587/Triancian Piracy

Triancian Piracy
Date of Scene:	14 September 2014
Location:	Great Ocean - Eastern Loop
Synopsis:	A Triancian convoy is suddenly attacked by a very unexpected enemy.
Cast of Characters:	286, 410

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Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
The Eastern Great ocean, at the Coast of Spring, a power, nearly six years ago. A confused power, in disarray due to its loss of an extensive orbital network, and it's client states, no longer constrained by predictable geopolitics and with an infinite room to expand, threatening to go out of their reach. But they were, if nothing else, adaptable. It had taken then a few years, but they'd secured their communications, tightened their political sphere, and then set out with churning factories and a merchant marine that had never stagnated like the other powers.

Triancia was booming, that much was certain. But with that rapid expansion in trade, came a price. The Royal Triancian Navy and the naval forces of it's client states were used to the old world. Set up for the old world. And it took time to adjust to the constraints of the new one. Growth outpaced protection, and the vultures of the Great Ocean could smell weakness. For the first time in decades, ships were captured, their crews sold into slavery, their cargo sold off on the cheap, and mere firehoses or fifty caliber machine guns weren't going to stop it.

The current response was shown in a six ship convoy, sailing from the port of Triancia's island province, Nercerta, to a central hub of trading, the urbanized island of Alleu. Four were container ships, massive hulls loaded with hydrogen for fuel cells, and everything from processed soy to rail cars to personal computers. Billions of trid in product, protected by a pair of Triancian cruisers, RTS /Grather Bay/ and /Scorpion/. Powerful units, with experianced, well trained cruews.

The CIC of /Grather Bay/ was quite, today. A few yawning techs and sysops monitoring a wealth of information through a blue lit haze of LED lights. The Captain checking the time hack on the top right of his retinea, looking forward to at least a little sleep. "Sensors. Anything on that contact we detected 16 minutes back?"

A Lieutenant leans back in her chair, hand rubbing the bridge of her dark skinned nose. "NOt a word, Captain. I think we might be able to go off the transponder on this one. Armed merchantmen trying to steer clear of us. No pirate's going to engage two cruisers at the same time. Not with drones out like this."

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    Upon the surface, it seems quiet and calm.

    Deep down below, the devil lurks.

    A shadow creeps within the abysmal depths, a black shape moving amidst black, only red light visible through the windows of the vessel's bridge. The deep-sea lighting of the Obsidian Hammer's bridge casts its captain in a sinister fashion. One single eye rolls aside when a young woman near the rear of the bridge speaks up.

    "Captain," she lifts her head, hand going to her earpiece to move it aside, "A report on those surface contacts. Six vessels, unknown class. Two warships and four merchantmen. Non-Confederate signatures." The captain's head shifts slightly towards the sensor operator, whose posture straightens, "We are now within two kilometers."

    The captain's figure shifts back, glowering through the forward window with one visible eye. Slowly, she lifts her hands and laces her fingers together. A man in a long black coat steps up beside her, unbidden, and it is to him that she speaks.

    "Mister Keelhaul, make ready ta surface. Alert th' gunnery crews. We'll break their backs in th' first salvo. Th' man who misses will be fired in the next salvo."

    "Aye-aye, captain."

    While Keelhaul disappears back into the scarlet shadows of the bridge, The Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea rises from her command chair. With one hand, she shoves aside the helmsman and takes the wheel herself. Voice raising, she calls out, "Crowsnest. Alert me when we're within one kilometer."

    "Aye, Captain."

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Up on the surface, the ships move sedately forward, in standard station keeping. It's clear why; they were expecting pirates, and there hadn't been a pirate yet with a nuc sub, or an SSK capapble of venturing this far out. Sattliette support had become the fevered dream of a madmen since Unification, but the drones net extending out from two cruisers would be more than capable of catching the heat signature of an expected surface ship miles before she could become a threat.

Of course, just because they weren't expecting a submersible threat didn't mean they weren't listening.

A tech frowns in /Grather Bay/'s CIC, at the hazy icon appearing on her screen. A quick movement of her head over a touch screen, hands at her headphones, before the frown deepens. Her officer was a good one, noticing something was off in her expression before she spoke up. "What do we have, PO?" She asks.

The PO shakes her head. "Ingrid's reporting an odd one, ma'am." She says, refering to the ship's Combat Intelligence in the familiar way sailors did. "She's saying there's an 'anomoly' dectected by the portside USV. Audio is-" She starts, before the officer in charge stabs a button next to her, routing it to her colecal implants, frowning. "That's an odd sound. Captain?" She calls, turning to see him already on his own monitor. "I see it." He says. "Not any sub we have in that database... Have /Scorpion/ task her port SCV for a centerline monitoring, and send our starboard one out. I don't want them to force us out of coverage if it's a noise maker."

The small, unmanned subsurface vehicle riding shotgun on /Grather Bay's/ Starboard side receives it's new orders, engines spoiling up and vectoring it down toward the odd sound computer's had isolated. Slow, steady, and silent; supercavtation would have run through it's fuel cell too fast, and probably... probably wasn't needed.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    "One kilometer, Captain."

    At those words, the captain removes one hand from the wheel to acquire the mouthpiece for the shipboard PA system. Muffled by the vessel's soulsteel armor, it's only an indistinct crackling sound. But within the walls of the Obsidian Hammer, the voice rings clear: "All hands ready to man surface stations." Once that is hung up, she grasps the wheel with both hands once again and pulls. The vessel responds instantly.

    That little submersible is quite suddenly given the view of a black shape moving against the deep ocean, rapidly approaching until it becomes distinct as the prow of an ancient surface warship, black in color with rusty red at the waterline. This approaches close enough to knock the tiny sub about, giving the camera close-up views of murky black armor plates and sea and chains and part of the silhouette against the bright ocean's surface.

    Moments later

    The oily black prow of the Obsidian Hammer erupts from the surface a mere one thousand yards from the convoy's lead vessel, presenting her broadside. Water sluices off the deck, the armored gunhouses, and the superstructure tower. It pours out of the barrels of the guns, mounted in triplicate on the three amidships turrets, as they're swung over the side towards the convoy's leading vessel. Given the extreme close range, the cannons are actually de-elevated rather than raised.

    Within the bridge, the Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea dips her head, eyes concealed by the brim of her combination cover as she utters one single order: "No Quarter."

    Water has not even stopped emptying from the barrels of the forward turret before the guns themselves speak, one by one, hurling out great tongues of flame and smoke. Starting from the bow, each gun fires and then elevates to reload, flinging its sixteen inch, one ton payload in a surprise broadside.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
The warning, in a bit of comedy that would be in all likilehood be unknown or unapprciated by anyone, was 'Whale Surfacing'. The closest thing the computer could come up with to such a large black shape moving from the depths. By the time a confused crew could refine more of the data from the MAD sensors and sonar, the ship was up, and upon them slicing through like a demon rising through a hole in the bottom of the ocean that went all the way to Hell itself. There was a few seconds of stunned silence on both ships, the sheer improbability of the situation delaying their reaction. It was only as those guns started to rotate that shouts and yells from each ship's CIC sounded. The piercing klaxons sound from both a few seconds later, but there had been no advanced targeting systems painting them to alert the quick-acting computers, no immediate silhouette recognition of the vessel as an 'enemy' in the ship's computers.

It was simply too late.

/Grather Bay/'s CIC was in stunned silence, all eyes on the screens of her forward facing cameras as the ship broke the surface. The Captain voiced for all of them. "What in the hell..." He says, dumbfounded, before those guns move, and he snaps into action. "What the hell is that thing! Engine room, I want military power, /now/! Helm, evasive manuevers, Weapons, power to the damned DEAD arrays and someone get-"

The thunder of the guns was loud enough to be an ear splitting roar for the lookouts above decks, as the shells sped toward /Scorpion/ in the fraction of a second. At the very least, it did show the technical prowess of the Royal Triancian Navy. The Combat Intelligence aboard the ship didn't get the theat until those guns fired, but it was more than capable of seeing a plum of thermal energy and the return of high-kinetic projectiles from sensors to respond. In what must have been a lucky response, the DEAD arrays on Scorpion's starboard side were able to activate and swivel to two of the incoming shells, causing them to explode almost magically before they could reach the ship. It was close enough that the shockwave would have rocked it, of course, cracked armored glass, thrown shrapnal toward exposed crew. Could have, if the other 7 shells didn't impact her. Over a hundred years of material science since the battleship's launching had made hulls that were lighter and stronger, pound for pound, then anything German naval archetects could have dreamed. They must have been pleased to know that said armor didn't do a damned thing to change the outcome.

RTS /Scorpion/ ceased to exist in explosion of fire, metal, smoke, and lost souls.

The thermal plume of a dying ship's failed reactor and cooked off missiles mixed with the massive explosions, blinding /Grather Bay/'s starboard sensors. "Fuck!" One lone voice wailed, and no one could quite tell who it was in the cacphony of orders. "Rail guns on automatic!" One voice yelled, the captain whipping around before another joined it. "Ingrid's placed the ship! Scharnhorst-class battleship, Kreigsmarine, commssioned between 1939 to-" She was cut off by the captain's yell. "What the bloody hell are you talking about!"

It was unbelievable. Completely, utterly. even as the two light railguns fore and aft on the surviving cruiser fire, blue trails of electromagnetic energy spinning out as she attempted what hull hit she could. This close, missiles would need time. So would torpedos. If she could get up to speed. If she could get into position. If she could just have /time/.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    At the sensor station, Crowsnest winces and pulls her headphones away from her head. Once the audible explosions fade, she lets it snap back into place, reporting quickly, "Lead ship sinking. By the sound of it, a magazine explosion." Lifting her head, she glances towards the helm, "She's gone, Captain."

    "Th' conn be yers, Keelhaul," the Captain states, stepping back. Immediately she is replaced by the imposing black-coated man she had spoken to before. Crossing the bridge, she barks commands, "Bring us about. Secondary batteries, rake th' freighters. Main guns, disarm th' remainder."

    Leaning outboard, the /Obsidian Hammer/ turns sharply to port, her intent clearly to cut off the convoy ahead of the /Scorpion/'s flaming wreckage. Amidships, the smaller gun emplacements start to chatter, peppering the poorly armored freighters with lighter 8-inch munitions compared to the primary battery. Slugs from the railguns impact that oily black hull with a sound precisely like pained screams. The impact points smolder with gray-white, swirling like ghosts within the metal until it fades.

    On the bridge's compass platform, a woman in a ghostly white naval uniform emerges, her surcoat billowing in the angry sea breeze whipped up by the /Obsidian Hammer/'s movement.

    There's just enough time to register that someone is actually crazy enough to just stand out there exposed during a warship firefight before the main battery fires again. This time, the aim is higher, directed across the /Grather Bay/'s foredeck and superstructure rather than aiming low along the waterline as they had against /Scorpion/.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
The cargo ships themselves at least have mass on their side; a large bulk of metal and containers that can shurg off some explosive hits. It also helps that their are four of them, and most of their crews are from the naval services themselves. Unlike the cruiser, they don't have a obligation to stand, fight, or render assistance. Their job was to stand clear of the warships as they defended themselves, or... in this event, run. Scatter, go as fast as their engines would allow, in different directions. The damages ones do take water, but their engine systems are still intact, putting on as much power as they can. Containers slide off the sides of the ships, cargo slipping into the sea with abandon as they try to get away before they're destroyed like the fat, easy targets they are.

/Grather Bay/'s sensor operator, one PO Rathburn, has the privilage of hearing the sound from hell as the slugs slam aganist the hull, not seeing the penetration they so desperately needed. She also got the bizzare view of a woman in naval whites appearing on the deck of that ship. And, to her credit, she was an excellent operator. She took initative. She would gave probably been an officer one day, given how she turns to the Weapons station. "Exposed HVT on the enemy's deck! The DEAD array! Swivel it up-"

The rail guns were on automatic fire, and the refire rate of them made sure they got a few more probing shots off, not aiming in the sam place, the later doing the same that the /Hammer/ was doing to her: looking toward her superstructure in a desperate bid to take out her weapons. By the time Rathburn was initating her gambit, however, the heavy guns returned fire. The ship was in defensive mode, her DEAD arrays swiveling around as her body dodged, shells exploding at range, others missing, but enough of those high explosives slamming into her supersturcture that, again, those tactics didn't matter. Three shells hit, wrecking her rail gun mounts, sending a smoking hole in her bridge, destroying her sensors and causing CIC to be bathed in a sea of blue 'NO SIGNAL' on almost all of her monitors. The damage control parties came in, tortured, one by one, trying to climb and fight the fires. "Comms are gone? I've got... I've got the towed sonar array, and the port thermal sensors, but that's it!"

THe Captain looked at the red damage signals, the sounds of a broken, dying ship, searching for anything. "Do what you can. Get any lock you can, then launch everything from the aft VLS. It's still active, and it's our only shot!"

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    Scattering the convoy was the intention. The Silent Wolf has no interest in commercial goods, and the freighters are pounded on for as long as they're within range of the 8-inch battery. Following the second salvo from the primary battery, those enormous turrets start to swing aside in different directions.

    The purpose is clear. They don't want to capture the convoy. The intention is to destroy them, but what of the warship, /Grather Bay/? Though damaged, the lady can still fight.

    Though the abyssal warship is already coming about, it seems her captain wants to start the party early.

    On the weatherdeck, Crimson Sea plants her foot on the railing and hauls herself up, paying a black chain from within her surcoat's sleeve, amidst the dents and damage caused by the probing railguns. This chain is whipped up and then, with a gesture, hurled across the water between the two vessels. The barbed tip rams into the /Grather Bay/'s superstructure, punching right through the composite hull material and going taught. The pirate gives this chain a tug, prompting it to start feeding back into her sleeve. With the end firmly anchored, what this does is yank her right off the /Hammer/'s compass platform, soaring like a ghastly kite.

    With a wrenching motion, she rips the chain free of its anchor point and descends, landing neatly on the ruined foredeck with a flutter of her coat. Rising, the woman tucks her hands into her pockets, lifting her gaze towards the damaged bridge. Only one eye is visible, blue and seeming to glow with cold light.

    She grins.

    As if she owned the place, the Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea starts walking down the ruined deck, neatly avoiding burning wreckage and gaping holes in the surface.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
The cargo vessels still take hits, even as they try to get farthr and farther away. The fact that the /Obsidan Hammer/ was focused on the warship itself, and all four of them were heading in different directions, meant that, perhaps, there might be a survivor. The 8 inch shells slam into the hulls of those ships, one of them limping forward after hits that clearly damage their engine. The others increase speed to what can't be safe levels, pushing the transports well into the 20 knot range, and approching 30, with the exception of the damaged one, who looked more and more like a lame gazelle in front of a T-Rex.

That wasn't including the /Grather Bay/, of course. Her own engines still worked, but her sensors didn't, beyond some scattered thermal ones hunting for the cold skin of the /Hammer/. It's guns provided data to go off of, correlated by still functioning computers in the CIC, coming up with an imprecise but... imprecise firing solution. It was horrible, but it was the only thing they had. As Crimson throws over the chain to the wrecked superstructre, flying over and landing on the foredeck, she can hear a tortured alarm go off, before , across the wrecked superstructre, the VLS cells that aren't covered by wreckage slam open one after the other, every missile capable of hitting a surface target launched as quickly as possible, arcing up in the roar of a rocket engine. There wasn't the time or distance for a proper flight path for them, it looked like, or for them to accelerate. The CIC was using what was left of it's high tech ordance to turn itself into a crude rocketship from the /Hammer/'s former life, firing ballisitcally in the hopes that one of her warheads would do some damage.

Even as the missiles fire, Crimson can sea a hatch open, and a small team of four or so enlisted vault out of a hatch from below decks. Helmets cover their faces, rebreathers and compressed air supplies built into quickly donned fire fighting suits keeping them from choking in the billowing smoke of a dozen small fires. They're passing up fire fighting harnesses, no doubt filled with CO2, AFFF, or some advanced compound to snuff out fire before it could spread, before one of them looks over to Crimson as she approches. Still, wide eyes past the electronic visor filled with fear, as the others jerk suddenly to look at her due to a radio-transmited cry.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    When men rush out onto the deck to fight the fires, the pirate captain comes to a stop. She lifts a hand to her chin thoughtfully, watching them work, her other hand tucked into her coat. When one of them notices her, she raises that same hand touching her chin in a 'don't mind me' sort of gesture.

    Immediately, the other hand comes from inside her coat. She's holding an obsidian-colored pistol, its slide a gleaming silver, and immediately shoots the man who spotted her. Quickly, her aim shifts across the rest of the crew, going for their helmeted heads.

    The launch of the missile battery, it seems, is something she paid little attention to. On the deck and structure of the /Hammer/, various machine gun emplacements open fire at high angles, targeting the ascending missiles while their speed is low. Several make it through, though, descending in arcs on the armored warship. While many miss due to the poor targeting information, the black gunship takes several hits aft, enveloping the stern turret in flame and debris.

    From within this cloud of fire from the missile impacts is the roar of the guns themselves, opening fire on a retreating cargo ship. Scant seconds later, the other two main guns open fire on their own selected targets. Conspicuously, the freighter that's moving the fastest is ignored. The pirates WANT a survivor.

    When the smoke clears, the ship is on fire astern, several shambling shapes lurching about on deck in extinguishing efforts. Many others have been hurled into the water by the blast and just kind of float, not even attempting to swim. They look like they're already dead--they have been for weeks or more.

    On the /Bay/'s forward deck Crimson Sea twirls her pistol and then tucks it away. Black Essence worms its way across the back of her hand when she removes it from her jacket, flitting along her fingertips and gathering into her hand. She raises this, then crouches down and forces the necrotic power into the steel at her feet.

    "C'mon out, lass," she mutters darkly, "Meet yer new master."

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
There's no time for much of anything for the DC crew, beyond shock and staring, before the weapon comes up and fires a round straight through the first man's helmet. The othe man, and a women die next. The last one can at least be happy he was able to get farthur away before the round slammed into the back of his head, sending him to the ground like a sack of meat. All the while the remains of her missles keep firing, arcing up into the air. Again, technical prowess is shown. If they had better locks, and more time to accelerate, they would have been postively deadly, moving faster than most ballistic systems could keep up with. The ones that do get through explode in white hot balls of detonating plasma, yields in the subtactical range. Even then, that might have been enough to destroy a normal battleship acting as a commerce raider. But against soulsteel... it wasn't enough. That would probably be on the tombstone of this ship. It's afteraction report. Not enough power, ordance, range, intelligence, time. Not enough of anything but battle damage and bodies.

There's not much /Grather Bay/ could do to protect her charges, either, apart from anchoring it's commander there. As the big guns on the hammer begin to speak towards them, their escape chances dwindle down to zero, the large shells slamming aganist vessels unprotected by military point defense systems or manuevering. One by one, the ships slow, then stop, bealching smoke as high tech electronics spew toxic chemicals into the air, damage control attempts moving to getting into life rafts as quickly as possible. They'd have to survive for a while out there, if they were going to survive at all. The lucky ship, the farthest one, is still at it's maximum power, and it is not turning around.

Crimson can take heart that the damage control party had most likely been sent over here to get the forward VLS cells working, adding more missiles to what the /Bay/ could still dish out. Her aft cells had grown quiet, it's own munitions expended. When they didn't report, there would probably be someone else sent, and they might not be so defenseless. She had time, though, time to propel her black energy into the hull of the ship, as energy crackled around her.

When she looked up, she was surrounded. Not by the ships crew, no. The uniforms were far too old for that, looking to be the late 18th century. She wouldn't recognize them, unless she was a student of the history of this world, the mix of Royal Triancian Navy, the Imperial Heltinasi Navy, and a scattered few belonging to privateers and allies Triancia had called in that war for independence so long ago. They all looked to Crimson, some blooded, some missing limbs, others shell shocked and grey by the destruction. Staring at her, a sea of faces, as one steps out. An older man, dressed in the uniform of a low level flag officer. Perhaps he had been a commander in the battle these men had come from. An important figure, from one side, or the other. He spoke for them now, his tone quiet, resigned, desperate.

"What do you want?"

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    The undead make for excellent damage control teams. They care little about fire or personal safety, they don't need to breathe and so protective equipment in general can be left out. Superheated flames turn the soulsteel an angry orange color across the aft turret of the /Hammer/, but does little to warp the magical material. The turret simply rotates back to its fixed position while the undead crew haphazardly battle the blaze consuming the after decks with seawater. It's likely the magazine had already been flooded to prevent an explosion.

    The forward turrets likewise swivel back to their resting position and the vessel turns gradually towards the stricken /Bay/, clearly intent to come up alongside, but still a few hundred yards from accomplishing that. In the meantime, the captain is alone on the fordeck with the ghosts of the ship's former life.

    "That answer be simple, mate," she comments, one hand extended and her eyes closed, "What I'm wantin' be an answer." That eye opens, cast in shadow by the brim of her hat, "...Tell me, Grather Bay. D'ya fear death?"

    Her other hand slides out of her coat, suddenly holding the hilt of a soulsteel dagger. In a practiced fashion, she steps forward, drawing the weapon upward, and directs it up under the spirit's ribs. A killing blow, were he human. Given the nature of the Unhallowed Ghost Ship charm she used to pull the spirit out into the open, the effect should be about the same.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Some damage had been done. That could be added to her tombstone as well. A pathetic addition, certainly, almost certainly left out, but it was better than the alternative. Some damage had been done. Some /little/ damage had been done. IN thr end, it wouldn't matter. The /Bay/ speeds up fro a moment, or tries to, drunkenly as the Captain seems to try to keep himself out of boarding range of the ship. Without sensors, and with the power of an Abyssal on it's side, it's doubtful they'd be able to evade properly. And even if they could...

The ship wasn't there's any longer.

Crimson doesn't get an answer to her question, sadly, as the blade slips between the ribs, the look of suprise mixed with dispair, as if the act wasn't expected, but had been felt before. Just like that, Crimson was alone again, the ghosts of the Battle of Grather Bay snuffed out like a candle in a strong breeze, as the body slowly, slowly lowered to the non-skid deck, eyes open, as he simply faded away.

Even on a dead body, nothing dies all at once. Cells remain alive for a short time after. Still going along their business to protect a body whose heart had stopped pumping, until they slowly starved of oxygen. The same was true of the ship, as another hatch opens on the forward deck. The men here are also helmeted and suited, but the armor they wear is advanced, almost an organic tech as they spill out from the hatch. It seems that what damage /Hammer/ did to the ship itself hadn't harmed Marine Country.

The Royal Triancian Marine first out points his Primary Assault Weapon System (PAWS) towards the woman on the deck, sending a stream of electronically fired rounds meant to shread through organs, Attempting to keep her suppressed, as he moved away, and the others moved up and out to the deck. This was a combat unit, clearly trained to fight on a ship, and intent like every other Marine in fighting any battle, even a losing one, with fangs out and going for the throat.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    The pirate woman tucks her dagger into her coat from whence it came, eye closed. Already, the war-scarred vessel's colors are starting to fade, "An' now yer mine."

    The hatch flips open again. Marines start pouring out. She's already swishing her coat around protectively between herself and the gun-wielding marine when he opens fire. Bullets pierce the coat, hurling out streamers of red behind her for a second or so--until suddenly it stops. In the same instant, the sound of rounds striking flesh is replaced with rounds striking metal, accompanied by a sorrowful, wailing sound.

    The flukes of a black anchor hit the deck from underneath the woman's jacket. Where it came from isn't clear, though she quickly swirls herself around it and then hefts the weapon one-handed. It swings wide and then pays out on a chain from her sleeve mid-swing, sweeping across the deck in a wide arc that carries the anchor itself far out over the water. The chain stops paying out, then reverses, drawing the anchor back to her hand.

    While fires are brought under control astern, the /Obsidian Hammer/ glides closer, an ominous black threat, its entire forward deck amidst the turrets swarming with horrors both alive and not.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
Below decks, the creaking of rusted metal can be haeard, corridors that were still untouched by the battle going on above looking as if the ship had been rusting in a dock at the Great Inlet for a few decades. In the CIC, there's a sudden pause, a flicker of monitors and lights, and then... a feeling none of them can quite describe, but can all see passes through each one of them. The vessel they were on was slowly being turned into a metal hulk, but it was still their ship. Until suddenly the feeling that they weren't /on/ their ship goes through each and every one of them. Now they were in a floating metal box that had not so much as a name.

The Captain's voice breaks the silence. "Weapons, kill Ingrid." He says, knowing he has to meet her eyes. "Kill her. Shut her down, wreck her, do what you have to do. I want everything that holds data here, including the OSes, fried. Who's the fastest person here?"

There's a pause, before Rathburn's hand goes up, and the Captain looks to her, handing over a electronic key. "Get the ship's log books and drives, and it's Writ of Permission. Then get off this ship. Do what you have to do." He moves to address the ship. "DC isn't responding to the forward cells. And neither are the marines we sent to respond. That was our only option to scuttle the ship. What remains is doing as much damage as possible. Get to it."

The reason's those Marine's don't respond to the calls made to them. They'll fire their weapons toward the Abyssal, trained to continue to attack until the target goes down. Which she hasn't, yet, even with the advanced rounds slicing into her from multiple directions. The sounds of wailing and metal pangs has the sergeant in command hold fire. Right before the anchor slams onto the deck, and then tears across it in a single wide arc. Marines are either cut in half, dealt grevious internal injuries, or thrown into the water. There was only a small squad of them avalible at this point, the rest assisting damage control teams who suddenly felt that saving this hulk was a bad idea. Still others arm themselves with whatever they can find and attempt to head to the deck, to attack the stream of monsters that would soon be coming their way.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    Bleeding and yet not seeming to care, the Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea catches her anchor on its way back to her, then swings the weapon up over her shoulder, resting it there as she crosses the smoldering, bloody mess that used to be the forward deck.

    The /Obsidian Hammer/ glides to a halt alongside the /Bay/. On the forward deck of the black warship, a wolfman with a steel, hook-fingered hand shoves over a barbed gangplank until it swings down, slamming into the /Garther Bay/'s deck and digging in. Three other such gangplanks are thrown out, and the boarding party surges across. Beastmen, pirates, the hulking ghostblooded Pegleg, and the boarding leader himself, the scarred wolfman Crook leading the way. Upon the deck, he thrusts his clawed talons into the air, bellowing, "NO QUARTER!"

    At the forward deck, the bloodied but grinning Captain hops up into the gaping hole that had been made into the bridge. Lifting her anchor, she smashes it into the floor and promptly drops herself into the compartment below it. If this vessel is anything like the other warships she's raided--That would be the Combat Information Center where the REAL command takes place.

    Hitting the floor, she rises slowly, planting her anchor beside herself and lifting enough that just the one eye is visible under the brim of her hat.

    "Permission ta come aboard."

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
As the gangplanks come down, they're met with little resistance; Communication is a mess, and whoever was on deck with a gun is firing toward them, Marines and sailors alike. SOmeone (probably PO Rathburn's work before she started to dash) managed to switch one of the DEAD array's to local control. There was a many under the deck looking at a screen that was doing far more than the Marine's could do, sending bursts of directed energy toward the boarding pirates. It would undoutably turn some of them into bubbling red paste before a gunner on the ship noticed and placed an 8 inch round through the mount.

A different alarm in the ship goes off, a calm, synthisized voice telling the crew to repel boarders. As those pirates, those /creatures/ moved deeper into the ship, they would have been held up by stragglers, groups who've reached small arms lockers, even those who just had fire extinguishers. Some died in seconds. Others would take minutes. Trying to hold them off from the most important parts of the ship. The place that Crimson takes a direct elevator to.

She has to smash through a few weakened decks to get to the CIC, filling the high tech room with wreakage, leaking pipes, sparking wires. There's coughing at the deck itself, and who was left standing in the CiC stares at her. The sensor officer looks back to her desk. The captain to his chair. PO Rathburn to the hatch. And the dying heart of the /Grather Bay/ act at the same time.

The Captain reaches for a compartment on his chair, opening it up to draw a Triancian Hawk, a reinvented sidearm that had seen generations of improvements. The current version was capable of autofire, and he uses it, moving to spray a brace of rounds toward Crimson. The Sensor officer scrambles for her keyboard, flicking with a dedicated focus pressed by crisis as she entered into a Command line mode and quickly started entering commands. PO Rathburn was already running, dashing out the door, and making a left, key in hand as she rushed for the Captain's cabin. She opens the safe, yanks the drive, the book, and the Writ of Permission, the very thing that gave a ship it's name and soul. And then she was skidding back, straight toward the hatch and the sea.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    Pirates clash with sailors. It's a messy affair. While crew both alive and dead swarm onto the /Bay/ from the /Hammer/, machine guns mounted alongside start sweeping the deck and superstructure with 20mm rounds. Some of the larger 8-inch guns open fire as well, firing at functional weapons such as that troublesome DEAD array--which is aptly named and quickly targeted. The fighting is downright savage, on no small part due to the pirates' preference for messy bladed weapons over firearms. Not to say firearms arne't being used.

    The anchor is dragged around, creating an unholy shrieking sound of metal on tortured metal as she places the weapon between herself and the armed captain. Bullets striking that oily black metal fills the cabin with the sound of pained, hopeless sobbing mixed with the ringing of pure metal.

    When the pistol's magazine runs out, she gives the anchor a swift kick, sending it end-over-end straight for the frantic sensor technician. Her attention, however, is on the captain. Quick, purposeful strides carry her right to him. Seeming to ignore the fleeing petty officer, the pirate captain pulls her own soulsteel pistol from within her coat as she approaches, shoving the weapon up against his chin.

    It's hard to tell if the blood on her uniform is from injuries caused by this exchange or from the marines earlier.

    "Ya put up a good fight, mate. More'n most. I can respect that." Her head tilts, showing him her eye, glowing blue in the shattered lighting of the CIC, "Tell me. D'ya fight so hard fer a purpose... 'r is it 'cuz ya fear death?"

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
The deck is a charnal house that's cut up by the smaller weapons directed aganist it by the battleship. A modern cruiser placed it's stock in it's railguns and powerful missiles. It's broadside had been crippled in that first, powerful salvo, and the weapons that remain are quickly eliminated, leaving the only resistance on the ship to be dwindling sailors engaging in fewer and fewer batters, coordination splintering as they lost more and more men. Some broke and ran, heading for the edge of the ship, and the life rafts. Others charged forward recklessly, action heros until the end. The ones that stood their ground and fought were the worse. Grim determination to do as much damage as they possibly could.

The shrieks of the damned and the sobs of the wounded filled the CIC, along with the defining roar of the pistol, bullets binding off and digigng int LED screens and command consoles before the ammo ran dry. The Captain seems suprised as the weapon flies out of his hand, and his breath catches in his throat as the weapon presses aganist his chin. "I..." He says, swallowing. "I am an officer of the Royal Triancian Navy. Recruits fight for their 2 year conscription. Petty Officers for the college money. Officers for a carrer. Captains-" He says, and it might be that Crimson notices the captain's speech is drowning out the continued, rapid fire typing that only took a short break as the pistol slapped into her. And then there was an enter, a brief flicker of the lights, and a loud beep as the screens go Blue with NO SIGNAL. Every one of them except for the Sensor Officer's, which reads an annoying 'DATA DRIVE CORRUPTED. PLEASE SEEK TECHNICIAN FOR SERVICE.'

The man looks down at Crimson, pressing his neck aganist the gun. "Captains for their ship. I'm not leaving here unless I'm in chains or a bag. Pick one, you corsair bitch. And don't waste my time." Defiance. Not smart defiance, unfortunatly. Not logical either, being a man of his rank and knowledge, and if there was a possibility of saving his ship, he might have said otherwise. But the loss of it, the loss he could feel in his soul, pushed him toward his current course.

PO Rathburn ran. She ran down the corridor, past an open compartment, over a barricade of men who would, seconds later, be firing at a boarding party, and then out to the starboard deck, leaping off the side. She was the sonar operator, by trade, which means she was intimately familiat with the USVs. Knew how to hack into them, and, most imporatant, that their secondary role as recovery vehicles meant they had an oxygen supply built in. As she dived into the water, holding her precious cargo in a water tight pouch, she thought of how difficult the next few hours would be. How she would be a floating corpse, most likely. But, if you went by the Captain's definition, she was an exception. She was here for the ship too. And she carried the seed of it's soul with her. That would be worth dying for.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    "Fear, then," Crimson states simply. Without hesitation and with no show of remorse in that single cold blue eye of hers, she pulls the trigger. She pulls the pistol away with a flourish, tucking it into her coat without a second thought. Giving the chain of her anchor a tug, it wrenches itself from where it had become embedded, slithering across the deck until it returns to her grasp. This, too, is twirled around and then pushed into the depths of her blood-splattered jacket where it disappears impossibly.

    She turns, steps, and jumps, ascending back to the bridge. Here, amidst the wreckage, the pirate woman locates the shipwide PA microphone and lifts it to her lips.

    "Attention all HANDS, listen up. This vessel now belongs to me, body and soul." A voice that haunts Petty Officer Rathburn on her harried flight to the mini-submarine, "Your lives are now property of the Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea."

    The fleeing petty officer attracts the attention of a wolfman, his right hand missing, replaced by hooks of sinister black metal. Though she manages to stay ahead of him, he pursues her through the corridors, he slashes, misses, gouging furrows in the metal walls of the dilapitated warship.

    That voice lowers an octave, obtaining a silky and yet menacing quality, "Prepare to forfeit them, either literally or figuratively. That is all." The voice then begins to laugh, long and loud.

    The hatch closes a narrow heartbeat before Crook reaches it, and the escaping woman is treated to several terrifying moments of his beating and clawing at it before the sub disengages, awarding her merciful silence, save the memory of that terrifying woman and her bone-chilling laughter.

Jeannette Thompson (410) has posed:
That was something, right there. It was a cruel thing, to end someone's life after calling them a coward. The round gets sent through his head, and then he's just a sack of meat on the ground, gone as the Sensor officer looks on in terror. She's left alone herself, soon after, on a quiet, desecrated CIC, knowing she should be doing something. Running, destroying more equipment, /something/. But without the Captain, dead in such away, she was adrift of action, as the new Captain's voice sounds over the sound powered telephone, the equvilant of the 1MC. It sounds and seers into men and women's minds, esspecially the running Petty officer , avoding slash after slash, terror somehow not grabbing her focus. She was focused on a single objective, and she got to it, her heart beating wildly, the wolfman nipping at her heals before the sub moves away. Taking in great lungfuls of air she couldn't afford to take. She had gotten out. BUt she wouldn't be the same.

What was left of the resistance on the ship would have crumbled. There were a few more life or death charges, one or two attempts to escape for the life boats. A significant chunk of what's left surrendering at the silky voice over the radio, figuring that a Confederate prison camp had to be better then having their entrails splaled about a dead ship.

In the end, the ship, physically, was hers now, as was it's soul. The crew and herself had done a good job of turning in combat ineffective, but a good deal of her systems, including her engines and fusion stack, remained operation. Her fore VLS cels remained fully loaded with a large number of advanced missiles, more than enough to destroy a small facility.

Crimson Sea (286) has posed:
    Crimson Sea drops the sound-powered phone once her speech has ended, looking out from the bridge, across the ruined and blood-splattered forecastle. A smirk crosses her face. After a few moments, she turns in place and exits the bridge astern, continuing through until she arrives on a weatherdeck aft. Planting her boot on a twisted railing, she hops it and drops down to the main deck.

    "Captain," Keelhaul falls in step beside her immediately, "The crew's fighting spirit is broken. Shall we take them prisoner."

    "Prisoners can make plans, Keelhaul," she replies casually, "Put 'em ta work in this scow's engine room." Stepping on one of the bladed gangplanks, she pauses and raises a hand, blood pouring from a hole in the coat's elbow, "Put th' zombies in th' access trunk. Seal all other bulkheads an' hatches accessin' it." Lowering that hand, she turns, "Then open all valves an' scuttle 'er."

    "Captain?"

    "Safekeepin', Keelhaul," The Silent Wolf of the Crimson Sea turns away and ascends the gangplank, returning to the Obsidian Hammer, leaving trails of crimson on the deck as she walks, "When I need 'er, I'll raise 'er, same as th' Hammer."

    "...Aye aye, Captain."