Subjugation

[Halcyon]

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CHAPTER IV - Diplomacy For The Deaf

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-- October 25th, 13:36 HR [Copernicus]

The old cruiser's tractor beam seemed to struggle in the aftermath of the battle, unlike it had ever done before. The ambush had left its mark, as the central engine on the Judicator was scorched with blasts from the Pleco's forward gun. A bold attempt to try and disable their attackers by the Python, that put them at risk. Though they hadn't yet realized the severity of the damage as it meets years of neglect.

The beam dragged the pod from the debris of Civil Servant's ship, towards the mouth-facing hangar of the Subjugator. It flickered, and died every so often, but managed to keep its target steady. The two fighters that had engaged followed the pod into the bay and settled into position. They were the last two escorts left from this bold fiasco.

The pod was dropped in an open floor, just like they had done to Lazurith. Close to thirty men waited in the sidelines, twenty feet out. There were crates stacked in various locations that they were using as cover, to shield themselves. Each one had their weapons drawn on the pod. Absent only was the command staff, save for one, tiny man in a dirty gambling suit.

Lucas Ogden.

The man was sitting with a small sidearm in hand, comfortably planting himself on a barrel amidst the various thugs that awaited their latest captive. He was laughing with one, though seemed only he was getting the joke he tried telling. Didn't seem like a popular guy. Seeing the pod land in the hangar, Lucas cleared his throat and stood on the barrel. Even with the added height, he looked tiny.

"Get ready to yank 'em outta there by his hair!" Lucas yelled, waving his weapon wildly towards the pod.

The crowd begun to cheer, even as the lights were beginning to flicker and die. They were replaced by barrel fires and dim emergency lights almost immediately. The loss of power wasn't anything new to them post battle, nor was the possibility that whoever they just grabbed would fight back.

Time was of the essence.

A pair of Rogues were approaching. Their footsteps clanked against the metal floor of the hangar as they moved into position to cut open the escape pod. They had pry bars, plasma cutters, and a variety of other metal saws set around. The hangar floor was littered with other objects they had been utilizing as cover positions, as the onlookers from the crowd watched and waited for the prize to cracks open.

CS was more than settled then he once was on the ship after scuttling what he could and burning everything from optical storage chips to beating the black box flight recorder into an unrecognizable scrap metal. Unfortunately that still left him in a position that was more than unwanted, only carrying what he had pre-packed in his flight suit pouches and combat webbing, without much choice of position other than laying flat with his arms crossed like a Pharaoh within his tomb. Wasn't the worst of situations he's been in before but enough to maintain his stoic composure, the opponents outside were armed and positioned well from what he could see from his surviving onboard sensor systems...

While many civilian pods were made for rescue, his own was a black steel polygonal cocoon that was more made to punch through whatever it was going to land inside... It lacked a window for any sign of occupation or stellar sightseeing and the internal padding was sparse to make room for an array of weapons stored behind compartments from CS' personal rifle and pistols.

"This is... Annoying." Was all he could mutter inside that muffled occupied cannonball of a pod, the number of troops outside made immediate resistance a likely failure so maybe launching the armored door off the pod would be a bad idea when startling a bunch of opportunistic pirates that are jittery on the trigger.

They would need to spend some time cutting open the pod door, he heard the commotion of them trying to find a seal or latch to break open, several banging noises on the shell felt even through himself as they checked its occupancy. CS quietly worked away inside on the touchscreen In front of his face, taking in as much data and sensor readings as possible, scanning the exterior for the presence of the guards, the local communication networks, ship specifications... Things were soon interrupted with the sound of a thunderous constant rumble as temperature sensors flashing away on his interface, the pair would be torching the casket open and prying off it's shell layer by layer with a plasma cutter.

CS knowing time was about to cease had to once again scuttle a mechanical lifeline and begin another purge of all data and storage systems. While he wouldn't have a complete image of this land, any small time within intelligence could present a method of survival... His breathing paced as systems started to go haywire from the cutting heat, likely damaging the electronics embedded within the pod.

Now or never, fight or flight... It was usually the two choices once hostilities have happened but the idea of being taken alive and the pod being salvaged brought some unwanted memories that began to enrage scars left on his mind. But that one quiet voice out there telling him a third choice for a good reason.

'Try to talk, they're human.' These were not his usual ilk. He laid patiently as he hope to take advantage of what ever opportunity laid in wait, he'd only hope it was uphill from here.

The various Renegades outside were swarming like rabid dogs to a pile of meat. Ogden watched on from his barrel as they went to open the pod. When the prybars failed, they wheeled out a torch to start cutting through the hinges. The sensors of the pod would show the little man watching from afar, as another approached him from behind. The man from behind tapped him on the shoulder, which had Lucas jump in shock.

"What?!" The little man dropped his gun on the floor.

"Lex wants you to get your sorry ass to the engine room and fix the power couplings again." The bridge staffer from Lex's command center pointed towards one of the doors. "You didn't do it yesterday, and now we're gonna be sittin' ducks in a couple hours. Get to it, dickhead." The Rogue ordered.

Lucas leaped down from his barrel with a grumble. He bent down and grabbed his gun, stashing it in his belt haphazardly with the safety off. He shrugged and moved towards the exit with the bridge crewman. He had neglected responsibilities, it seems. Crucial ones to the upkeep of their operation.

Though what they were up to wouldn't matter soon. The Rogues were slicing through the door with a set of plasma torches, melting away at the reinforced steel. They worked at it, as the crowd got more and more rowdy. The roars and bellows of the bloodthirsty Rogues set the stage for something that wasn't going to be pleasant, regardless of how one might frame it.

The latch gave away, as a pair of prybars wedged into a small opening in the pod.

The Rogues pulled the door open, as five men moved for the occupant, while two more aimed their weapons inside in case of a struggle. Their intention was to overpower and outnumber, and they were NOT being gentle. They swung, they hit, they grabbed at his gear and did everything in their power to yank CS from his hiding place, and out onto the open hangar floor.

The crowd roared as he was brought out. No matter how much pleading or talk would come, they weren't going to listen.

They didn't care what reasons he had. What offers he could make. They had their orders and their methodology. Diplomacy means nothing to these animals.

The Rogues went for what weapons they could find, as more pointed their weapons in Civil Servant's direction. They had tightened their posture. The majority of them appeared to be seasoned fighters - infantry from the looks of it. Remnants of a bygone fighting force.

Like a corpse laying on top of material treasure being dragged out his coffin, the robbers desecrating the being while ravaging at what goods lie below. The notion of talking was driven away as soon as that fist tried to punch his face like instinct once the hatch had been cracked, the hand of said Rogue facing immediate regret as he flicked off the pain from hitting his reinforced pilot helmet. CS only managed to deflect a few hands before the flurry of rifle stocks were being used to disable his own defensive attempts, trying to grab him by the helmet and rip it off, CS instead helped and launched himself out of the pod and into the direction of said person, his feet kicking several people in the face as he slammed himself and the unfortunate aggressor underneath him.

CS was brunting the pain of a dozen blows, drawing on it before he slammed both hands on the ground at either side and glided himself back on his feet and knocking out the one below with a passing boot slam upon his landing. The rest of the goons were in punching distance. To them they were merely a few seconds away from landing their blows onto CS, but behind that visor the 'dead man' drew his breath.

Guns are drawn, they're not firing, five disposable personnel to investigate his coffin, they're all waiting for a weapon in his hands to become an excuse... Hooked up on greed, some are distracted in salvaging, three others focused on himself. Answer, defensive, unnamed, take blows and make them know you're a containable problem. He launched himself off his feet one again, taking air as much as he could and planted two boots on two more faces, while arms hooked around the face of the only person that had also clenched CS by his flight suit.
Taking all three down on the floor with him.

What ensued was a ground level slug fest between with CS not letting these people rise above their knees all while taking as many blows as he could... Chipping away at the strength of what these brutalists had... The goal was to make them rethink any future attempts but let them settle with having him somewhat compliant. Although the resistance would continue until someone had the decency to ask him to stop first.

Their relentlessness soon shifted to slight desperation as this captive put up the biggest struggle yet. One of the Rogues lost his balance as CS kicked at him. Two more soon emerged from the crowd with a spiked board and a cattle prod. There wasn't a figurehead here to negotiate with. Just grunts, following their routine to a letter. The crowd begun to chant in rhythm the words "Give! It! Up!" as they beat their chests and stomped to make as much noise as possible. To drown out any thought and distract their prey.

In combination with the dim lighting, the sheer numbers and the increasing ferocity of their beating, the odds remained heavily in the Rogues' favor. Each action - whilst calculated, had all the charm of a wild animal on the offensive. The harder he fought back, the more intense their swings became. The more vicious the tools they employed. They weren't going to give up, nor were they taking anything less than full submission. These were slavers. Brutal by their very nature. Hardened by the actions they've taken to survive on their own. They wanted everything he had.

They wanted to break him.

Casting a glance through the crowd to the doors, some people were on the move under weight of something. Two Rogues were dragging the slumped body of a woman - clearly in Technocracy colors, down the corridor. Blood was dripping from her head. Whether he knew them or not, it was Bucketts - the co-pilot. Dead. An indication of the fate of the others.

One of the masked Rogues pulled the slide back on his sidearm audibly as the two from the crowd approached with their weapons. He waved his gun in CS's direction, a comfortable enough distance away that it'd be out of reach while the others continued to grapple with him, trying to grab his equipment and hit every weak spot they could find.

"Do ya' wanna' end up like them?! Huh?!" The Rogue barked over the others. The shouting kept coming. The blows kept landing. The new pirates to the party brandished their weapons in the air, taunting the seasoned operative with a worse wave attacks. The shock prod crackled with unstable and unhealthy levels of electricity. If anything was going to hurt badly, it'd be that.

When brute force fails, they'd use new tools.

If this fails, they'll just kill him on the spot and drag his body to the Chop Shop.

"Your choice! Live or die!" The Rogue issued an ultimatum. It's true - nobody was present to negotiate. Nobody in charge on the deck for CS to talk to.

Would it even matter if there was?

CS saw a glimpse of that barrel being flashed in his direction, someone was unhappy with his resistance enough to put a stop to it. His pockets were almost picked clean of his emergency supplies and several oh his knifes we're already either being picked by someone else or laying somewhere on the floor. The punches kept coming even with the request but cattle pods and spike boards were a point of no return.

His movement became solely defensive, slowing some pace and rolling himself over to take blows on his arms and helmet as much as possible, shielding his face before while he took some pause in trying to disable is attackers. The grounded rogues were finally finding their feet as they stood up to take a their rewarding final kicks in. The entire time his body moved and jerked from each deliverance of violence, not even a wheeze out could be heard as he laid motionless on the ground.

Wrists crossed with his palms facing out, held over his visor as he managed the last few blows, he finally had the time to collect himself and observe his helmet systems screaming with errors and warnings, a list of injury reports and system failures, It would be some time before the suit system could self recover, but the even after a punishing melee, the mind was unscathed in this determined man-machine.

CS wriggled himself to sit upright, crossing his legs as he kept his palms open outwards and covering his visor from the flurry the hostile crowd. Although one sight, a body, technocrat... Bleeding out in the open while being dragged like a desecration across the field. He knew for certain a way to describe this vessel, life is cheap, don't become expendable. This was undeserving and needed rectifying soon.

CS remained still, his body inhaling and exhaling rapidly without even a wheeze heard from him. Getting out alone wouldn't be easy and right now is not the time to try... Next opportunity, that's all he needed to last for.

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-- October 25th, 13:41 HR [Copernicus]

The Rogues had settled as their captive grew less resistant. They took the bait, believing they had one. In all earnestness however, they were simply glad to be done this part of the job. As far as the crew were concerned, the hard part was over. Wrangling in these people would likely be the toughest part of their day. The Rogues pat him down, disarming him of any weapons they could find by tossing them out onto the floor. After a thorough search, they grabbed CS and lifted him to his feet like a prisoner.

With his arms locked in place, they bound his hands for safe transport. Seems he's the only one that they'll try to walk out. With a shove, the Rogues pushed CS into marching on, to follow a trail of people who were headed towards the Subjugator's brig. The pirates were overjoyed - another victory, despite the odds. They obviously weren't thinking very far ahead, with how visibly satisfied they'd become with themselves over instant gratification. It maybe took about ten minutes for them to get him off the hangar floor, and perhaps another five to escort him to the bridge.

Apart from the dead pilot of Leviathan's gunship, CS saw nobody else from the attack.

The march took a few more minutes, as the dimly lit and filthy halls of the Subjugator were traversed. CS is smart enough to keep track on his surroundings, likely looking to memorize a path or spot anything of importance. Though the lighting didn't help with retention. Some sections were completely blacked out, and required a flashlight to navigate safely. The escorting four guards to the two that marched Civil Servant towards his new home stayed vigilant on their captive.

As they rounded the last corner, they stopped at the first door on their left. The mag-locked blast door lifted with a screech as the aged metal made its distress known to all. The inside of the cell was dry, unlike the others. It didn't have a plumbing problem, but it wasn't lit at all. The guards shoved CS in after unlocking his binders, and let the door close behind him.

He was alone. There were no vents to crawl out of, and no latch on this side to fiddle with. No way out of this one. It didn't bode well at all.

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-- October 25th, 13:51 HR [Copernicus]

Not ten minutes later, the guards would return with another captive. They lazily tossed the unconscious man - another of the Technocrats with Leviathan - into the cell face first. The man landed with a clunk as the door sealed up behind them once more. The darkness separated the two from line of sight.

This place was like a prison. It sucked the hope out of its victims. Drained their patience, their willpower. Everything about it felt wrong. Even the air was full of a stench that spoke volumes to the mistreatment done to others and to the ship itself. This wasn't a place people typically survived for very long. There might still be hope that their ringleader may come down to talk. After all, he was flying Bundschuh colors, and the Rogues surely know better than to get involved in political matters without anything to directly gain.

Right?

It was no matter. The brutality of the Rogues was a message enough that these were a force you they didn't want to tweak in the wrong way. More evidence of such behavior had been delivered through the cell doors once again and locked in the darkness with him. A unsettling break for the technocrat that laid unconscious on the floor, the lack of light tormented the inability to see one's wounds or check on their health after such an ordeal, fortunately for Foulke that his cell mate had eyes in the dark...

He allowed time for the second rumbling shake of the room and muffled metallic screech came to an end, knowing the guards have likely left to continue in ravaging their plunder. Silently gliding over near the unconscious technocrat and kneeling himself down to look closer... Blood from the head but not a puncture, better to ensure their survival he thought immediately, rolling him on his side and ensuring that the wounded side of his head was free from pressure. Not much else could be done with a lack of any medical supplies on him, only thing he had left was his suit, helmet and empty webbing.

Ensuring that he wouldn't become another corpse in his cell, he would at least keep an eye out for him while he comb through his environment with every details, any hidden eyes or ears would be hard to seclude from the covert ghost himself. His hand caressing each wall in the cell, feeling the gentle vibration of the station and listening out for the most faint of whines and buzzes... A ship can tell a lot about itself when you speak it's language, and she was in pain, pushed beyond her limits and forced to travel space being hardly cared for by her parasitic crew. This upset him, more than he would care to admit to anyone...

He needed to take some rest before anything could happen, he stood back up and moved back towards the darker and furthest region away from the cell door, sitting himself back down and crossing his legs once again. He unzipped his flight suit jacket ever so slightly, slipping his hand in and taking out a pair of dog tags from within, another hidden personal jewel that he grasped by the chain and let the stamped steel dangle by it's weight.

The air still in here, stagnant and dry. He would meditate until he'd hear Foulke take a breath and regain consciousness.

If he does.

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-- October 25th, 14:17 HR [Copernicus]

[:: @SuicideBurn ::] >> neuralnet comm priv "$Lex@Subjugator"
Neural Net Protocol: Searching...
Neural Net Protocol: Channel located.
Neural Net Protocol: Initializing stream.

[:: @SuicideBurn ::] "Hey, Lex. When's the money coming in?"

The Subjugator had just disconnected its docking clamp from the Python, and turned its batteries towards the deteriorating Pleco. The ship was moving in to finish the job and destroy the remains. A remarkably dumb move, given the condition of their conduit systems.

Lex leaned over the table at the blinking light, reading the message. He sighed exasperatedly, and planted his finger on the reply button. He cleared his throat.

[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] "That's two days, Burnsie. Once our contact comes in and we know how much these dudes are payin', it'll cover the losses of the Revenge."

[:: @SuicideBurn ::] "Remind me how much they're paying, again?"

The pilot's tone carried doubt--the implicit expectation of disappointment. The sort of doubt that could sink ships.

Lex rolled his eyes. He didn't have an honest answer, or a dishonest one for that matter. He wasn't ready to admit how hot the water he was stewing in had gotten.

[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] "We'll know when we know. Go scout the Galileo hole and make sure no more of those Prometheus guys come back."

[:: @SuicideBurn ::] "I'm gonna need a solid answer on that one, chief. You've been saying the payout's gonna be big, but I need a number."

Lex's frustration got the better of him as he groaned aloud and planted a palm on his face. If Sarah were here, he'd be getting Drake to threaten her with a beating.

[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] "Do the job or you aren't gettin' a fuckin crumb."

A wry laugh sounded on the other end of the comms.

[:: @SuicideBurn ::] "I don't think I'm getting a goddamn crumb no matter what you do, Lex. You've got these Prometheus types ripping up half the system looking for you, and the other half's bounty hunters. Give me my cut, up front, or there's no dice."

Lex rolled his eyes and leaned into the microphone, trying to speak as menacingly as possible. The transmitter's terminal crackled for but a moment, as the power failures below began to hit the bridge.

[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] "Listen here, you stupid- {NeuralNet Filter will not Broadcast this message.}"
[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] {NeuralNet Filter will not Broadcast this message.}"
[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] {NeuralNet Filter will not Broadcast this message.}"
[:: @JaredisBadA55801 ::] {Caller now Blocked.}"

With the unceremonious termination of the call, the Jackal was already powering up its cruise engines.

Lex was livid. He kicked the console's base with his good leg, and slumped back in his chair. That was his last capable pilot. The whole operation was coming undone right in front of his eyes.

Drake soon appeared from the elevator connecting the bridge to the rest of the ship, dressed head to toe in a strange, steel and purple armor. Lex looked upon him with sheer bewilderment.

"Mason, what the hell are you wearing?" He asked, squinting at the big man with confusion.

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