Crack in The Wall

[Cortana Clark]

. . .Cmdr. Ilyana Routh, Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Justicar, CIC Deck / Omega-55 They haven't sent anything in days. No updates. No orders. No recall. Nothing but the slow decay of distant signals and the low hum of systems running just shy of optimal. Omega-55 is quiet, too quiet — but not in the tactical sense. Not like an ambush or a jammed relay. It’s the kind of quiet that feels… abandoned. Forgotten. Like someone dropped us here and scratched our name off the roster. We're parked on the hip of the Fretensis. Standard escort distance. I could lie and say it’s a position of trust, but we both know the truth. We’re the shield. If something comes in hot, we die first. And that’s fine. That’s our job. But what they don’t understand — what maybe no one up the chain ever did — is that ships like the Justicar don’t stay sharp on orders alone. They stay sharp because someone’s willing to hold the wheel when the map runs out. That’s me. I didn’t ask for that responsibility, but here it is, heavy on my back every time I walk the length of the bridge. I’ve been doing those walks more often lately. Three times a shift, sometimes four. It’s not inspection. Not really. I don’t need to check the consoles — I know every damn system by memory. I walk because they need to see me walk. They need to know their commander hasn’t cracked. Kael gives me that look sometimes — the one that asks if I’m pretending for them or for myself. Doesn’t matter. The crew’s keeping it together. That’s what counts. Jace says discipline is holding. He’s not filing anything lately, which is strange in its own way. Maybe he’s handling problems directly. Maybe they’ve stopped reporting them. Hard to say. I trust him. Mostly. Carrick, though... he's slipping. Keeps staring at comms like they owe him something. Like the void might cough up a new directive if he just stares hard enough. I don’t blame him. I’ve caught myself doing the same. What gnaws at me isn’t fear. It’s not even doubt. It’s the silence. The stillness. The weight of this ship running flawless drills in a dead system, circling a crippled ship waiting on parts it won’t get. We hold formation. We cycle power. We scan, log, repeat. It’s routine. But if routine is all that’s left, then what are we really maintaining? Discipline for its own sake? Duty to a command structure that no longer exists? No. We’re here for the crew. For the ones who stayed. For the ones who didn’t run when Vespucci fell and the walls came down. The Justicar is more than steel. She’s a choice. Our choice. And as long as she holds, so do we. I don’t care if we never get new orders. We’ll keep running drills. We’ll keep the Fretensis covered. And if anything moves out there — anything at all — we’ll be ready. Even if no one else is.

---

[Culbrelai]

. . . Captain James Marshall , Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Fretensis, Captain's Quarters / Omega-55 System A field of wheat - once swaying listlessly in the wind , turns to flames. A backdrop of a burning, crumbling city lies near the horizon. The soft touch of a lover caresses the skin, before fading away... An alarm blares A grizzled man with a greying, patchy beard shoots up from his slumber, drenched in sweat. He rubs his eyes, digging his knuckles into his forehead in frustration like he'd done so many nights before. Get out of there, damn you. He shakes it off, stands and gazes out of his cabin's window, at the Fretensis's escort, the Justicar, and then his eyes list into the endless abyss of the nebula. It is another unremarkable day in a seemingly endless chain of unremarkable days. It has been some time since we've heard from anyone whom does not want us in prison - or at the wrong end of a blaster. The intercom opens, and the captain is shaken back to reality "Sir, I am sorry to disturb you but you may want to have a look at this." the Comms officer, Lt. Shepherd, sputters out in between crackles of interference. I take the long walk to the bridge - this had better be good. The captain makes his way through the labyrinthian maze of sparse corridors, the interconnecting crew accommodations, passing sealed bulkhead doors leading to parts of the ship now no-longer in service, which once bustled with crewmen going about the days business. He eventually arrives at the bridge. "What is the situation, Lieutenant?" He points at the screen - The Captain looks over the Lieutenant's shoulder at the console - an incoming transmission on a secure frequency once designated for priority messages from High Command.

---

#NotMySNAC

[Cortana Clark]

. . .Cmdr. Ilyana Routh, Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Justicar, CIC Deck / Omega-55 The days are barely passing now. I can walk the Bridge ten times a day and it won’t make a major difference. The silence, the silence is what is wearing us down day by day. We stick to our routines because what else should we do? If we start slipping, even just a bit, it might all come apart. We're not built for limbo. We are stuck here waiting for nothing. At this rate, I don’t even want anything to happen anymore, because we won’t be ready—no matter how many drills we run. We’re already spread thin across the ship. We keep it together, somehow, but if something does break through that calm, I’m not sure we’ll be able to hold up. And I’m starting to worry more about Carrick. While we’re all trying to stay as fit as we possibly can, he seems to be slipping more and more. Day after day, it gets worse. You can hardly see his eyes anymore. They lost their sparkle. Like he’s not even looking at us. Like he’s already fading. Kael notices too, I think. But she won’t say it. She’s been burying herself in diagnostics and recalibrations that don’t need doing. And Jace? He’s just getting quieter. That’s how you know it’s bad. When even the loud ones stop talking. What am I supposed to tell them? That it's going to get better? That someone out there still remembers we exist? Even I catch myself slipping more often than I want to admit. I almost forgot my own voice earlier when I gave orders. Like I didn’t recognize it. It’s not the hull that will give out first. It’s us.

---

[Culbrelai]

. . . Captain James Marshall , Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Fretensis, The Bridge - Comms Console / Omega-55 System The red, ominous alert reflects off of the Captain's tired eyes, as he hovers over the shoulder of Comms Officer Shepherd. It has not been an easy road since fleeing the destruction of Veracruz, and everything I and my crew hold dear. The hasty nature of our escape left the Fretensis with a complement well-under our peak fighting strength, with some of my crew that did manage to board left permanently injured in the chaos of the aftermath of the fall. We're orphans, seemingly doomed to drift forever, stateless in our decaying steel tube. We've been scraping by, by the skin of our teeth - scrapping and selling bits and pieces of the vessel for purchase of provisions, and for critical treatments for those injured. Our auxiliary generators have long been sold to the Junkers of Invergordon, as have our stockpile of ground-operations equipment. God knows what the Junkers or their toadies want with armored vehicles, drone attack craft and dozens of other pieces of military hardware. I am somewhat comforted by the realization that our technology may go on to fight Liberty's tyranny in some future conflict, our guns will find their way to the skull of the Libertonian menace, even though it may not be us on the giving end. It feels as though we are defiling the vessel - the only real place we can call home - but needs must. The Captain motions for Shepherd to forward the comm to his private console. An offer . . . \\ "Alright, Barney. You willin' to get your hands dirty? That's fine by us. We need you to help deliver in bulk some cargo from point A to point B. Simple enough, yes? So be our big, mean courier and make sure these containers reach the Invergordon Salvage Yards. Don't fuck this one up, or we'll take your entire home for parts as compensation. Transporting goods of this kind in such large quantities is a dangerous job, but it should be able to cover your expenses for a while. Tell your Captain I said hello, by the way." // . . . This message is not from High Command- Shepherd wrote in his analysis of the message, despite it being sent on the requisite frequency. The message header is garbled, the further fields listing commanding officer, orders and so on are no better - just junk data. It is suspicious, but not out of the ordinary for these ilk. I cannot afford to be foolhardy - my crew and our new home depend upon my good judgement... but even my good judgement can be clouded by the idea of this many credits, credits to repair this deteriorating hulk. Credits to buy food to fill our bellies. Credits to allow us to set our feet on solid ground for the first time in how long. It is not an offer I can refuse in good conscience, despite the risks. The captain orders Lt. Shepherd to respond to the offer in the affirmative, and orders the holds to be readied.

---

#NotMySNAC

[Cortana Clark]

. . .Cmdr. Ilyana Routh, Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Justicar, CIC Deck / Omega-55 One day after another, well not quiet today is different. There seems to be so eerie atmosphere aboard the ship. While everyone follows their schedules without a hiccup more or less, we got something new today. It probably won’t be anything major, but we detected some weird background EM Radiation at the outskirts of the system. While we couldn’t pick up on anything deeper than that. The sudden disappearance of background EM Radiation in the sector does pose a question, how can it suddenly vanish. We run constant surveillance on all systems not even an Asteroid could enter or leave the system without us noticing. EMF Scans I even asked the question to Kael, and she couldn’t answer according to her “its simply insanity to think that EM Radiation would just suddenly vanish”, while I do agree with her, I highly doubt that it would be insanity because I have seen it myself and I’m not that close to insanity yet. I’m currently coordinating with Jace to see if we would be ready for the worst-case scenario, not that I expect anything to happen but its better to be on the safe side, and since it is our job to protect the Fretensis I will request a short exploration into the Sector, maybe we find something or not. I would prefer to find empty space, but we will see. In terms of security, I will request a small escort of one or two Fighters if they deny that then we will most likely have to visit this sector on our own, which usually wouldn’t be that much of an issue however we are all already grinding our teeth so it would be good to have someone else be on the lookout aswell.

---

[Noth Squadron]

. . .Theodore Syd, Noth Squadron . . .Kaarst Drydock, Hangar #4 It has been a month since Dublin. I miss the smell of cigarette ash that could be picked up from every corner of the ship. I'm a hardened smoker, you know...well. Not that you would. You wouldn't even look at a cigarette nowadays, let alone puff from one. All because our boss says it messes with our brains. Man...what I wouldn't give for a dose of nicotine right now. "Why am I the one being thrown in the gutter? They should've sent Five." Oh, yeah. That murderous, unrestrained hobo with the social skills of a live napalm at a negotiations' table. You know... I remember when we set eyes on that psycho. He seemed nice...at first. And then he opened his mouth. Nothing but unfiltered vitriol for every one thing he claims as "wrong". How did this decrepit group find itself with such people? I wish Twelve were here. Her smile always made me feel better. Despite my current predicament, that is. And when she didn't smile in her own, happy-ish way, it was her other side that made my heart red hot. Kind of like the plugged iron she slapped someone with over the face. It was the first and hopefully last time I saw someone applying a sizzling, permanent tattoo to a douchebag like Jeremiah Lichee. Yes, I know the name because he kept yelling it after every successful loot run. Now he doesn't say it anymore on account of half his lower lip being fused with the upper one. That's what you get for being such a hotshot, Lichee -- ...I wonder if all BIS are like that. It probably doesn't matter. Speaking of hot shots...do you mind not lifting the crates like that? I might not be in charge, but I can still feel my spine hurt from you being an inexperienced idiot. "Oh heavens...why are they so heavy?!" Probably a few layers of lead wrapping up the 'nopetanium' artifacts you're carrying. Judging by the overly desperate gasps for air after each and every package I take you must've noticed after the third trip. Thankfully this embarrassment won't last. And look at that thing. Freshly stitched together, spacious and modular. The Coalition really knows how to set up their ships. And you've wasted no time furnishing yours - mine. It's no 'Kasimir' of course, but it'll do. And would you look at that: improved living quarters. We have a whole one bed with a spare mattress on the floor, a mini kitchen with food supplies to last a about two weeks, bottled water and running water for as long as the reserves last. Someone got their priorities straight -- ...even that cheap bottle rack you ordered online arrived in time. I can see it there, pasted against the wall with metal screws, duct tape and double sided tape. I never was the refined handyman I thought of myself as. I don't see how you would be any different. So when are we leaving? And are we ready to leap into what is essentially a one-way adventure?

[Noth Squadron]

. . .Kendrick Walter Four, Noth Squadron . . .Kaarst Drydock, Hangar #4 I've never been popular. I had tried to be a visionary once, but no one sees the way I do. The colors. The beauty. The auras. All they saw was terrorism and killing sprees. But that's okay, "pearls before swine" or something like that. Around here, there were some who could see. The burst of color that a life ending brings. The vermilions and lazurites that suffering bleeds into the air. They love it like I love it, yet, they don't accept me. I hear the whispers as I walk by. It's getting harder to tell which are in my head and which are outside. "Did you hear what he did on Stuttgart?" I poisoned the water supply of a small town with a chemical warfare agent I discovered while studying the weapons of Sol. It's a beautiful thing, that violet hue that comes from the fear of fates worse than death. That chemical inhibits parts of the brain associated with self. It's like a taste of Dementia, it lasts for months. Some say that the psychological damage it does is even worse than the effect of the chemical weapon itself. Other whispers from those with more color. "The Gardener's Pawn approaches. Leave him be, lest you be entangled in a horrid scheme." Believe me, I only play Strauss's little game to get an edge up. The devil sets up hundreds of traps in just a few words. Fighting against him directly would be helping him in the long run, and I'm not going to do that. "You will die well before you progress." We all bleed. We all die. Even you. And if you fear Shi like Kusari fears Shi, you'd best leave Four alone. And those whispers retreated back to the shadows of the hallway. My target was in front of me. Twenty-Five. A smuggler they found in Möhringen, not far off from Ludwigshafen where I had released that poison in the water. He wasn't weak, per se, but he functioned better with a crew. I could kill him if he resisted, but it would be a hassle, and it wouldn't be guaranteed. Even more unsavory is the memory that the colors that other Noth pilots bleed are less vibrant. Muted. Like the military pilots. Not nearly as wonderous as the hapless civilian. I have to ensure his mission's success. It's not necessary to keep him alive, but it would be easier to do so. I may have to lie to his endpoint. That's okay, as long as I get what I need. "Boons of War" for a war goddess named Minerva, so that I can "win favor". I studied before I came here, she's from nearly-prehistoric Sol, goddess of war, wisdom, and a bunch of other things. Suppose it's too much to ask for a goddess to descend from the heavens and fetch her presents herself. I didn't really hide. Seeing the reality of things has taught me how to hide my own reality. Silence mentally, silence physically, the exhale before pulling the trigger, extended for minutes on end. Complete stillness. And I heard everything. Screws falling, plating creaking underneath the feet of busy men and women, the tip tapping of needlessly stiff shoe soles. And Twenty-Five's grumblings to himself. He wished aloud for Five. A horror in and of himself, but my reputation was worse. I suppose the universe has a sense of humor. By the time he'd finished loading, I had decided that he should live. He had an interesting assortment of colors. The dull tones of any Noth pilot were visible on his skin, but beneath it, crawling and slithering like worms, were more vibrant colors. Greens and silvers that were chained beneath the surface. It could be interesting to pull them out. He needs to stay around. I have to announce myself. How to interact with people... Greetings, introduction, purpose, reason... what was the last part? Nevermind that, I'm already walking up to him. "Hello. Four. I'm accompanying you for this mission. I need you to succeed so that I can succeed in a different mission." "Do not resist, or I will be forced to eliminate you." But I kept that part silent, in my head, because I am very sociable and know how to talk to people. Well, so I say, but I forgot to try and shake his hand. His colors are fascinating, I can't help but try and catch glimpses of them.

[Noth Squadron]

. . .Theodore Syd, Noth Squadron . . .Kaarst Drydock, Hangar #4 You know what? I take it back. Five was a way better choice than him. Anyone but him. Even the family's goofball was preferable compared to this...vile man. I shudder to think why the overseers spared him a well deserved dose of lead through the skull. I remember that day... when the news flared up with homicide after homicide. Good people suddenly turned maniacs, causing hysteria in Ludwigshafen. It was so bad they closed up most traffic over thousands of kilometers and issued random checks even beyond. Unfortunately for me, my job was in that radius. I had a run to do that day. Nothing special: some civilians being given asylum on Bruchsal. All I had to do was fly there under the guise of a Rheinland Patrol. I've done this so many times I even took the trademarked Rheinlandic accent and the assorted police douchebagery as a reflex. It should've been easy, I swear. What I did not expect however was all public landing pads being locked down and anyone leaving to be arrested. Show up after I'm done loading up everything, why don't you? Ran out of credits at the coffee machine or is it the comedic effect you're chasing? There were five people. Innocent, people. I watched from afar as the Police locked them in a circle and started asking questions. Eventually, my clients were found out for who they were and paid the price for it before I could even take a step to get them out of the mess they were in. They probably still do to this very day -- breaking stone somewhere a few hundred or thousands of meters deep on Hammersee whilst being too busy to remember why they're there to begin with. And I almost joined them, had my survival instincts not kicked in when the officers' attention turned to me soon after. I remember the narrow escape, but not much after that. Shame only scratches the surface of what I felt. And what better way to drown the pain other than copious amounts of alcohol? Because that's the most popular thing to do. You see it in movies, you see it in reality, you can even read it in books. The next thing I know is being surrounded by strangers in an abandoned public bathroom. The stench was... awful, definitely fitting the place. I only wish my roommates knew how to use the toilets when the headaches kicked in. Every one of those 'enlightened servants' pride themselves with how the process is flawless. That the already weak are separated from the strong - viable subjects worth something. What they don't tell you is how some of us shat ourselves from the pain - trust the process or whatever. When the deed was done and the doors opened for us few survivors, the smell shot out the door and right up those servants' nostrils. I only wish it had more of an effect on them when it happened. There's some food left that needs picking. Right there by the salvage heap we brought in last month. Bring it over and let's bounce. Look at him. Average in everything, except the imagination he's got in that psychotic mind of his. What's worse: He doesn't even know the things he's done. But this mission is a chance to fix that, isn't it? For once, I'm hoping he falls in a ditch and I - we - happen to not see him.

[Noth Squadron]

. . .Kendrick Walter Four, Noth Squadron . . .Kaarst Drydock, Hangar #4 I always said that if there was some grand, overarching creator, he was a cruel and spiteful one. Boredom is proof of that. Punished for having nothing to do. What a joke. In a world that required patience to achieve anything, boredom exists only to cause as much suffering as possible. Boredom is a sin. However, it seems that this wouldn't be boring. Let alone the cursed number, those worms under Twenty-Five's skin reacted to me. I couldn't get a read on them, and that was interesting. This job had the potential to be interesting. The bland colors on top were trying to make small talk. Almost everything he said was completely empty. Like most people when they talk. There wasn't much of a point in reacting to anything but the end of what he said. Food, right. I wonder if the creature in front of me could taste. I offered my own empty commentary in order to complete the mandatory little communication ritual, holding up four fingers to emphasize my point: "Cursed number, yeah? Bound to experience some holdups." I took the moment while I fetched the remaining supplies to look and listen for signs of Strauss. The memory of that rattling sound is so clear I can't tell if I'm hearing it or just remembering it. I wonder if there's really a difference. The man himself would be impossible to miss in a crowd, he's a giant bodybuilder. If he was here, he'd have to hide someway. Doesn't matter, I've collected the food that was left already. I took a moment to check Twenty-Five again. I wondered if I could tear those colors out of him physically. I could see them well enough, what if I just grabbed them and pulled them out? Wait, mission. Job. Collect boons. I can study Twenty-Five later. It would be a hassle to complete this job without him. Besides, if I failed to get those colors, he'd just die for nothing, and that would be boring. And boredom is a sin. "Well, let's get a move-on."

[Noth Squadron]

. . .Theodore Syd, Noth Squadron . . .Kaarst Drydock, Hangar #4 -> Dark Matter Storm, Omega-58 -> Omega-41 -> Omega-5 -> Madsack Fragment, Omega-11 Get in, then. We've got a long road ahead of us. I look through my own eyes as the last of few supplies are lazily loaded in the ship. But why are my eyeballs darting around like some crazed junkie itching for the next dose of slog? Oh, yeah... This is how we make sure everything is bolted to the floor, ceiling and walls. Lazarev's engines fire up once more as we finally depart Kaarst's eerie embrace. I've noticed that The Wild flies manually through the Dark Matter Storm -- always. Maps are useless for the ship's basic AI pathfinding to make use of. Yes...the Storm is all around us, but there's also small, highly concentrated patches that occur randomly and pack quite a punch. It doesn't matter if you're in a small, nimble fighter or a giant warship with shield arrays just as big. You can neither tank or dodge the radiation -- let alone the occasional lightning bolt giving your hull a nice tattoo. Conveniently enough, getting out of Omega-58 wasn't the hardest thing. It's almost is if the stars aligned and we missed every storm pocket. The rest of the trip was just as boring. Fortunately the auto-pilot took care of actual travel, while I was sorting supplies in the cargo bay. Curiosity must've gotten the better of me, because I somehow grew the balls to open one of the crates holding some of these artifacts. They were magnificent. Oval rocks with an impossibly smooth finish. And yet... a subtle headache crept up in the back of the prison that is my skull. Mild, pulsating pain that was all too similar to how a battering ram breaks down one of those apartment doors. Bam- ... Bam...- Bam...- until I eventually sealed the trinket away in that crate. The pain went away with it. After returning to the pilot seat, I've noticed that five hours already passed and we were in Omega-11 -- did the console break from the radiation? But that couldn't be right, could it? I saw the red sun right there in front of my eyes. Did I zone out for that long? For a split second the thought of Four and his practical jokes to kill boredom. And yet that didn't seem to be the case. Even so, my mouth went ahead and asked. There was a mix of confusion and annoyance complementing my already sour tone. Did you... [mumbles to themselves] Did you mess with the console's internal clock? Can you not sit in your seat for ten minutes without breaking something? In my defense. I really thought we were gone for that long.