A Winter Wonderland

[Spectre]

October 24th, 826 A.S.
Tau-31 system, Border Worlds

Mutiny

Crew Quarters
Deck 7, Fore

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"Warning. Warning. Main bulkhead in Deck-4-Section-13 breached. No life signs."

The alarm was beginning to get enthusiastic at this point, blaring each time a single firearm was discharged. Ambre tried to shut it out, but the sheer volume was enough to make any attempt futile.
Why do bad things always happen to normal people.


The ship, over the past month, had seen its fair share of drama. From the first casualty at the hands of Boffrand, no more than five others had all taken their chances trying to seize power for themselves aboard the ship. No man had a better plan than the other, yet all tried to usurp command, failing each time at the edge of Ambre's minuscule boot knife. In a way, it was humiliating, yet mildly entertaining for some. These ended up being catalysts, however.
The mutiny began nearly a week prior, when a charismatic gunner's mate from from the lower decks riled up enough supporters to intimidate the ship's command staff. While they remained out numbered by the rest of their still loyal crew, the mutineers held a commanding position from the aft end of the ship, near engineering. A position they've since threatened the rest of the ship with.

Action was taken by the marines still loyal to Ambre and her staff to contain the situation, yet it only seemed to further escalate the issue. After a month of taunts, demands, ignoration, and waiting, the powderkeg finally blew, nearly literally.
An explosion off the starboard wing on Deck 4 caused by the mutineers set off a campaign that would claim over twenty lives before today's end. While bulkheads, fields and clever usage of the ship's 48 yottawatt shield generator kept the ship pressurized, eighteen of the crew were vented into space before anyone had time to flick a switch. Two more were shot dead by marines, and over a hundred of the crew, mutineers and loyalists alike, were injured, half of the command staff included.


Near the 'front line', arbitrary as sealed bulkheads and blast doors locked off the fighting to a small corridor on Deck 7, the med bay was full of valued friends and accomplices. Ambre watched over each of them, hoping to not only inspire a sense of hope, however useful it would be, but ensure that her crewmates were pulling through. Some had grievous injuries, while others seemed better off. "This whole thing has been a disaster," she thought to herself.

"We need those comms online."

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