Back with the Bandits

[Hemlocke]

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Alcatraz Depot was far from a fortified base of any kind, then again the same could be said for any rogue base. Which relied far more on traps and hard to navigate terrain to remain untouchable over shock and awe fleet power. Even still the base was by no means small, made up of an odd trio of asteroids, hooked together by a disabled Scylla which likely had one hell of a story behind it, and "somewhat" functioning mooring lanes. The litany of weapons platforms and station gunnery only mattered as far as a rogue's aim or bastardized station AI was concerned

On the approach, There was an additional Scylla looming overhead, the weaponry of which did not track the vessel, though it was certainly keeping guard. Through the rocks and the space around the trio of asteroids were patrols of Hellhound gunships accompanied by Wolfhounds, along with smaller patrols of lighter elements such as bloodhounds and jackals, many of which bore different markings to indicate difference of gangs. The Depot was primarily a trading hub of unlawful luxury, thus visuals of Bactrian, Pitbulls and an assortment of other various transports could be seen going too and from the base through the asteroid fields. The Odin of her choosing seeming less and less out of place the further it approached.

Once inside one of the various hangers however, the odin spoke a different tale. Being the commonplace for this particular hangar was the custom border worlds designs. Some of rogue inspiration, be they bastardized and strung together clunky pieces of junk. Or more of a madman's design which utilized unstable power more likely to explode than throw anything of value into a fight. The mention of Hemlocke's name often made rogues uneasy, or filled with hate. A mixed bag of reactions, though the majority of them were distasteful, not a man loved by many, if any at whatsoever. Then again, such was rogue life, anyone could sell you out, anyone could kill you, and the Hellhound of Alcatraz, had killed many of his own on a semi-regular occasion, thus the reactions of the rogues in the hanger to the announcement that Heinrich was here to meet him.

The hangar was appropriately lit, though the connective corridors to adjacent hangar as well as further into the base weren't lit very well at all, save for a few very dim lights, making the approach of a vibrant crimson hue all the more obvious as it lit up the corridor across the hangar from Heinrich's current position. The light pierced the shadows, fixated on its out of place mark, the crimson red dimming as it moved closer and closer to the hangar until the lights overhead drowned out the piercing light of the red optic to reveal the features of the surprisingly neat man she had come to meet.

Though the tight fitting black T did little to hide the grotesque array of scarring on his forearms, and the wild unkempt nature of his long brown hair gave way to a peculiar and somewhat contradictory image. Shirt tucked into pants of the same shade, belted by a slightly blood stained brown leather belt, meeting down into a pair of boots. The weaponry displayed in an obvious manner, with a unique firearm to his right hip, twin blades on his left, though his arms rested to either side, hands making no motion to brandish. The unblinking gaze stared over the gathered rogues of the hangar, or rather past them, set upon the armored individual. Silence for a time, before it was broken some uneasy moments later by a voice that didn't match the picture, nor the man's voice previously heard in space, or over faulty commlinks. Low, dark, yet smooth like ice.

"Making friends are we?"

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