To Fight for a Country that Hates You... (Tigre-Family Stories: First Generation)

[Mr.Fabulous]

***FWWWWAAAA---BOO[color=#CC0000]OOOOOOOOOOOM***

The Hull Integrity was compromised, the reactor had been exposed, and one last shot from the Salamanca finally sealed the fate of the Corsair Titan when it made its mark on the frame of the ship, detonating it by way of signalling an implosion sequence within the reactor, and the pressure finally bursting outwards in a flaming brilliance of yellow and white debris...

... it was beautiful...

"Lo siento, Señors..." The voice of a Corsair woman is heard within the lifepod's communicators, "... But you left me little choice." The Centurion that had the words The Relicanth embezzled on the side soon turned around and zoomed off in Cruise Speed, leaving behind a trail of scrap and drifting lifepods to the mercilessness of space...







<div align="right]Omicron Delta; Kiribati Asteroid Field



A lowly night it was... passing through the large ice asteroid field, The Relicanth's cruise engines roaring behind. The ship wasn't badly worn, but it did show evidence of numerous accounts of near-death-escapes in its lifetime, parts of its hull patched-up well, but others were permanently beyond repair, the latter group at the very least not too serious. Much of the original components of the ship are still there, but it's evident some scrap had been salvaged to get down on the more serious repairs.

Within the Centurion's cockpit was, strangely, two seats: the back was empty, and it seemed to serve as the sensors-helm for the ship what with the numerous scanner-interfaces around; the front was, however, inhabited by a Corsair woman, who was known as Casini Chrisostomo.

She was about 175 cm (5'7") in height, sported black, shoulder-length hair, green eyes, pinkish-white skin and a very chiseled, yet still womanly body; her flight-suit was somewhat scarred, scorched and tattered, evidences of numerous fights, blaster-fire and fires marked the entire thing; her face, though beautiful in its own right, had a very frank, serious and professional look in their eyes, scanning the horizon for any potential threats.

Suddenly, her side gets some bleeping, but the back-seat gets a more-detailed identification: Casini unstraps herself and crawls over to the seat behind, muttering to herself as she went, "... I so should get a reliable co-pilot for this thing... SIGH..."

The interface says that it managed to pick up the weak distress beacon of a lifepod, 30-kilometers to the North 42º 32' 12" West direction, "Hmmm... This should be interesting..." She then goes back to the front seat and plots a course for the picked-up signal.

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