Asno hadn't been himself all day. It had hit him hard. He just sat there, staring at his bottle of whiskey, watching the meniscus of the burning liquid getting closer to the bottom with every glass he poured out and subsequently drank...
Gentle was like a father to him. Asno had learnt the fine art of piracy and poised use of dirty language from the so called Pirate King Gentle. He had spent the last few months working hard, recruiting and training new pirates, but before he could fully appreciate the labour of Asno's work, the incidenct happened.
The only thing on his mind was when Gentle was rushed into the hospital ward of Cadiz base. Left and right, wenches were crying, and even the toughest of pirates had waterry eyes...
After a succesful raid in Cambridge, on the way back to Cadiz, a stray torpedo, launched by one of the rookies in the OPG ranks out of excitement from his first raid, hit Gentle's Titan. The damn thruster went into overload and exploded. Tearing out the fighter from the inside out. Gentle's escape pod was intact, but the shear force of the explosion had dealt a fair amount of trauma to his head. And the doctors say they don't know when, if he does, he would gain conciousness again...
In a way he envied Ivan, who was also recovering at Cadiz, who got to spend his time with Gentle. But Asno was busy. Someone had to keep these pirates in line. As the only active Scourge, the responsibility fell on him. He swore that by the time Gentle returned, and retook his position as proud leader of the Omega Pirates Guild, Asno would perfect it. Perfect the art of piracy. Form a swarm of able, feisty pirates. And amass a fleet of impressive ships. And to rid Omega of independent traders. Gentle would return to a well oiled machine.
Asno sat in his chair. A plush leather thing. The chair was old but comfortable, like many things in Asno's life. His trusty Praetorian, the Crucifix was being repaired. By now very few of the original components remained, having been repaired and had parts replaced over and over.
The most recent repairs on the vessel were one of the most severe in the ship's service history. A direct supernova hit. If the hit had been on the cockpit, he'd have been a dead man, fortunately however, the mass of antimatter hit the Crucifix's right wing flange, which dissipated and diverted the antimatter somewhat, leaving the core systems of the old ship intact and operational, albeit barely. It was a lucky break.
The OPG had been lucky lately. Victorious skirmishes vastly outnumbered any losses, there were rumours of Bounty Hunters going out of business after futile attempts at hunting OPG pirates, and the piracy was proving to be ludicrous. All this money meant OPG ships were more efficiently serviced and better equipped than ever.
The situation on Crete was just as good, many trade vessels were coerced at gun(s)point into making regular drops of foodstuffs, pharmaceuticals and consumer goods to Crete. Many corsairs were grateful, some grateful enough to join the OPG to try their own hand at piracy. The ship roster was longer than ever.
Asno leaned back and put his dirty-leather-boot-laden feet on his desk. Above the door that led out of his office hung a plaque. It was, like everything in this office, old, and barely legible. It read 'Together we stand.' The unofficial OPG mantra. It had helped in those situations when he was outnumbered and the situation looked grave. He loved his wingmates, trusty, able pirate, together they could take on anything.
He refilled his glass with whiskey for the 5th since he'd been sitting there. He held the glass near his chest and swirled it, the amber gold liquid swirling around with the ice. He savoured the smell for a moment, took a swig then buzzed the intercom. "Igor get the flight crew to prep my gunboat, I'm taking her out for a patrol."
It had been too long since he'd flown his gunboat, the Mule. It was a ratty ship, the armour barely held together by a mark 6 armour upgrade but he liked it. He'd never retire this ship, his baby. He took what was left of the bottle of whiskey into the cock pit and strapped himself in.
"Asno Muleo, callsign Mule, launching from Cadiz" These Hessians won't know what hit 'em.
