the story behind Slum-City

[Tailsdoll]

The Downfall

Chapter 3 - Gallia and ToP's Losses

Everyone in the Taus remembers the day the GRN flooded those star systems, the mass of ships obscuring everything in their path. Countless lives on the balance as the ancient war machine sprung into action.

Amidst the mass of ships, a small Light Fighter with police tags flew in an erratic pattern, not unlike drunken driving. No one within the Gallic Forces seemed to give it much notice, even when it diverted from pre-planned course and veered off into Bretonia ahead of the main force.

Six months ago...

"I'm telling you, Uncle, we're fine, no need to worry"
"I hope so. Can't afford ta lose all of us in one day!" - a burp.
A sigh.
"We'll be fine" - a crackle, and the communication died out.

Jonathan sighed quietly into his flight mask, the stunning views of Dauphine barely visible through the Clelles Nebula. Around his ship, four others floated in space, one Pigrim class Slave Liner and three Eagle fighters. The silence was palpable.

"Where are they?" - John Read broke the ice after what seemed like an eternity.
"They'll be here... They better..." - muttered Jonathan, more to himself than anyone else.
"I don't like this" - said Pete, the farts so badly disguised one could almost smell them over intercom - "They should've been here by now! TEN MINUTES AGO!"
"Give them five more..." - responded Jonathan, simultaneously noticing something strange on his scanners.
"YOU SAID THAT FIVE MINUTES AGO!"
"Silence! There's someone here..."

The group waited in silence for a couple more minutes while the visitors approached their location. Something was off. It wasn't a single ship. Jonathan could count at least seven ships, none of them transports. And more were coming from the edge of the Nebula. Police ships.

"Damnit, they tricked us. EVERYONE, BREAK!"

Madness. The Project ships didn't even think about fighting back. The odds were so absurdly stacked against them, any kind of retaliation would be suicide. And none of them were in the mood for being sacrifices. In a desperate effort to confuse their would-be captors, each of the five ships took a different direction, ignoring the fact the Police had more than enough fighters for all of them.

Over the intercom, Jonathan could hear John Read and the masked man being caught up. They fought wildly, and several Gallians met their ends at his comrade's guns. But, inevitably, their voices were silenced...

He lost contact with Pete and Smudge. He could only assume the worst as he moved to the nearest Jump Hole, five fighters on his tail.

"Stop, at once, filthy smuggler!" - came a voice from one of the ships.
"BITE ME!" - yelled back Jonathan, popping all his flares in frustration.

He had no more time to say anything, though. His last flare failed. A disruptor hit his ship. The following seconds were blurry. All he remembered was waking up in a Gallic prison ship...

Present day...

"DAMNIT, I'M TELLING YOU, I'M BRETONIAN!"
"You're using a Gallic ship!"
"I HAVE MY DAMN PAPERS RIGHT HERE! I EVEN HAVE AN ACCENT!"
"I'm afraid I'll have to call my superior, sir..."

Jonathan sighed in desperation. He'd finally got to the border and was being stopped for suspicion of being a Gallic agent. In retrospect, maybe using a Gallic ship to escape enemy territory was a bad idea, but what was he to do?

"Sir, my superior cleared you for passage, but we recommend you change ship at once" - came the voice from the station.
"Fine, fine, whatever, just let me through!"
"Have a nice..." - Jonathan flew past the station - "Day..."

He had a long way to go. Six months. He dreaded the damage Pete would have done in his absence.

---

<span style="color:#000000">The awful plight of he who cannot draw to save his own life.</span>