Episode 123, Patsy
07 Nov 2024Ryuko Ntsikana
Wamsteker's Respite
Tjakiri System
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For the first couple of days of the war, most of the Coteries busied themselves by raiding Bratauolung Republic Party shipping vessels and offloading the spoils to Black Omega. Though their funds were nearly dry, Black Omega scraped together what they could, funneling it back to the Coteries for more supplies. Every transfer weakened their standing bit by bit, each donation a subtle drain on their credibility among their own. Ryuko, of course, was all too happy to oblige with “donations,” sending more credits into their accounts as if on cue.
Raven was the odd one out, having taken his Krait Phantom to a distant system to visit an engineer. On the third day of the conflict, he reappeared—this time at a local ground tourism facility operated by the faction they were fighting against.
Nyx held his Diamondback Scout at a distance, two kilometers from the tourism site, watching the chaos below. The once peaceful site was now a battleground of scattered skirmishes, its lunar surface pocked with craters from missile strikes. In the skies above, ships weaved in complex dogfights, firing sporadically before banking off for a new approach. Ground forces exchanged fire below, turning the pristine facility into a tactical maze.
Every so often, Nyx would dive in for a bombing run, releasing rocket salvos or spamming engineered mines over enemy reinforcements. When a rival ship managed to break through the battle above and unload on the ground, he swooped in, delivering a precise barrage to the troops and supplies, then pulled back, repositioning in the dark vacuum. In his pauses, he perched like a silent predator, taking out automated turrets that targeted allied forces, methodically clearing the way.
Below, Raven had landed and deployed in his Scorpion combat vehicle. Nyx caught sight of him maneuvering boldly across the battlefield, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Trust Raven to bring a Scorpion to the party.
But it was the railgun shot that wiped that smirk clean. From more than a kilometer away, Raven fired, the rail bolt slicing cleanly through the stack of shipping containers and the armored soldier hiding behind it. Another bolt followed, vaporizing a second target, sending the remaining troopers scrambling from cover.
Nyx's eyes widened in shock. Since when did a Scorpion mount a railgun?
As the troopers attempted to flee, Raven’s Scorpion erupted in a flash of thermal heat, bright as a flare. A rapid burst of explosive shells tore from the vehicle, each shot cycling at a blistering rate, shredding through the troopers’ shields and armor alike. The impact flung armored limbs and shattered helmets across the tourist facility.
Nyx’s mouth dropped open. Since when did a Scorpion mount a shock cannon?
“What the hell,” he transmitted, a rare note of surprise breaking through his usual stoicism—likely more emotion in one sentence than he’d shown all month.
“Like it, do you?” Raven replied, his voice thick with pride. “Had an engineer help me rip the stock garbage off the mounts and swap in these class-one beauties.” He reached up, patting the reinforced glass of his cockpit. “Took a day to get them boresighted, but once they were bonded down… wow.”
Nyx took a moment to digest that. “And the railgun?”
“Same engineer,” Raven answered, sounding downright pleased with himself. “Figured if I was already tearing her apart, why not go all in? Had him fix this one up special. Grade five lightweight with a plasma slug modification. No ammo bin, either—each shot’s fuel-formed, lightweight, and nasty. Beautiful surprise, don’t you think?”
Nyx shook his head, finally finding words again. “Since you’re feeling creative, how about turning those new toys on the next reinforcements? A Vulture’s breaking through above and descending now.”
A grin spread across Raven’s face as he watched a distant glowing light grow larger. “Hey, Nyx. Get above ‘em and drop one of your ion mines. That’ll choke out their engines for a good five to ten seconds. Then press them into the dirt with your ship—keep their reinforcements trapped. I’ll work them over from here.”
Nyx rolled his eyes but complied, launching his ship up with stealth to position himself over the descending Vulture. As its momentum carried it down, Nyx released one of his engineered mines, watching as it arced toward the ship undetected. When the mine struck, the Vulture’s thrusters sputtered, its descent unchecked as it crashed against its shields, depleting them significantly. Nyx swooped in, slamming his ship onto the Vulture’s hull, pinning it to the lunar surface as Raven unleashed a volley from his custom arsenal.
Inside the Vulture, the pilot scrambled. With the canopy pressed under Nyx’s weight, he bolted toward the rear airlock, triggering the emergency override. Both hatches flung open as he dove out, just as a railgun bolt punched through the hull, shearing cables and destroying the reactor’s containment field.
Nyx boosted away, catching sight of the pilot running across the surface as fast as the low gravity allowed. The reactor went critical, a white-hot flash tearing the ship apart.
The Vulture exploded, debris scattering across the lunar surface like glittering dust. Nyx banked away, tracking the pilot stumbling from the blast.
“Beautiful, wasn’t it?” Raven transmitted, grinning as he maneuvered back to cover. “Not much of a payday for him now.”
Nyx observed the pilot, who had managed to get a fair distance from the wreckage, his staggered steps kicking up dust clouds. ‘He’s on foot until someone braves the landing,’ Nyx thought dryly.
The Omegas quickly learned that when the crazed pilot in the modified Scorpion came charging in, it was time to clear out. Within moments, superheated rail bolts and explosive cannon shells would be ripping through everything in its path.
Clair Dock
Tjakiri System
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Principal Avila knew she had narrowly escaped being ousted from her position following the raid’s failure. It wasn’t the raid itself that had drawn scrutiny; the clan’s bureaucracy deemed it an appropriate covert operation. Instead, it was the fact that the ships involved had been positively identified and tracked. The one saving grace in the aftermath was the wave of lawsuits that ensued. What initially seemed counterintuitive to Avila was clarified when her supervisor, Commandant Minerva Deleon, laid out the hierarchy's plan.
Everything hinged on the original complainant accepting a generous, undisclosed settlement. It was no secret that this faction had a loose alliance with the Bratauolung Republic, currently embroiled in a war in their system. A Cooperative government, while a distant cousin to communism, diverged in its execution: decentralized governance versus the centralized structure of communist regimes.
By planting stories within media cycles, they aimed to feed conspiracy theories, gradually shifting public perception toward the minor faction as the scapegoat. While the Protectorate would eventually cover the damages, the Bratauolung would first need to lose the local war and accept their fate as a form of recompense. From that point on, it would be a waiting game for the media pundits to latch onto the next ‘big story,’ a process that rarely took long.
The timing of the Bratauolung representative’s arrival in the waiting area could not have been better if it had been scripted. Commandant Deleon smiled, forwarding notice of the representative’s presence to her superior, who quickly relayed the stroke of good fortune to the clan’s legal team.
Keziah Odom of the Bratauolung Republic Party wasn’t accustomed to waiting in a lobby—least of all here. Yet, in recent days had been trying for everyone. Her usual contact within the Buurian Protectorate had gone silent, and even the receptionist’s eyes held a flicker of irritation. She could only assume the recent media scandal had soured more than a few moods within the Protectorate.
Her faction hadn’t been a close ally but had served as a useful, non-native tool for keeping lesser minor factions in check. Now, even that role was in question. The war had turned against them, with their rivals receiving steady reinforcements in manpower and funding. Each counter-move had blocked her faction’s progress, and by now, they lacked the forces or resources to turn the tide. If she could persuade the Protectorate to throw its weight behind them, victory might still be in reach. Without their support, however, one thing was clear: her faction faced imminent defeat.
Moments later, a spokesperson from the Buurian legal team emerged—not to confer, but to deliver a curt statement. The message was terse and unyielding: due to nuisance lawsuits, the Protectorate had chosen the Bratauolung as their scapegoat, a sacrifice to the media pundits and conspiracy theorists. They could either bear the momentary burden along with the imminent loss of the war they were embroiled in, to be “strengthened later by the Protectorate’s kind graces,” or face an immediate end to all future support.