Fine Lines

[tahanuvic]

"Freelancer Beta 2-9, you're cleared to dock."

"Roger that Newark, activating docking lights, docking path sent, autopilot activated."

A robot guided Warren's oversized Spatial into Newark Station's docking gate, and onto a pad. Dusting down, and activating atmospheric thrusters, Warren gently landed on the landing platform without a hitch. Equipment carts rolled about as Interspace personnel started sending him ads for their insurance and such. He ignored it and powered his ship down.

Warren stepped out of his Spatial, and onto the metal grate of Newark Station. It had been a long while since he had been on the station. Having been born here, he didn't care too much for it.He was only here for the H-Fuel, after all. A familiar smell of artificial atmosphere and coolant mixed together to form a smell that was unique to the station. Warren sighed. He needed a drink. Perhaps a Sidewinder Fang. Those were always nice.

Walking quietly to the bar's entrance,he removed his helmet, as it unfolded into the size of a tennis ball into his hand. He stepped into the overtly large Newark Station bar. A broken speaker played rave music quaintly as more and more patrons slammed down the glasses. Approaching the bartender, Warren was shoved down by a fleeing man as he placed an order for a Sidewinder Fang on the bar's common Neural Net.

Dusting himself off, he turned around. It appeared to be a plainclothes civilian. Albeit chased by two Navy Officers. Warren suddenly lost interest in his Sidewinder Fang and turned around just long enough to watch him jump into his "Firefly" class transport.

"Stop! In the name of the law!" shouted an officer.

But they were too late in timing. Instead of obeying them, the man proceed to launch and hovered towards the officers. He fired his weapons, instead blowing holes into the deck of the docking area. Warren ran towards him and jumped into his Spatial, seconds behind him. He precariously watched his fuel gauge.

Approaching the void of space, Warren buckled himself into the burgundy-colored, sweat-soaked seat. The pristine white New York star glistened amongst the backdrop of the West Point tradelane, providing a scenic vista from the dirty brown cockpit of the Spatial. Approaching in the tradelane, however, was something far less beautiful.

"Attention, pirate ship, this is the Bounty Hunter's Guild, ship 021BH, wide-casting on all available frequencies. Power down your vessel and prepare to be boarded." Spoke a Bounty Hunter from the safety of his Manta.

Flanking the ship, was a dagger-like Piranha, and a fat and disproportioned Bounty Hunter's Bomber.

Warren noticed he was receiving a hail from the ship next to him. He opened it and began to hear frantic chatter.

"Look man, you gotta help me!" panicked the man. "They're after me! I swear to God they're after me!"

"Hold up, hold up. Who? The Navy?" Warren replied

"Everyone! They...they, want something from me!"

"Pirate Ship, you have thirty seconds to comply." Repeated the Bounty Hunter.

"And why should I help you?"

"Because, if you remember, Edison Trent was chased the same way too!" said the man. "Don't you remember him?"

"Yeah, but who doesn't. But what does that have anything to do with it?"

"Because I have this." Said the man, starting a video feed. A iridescent purple crystal inscribed with ancient writ appeared on the screen.

"Oh. My. God."

"You see?"

"But...But, how?"

"TEN SECONDS" The Bounty Hunter stressed.

"Now's not the time. There are slightly more pressing matters at hand here!"

"Hold up! Hold up!" Spoke Warren to the Hunters. "This man is committing no crime!"

"Possession of an Illegal Alien Artifact? I'd beg to differ." Sneered the Hunter. "Back off, there's not a bounty for you. At least not yet."

Warren fired his pulse cannons, striking the Manta thrice. An white energy field coalesced around the impact area and absorbed the bolts before vanishing.

"Are you out of your mind? Bounty Hunters, fire at will!" Yelled the Hunter, clearly shaken.

"Run! Whatever your name is, run! I can meet you at Rochester!"

The mysterious man activated his cruise engines, and flew away into the stars. Three bolts struck Warren. He punched the key for engine activation and narrowly avoided a blow from a Mini Razor, the Razor shattering into a crimson explosion, impacting Newark.

Firing up his thruster, Warren quickly evaded the fire of the Manta, and narrowly dodged a blow from the bomber. The Piranha swooped behind him, lacerating his shield with a stream of deadly azure fire, shaking his hull as he went.

In pursuit, Warren cut his engines and turned around, firing his weapons once again. Cockily, the fighter didn't budge. Instead, he moved forward, firing his weapons wildly, again shaking his ship. But that wasn't the threat.

The bomber appeared to Warren's right, as he heard the thudding sound of Bomber cannons. It hit the large side wing of the Spatial. Warren's shield status indicator flashed and beeped frantically as his shield depleted under the heavy fire of the bomber.

Damn this stupid wing! Thought Warren. Warren switched to his holographic damage display and applied nanobots to his wing with the swish of a finger. Time to put it to some use then... Warren applied all his pulse weapons, and brought their neon yellow fury to bear on the Piranha, and drained it's shield. Slamming his cruise engine key, he cruised at the Piranha at 350 kps.

"Fire a cruise disruptor!" Yelled the Bounty Hunter frantically.

Too slow. Thought Warren. He tilted slightly to the left, and brought the wing to the Piranha. At 350 kps, the Spatial severed it in half, right in the middle of it's cockpit. A beautiful crimson tide erupted from the now bisected fighter, the fusion plant severed from it's magnetic shielding.

"Damn! They got Ramirez! Kenneth, keep on him, and get your SNAC ready."

"Heh. Guess you finally stopped using your peashooters, huh?"

---

Spatial SHF: Don't hate on it.
Arrow LF: Please hate on it.

Characters:
Warren.Solus- The most Free of Lancers. No target too well defended, no victim too innocent, no pockets too deep.
Bio 1 Bio 2

Sanford.Rancher- Captain of the USG Yorkshire. Has a habitual tendency to flee in combat situations. AGHH!!!!!