting course. She cleared her throat quietly, and a tired voice resounded through the cockpit.
"Monte Carlo. Head there." she told the man as she slid down to the floor, hoping her companion in crime was keeping watch. Her gun was still firmly clutched in her hand, just in case something happened. She looked at Margot before releasing a weak laugh, as if she was dumbfounded they found themselves on a smuggler's transport out of the planet.
"Let me do the talking next time..." the woman spoke again before turning her head to the pilot. "I wouldn't be visiting that docking platform with this ship anytime soon if you plan on business there. I'm Chloe, and that villain there is Margot." she explained calmly. "I'm sure you don't mind us using your ship for the moment - they would've shot you just the same if you hadn't."
It was probably best to not mention that they'd be hunting this ship for doing that they just did.
