Commodore

[Unseelie]

A Pirate train slid up to a floundering prison transport, guns hot, and deployed cables. Hauled itself sheer with the liner, as it drifted through the asteroids. Clamps engaged, lights flared. Klaxons blared throughout the ship, and briefly, the ship wailed a distress call, cut off from static broadcast from the train.

The airlocks on assault ships often contained nooks down the halls. Places for borders to settle in when the doors opened, when the firefights cross the ship halls started. Most ships filled them with cargo, but on the Whipping Girl, an assault rifle and a suit of armor hung in each cubby, Rhienland Military standard. Bangs and scrapes echoed along their hull. The vibrations flowed up from the floor, from the walls he was leaning on. He checked his armour, glanced across the corridor at his mate. Would be mate. Ahead, two nooks away, Sophie stood ready, calmly loading a flechette gun, wearing a custom designed battlesuit, pleated durralloy plates on ablative weave over ablative leggings from the waist down to a pair of mechanized assault boots, body sculpted durralloy up to her old RM combat helm. He flicked the safety off his own glass-rifle, and settled in to wait for the locks to cycle...

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