Golanski frowned. After only a few hours of intense neural net drama, the Order's fuel reserves now consisted of two 500ml canisters of H-Fuel and a bottle of lighter fluid. Things were looking grim.
Far above him, hundreds of kilometers above the surface of Akabat, a flock of Nephilims circled like vultures. Omicron Mu had fallen in less than an hour of concentrated non-warfare; the Order's most hardened veterans had deserted their posts by the hundreds and thousands, fleeing in the face of this highly-improbable behemoth that was the Freeport Defense Fleet. Led by a loose confederation of furries, strangely-successful businessmen, and outright weirdos, this armada dwarfed even the Gallic Royal Fleet at its prime. Even the Core had packed up and gone home, mumbling something about Solaris turrets being 'nerfed' and petitioning their shipwrights to mount more Cerberus cannons on the Mako's undersized hull.
The Order Admiral sighed, listening as each of the individual ships began broadcasting its individual no-fire-zone rules and lecturing each other on the true Zoner way of life. Was this how the Omicrons were to be from now on?
From behind him, there was a small, barely audible noise. He whirled on his heel, drawing his pistol and pointing it into the shadows that lurked behind him.
"Who's there? Show yourself!"
There was a brief pause, before the mysterious figure stepped forwards into the light.
"They owe me some credits," quipped Trent, his facial expression bland as always - hampered by early-2000s animation quality. "And I'm already committed."
"Yeah," added Michael King, following Trent's lead. "They're travelling through one of the major arteries of Omicron space like they own the place. Trent, we can't let them get away. I'm uploading a waypoint to your nav map."
Golanski sighed again, lowering his gun. It was going to be a long day.
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