[I]SUBJECT: JERRELL LUZAMI, DECEASED
DATE: 07/21/2176CE
CORNERER: Dr. Ryla T’Leni
CAUSE OF DEATH: Fall causing compound neck fractures
  
The deceased’s body was discovered at the Sunfish Market at 1425h local time on 07/20/2176CE. Mr. Luzami had fallen to his death where the impact had broken his neck, causing compound fractures along his vertebrae, where he had fallen into shock and expired within minutes. The cause of the fall is still under investigation, but preliminary reports from the Nos Astra Security suggest he was thrown from the escalator that he had plummeted from by a petty thief that was attempting to evade security.

Mr. Luzami had no listed next of kin, and efforts are still under way to locate and contact any that may exist, but a lack of will and testament are hindering progress. Investigation is still ongoing.

A list of crew for a volus-manufactured Odea-class transport registered as [I]Borealis[/I] have been recovered from his person, and the ship will be turned over to their possession as NAS has determined the ship is an essential part of their livelihood and a business expenditure for Mr. Luzami. Due to the lack of clear chain of succession, it has been decided to pass ownership over to the crew to sort out on their own with the instruction to clear the docks by 0900 on the 23rd, as that is when Mr. Luzami’s rent for Bay ET-6 expires.
For further elaboration on the legal matters, please contact the appropriate departments.

Signed,
Dr. Ryla T’Leni[/I]
 
~~~
[I]Docking Bay ET-6, Nos Astra, Ilium[/I]

One could be forgiven for assuming the bored-looking group huddled in the rough equivalent of a circle on top of assorted luggage and equipment crates outside of a hideously ugly ship were collectively locked out of their worksite and were simply awaiting for the boss to show up with the keys. The truth of the matter was slightly more complicated, as the group was largely comprised of total strangers, most of whom had barely said more than a few words of non-committal greetings or inquiring if the flying eyesore was indeed where they were supposed to be, and not some kind of joke.

One could also be forgiven for interpreting the dawning realization upon their face that the flying tetanus box was going to be home for the foreseeable future as abject horror, because as crowded as life on military or most merchant vessels could be, it was a small wonder the ship that the tank-top wearing human woman with a stylized Mohawk and coveralls tied around her waist was immediately dubbed “The Jalopy”, despite its registration name of Borealis being somewhat legible on the rust and carbon scorched hull. There was a sense that none of them would live to see their first pay day, and any who had second feelings about their predicament could hardly have been blamed if they ran.

As if to rub salt on the wound even further, a harried looking turian security guard approached the assembled crew, looking like he was in a hurry to be somewhere, anywhere, else and was simply completing a last minute errand that was so beneath his station that he suspected he was being accused of sleeping with the station chief’s wife. The fact there was some merit to the claim did little to assuage his misgivings.

Handing an envelope to the nearest seated figure with about as much care as a luggage loader offloads a public transport, he declared boorishly that Captain Jerrall Luzami had died in a manslaughter incident two days prior and the assembled crew were now the proud owners of the Borealis, and contained within the envelope were the access cards required to take possession of the ship, and it didn’t matter who took possession of it, as long as it was no longer his problem.

They also had little over an hour to clear the docks.

Duty fulfilled, the turian officer sauntered off, humming a tuneless ditty, pleased to have another tedious task off his workload. The team exchanged glances, and hurried to get their gear loaded onto the Borealis, a task made needlessly complicated by having to smash the loading ramp access panel six times before it groaned to life, descending painfully slowly to reveal a hanger that was left much to be desired, including the marginally more impressive six wheeled cargo hauler and trailer and skid steer that were evidently meant to handle the loading and unloading of equipment or goods. They, at least, weren’t manufactured before most of the crew were born.

With most of the gear stashed haphazardly in the hanger, the turian pilot headed to the cockpit, securing the vessel for departure and after bringing the ship to life, eased it out into the Nos Astra skyline and out into Ilium’s atmosphere. Minutes later, the new crew of the Borealis was situated in the hanger, taking stock of their situation. Few, if any, of the crew knew one another, and they were very suddenly thrust upon the galaxy in a ship they had no time to inspect and no captain. A few things were agreed upon right away; no one had the right to the captain’s cabin, the first priority before going anywhere would be to determine what condition the ship was in, find out what contracts that Captain Luzami had arranged for the team to complete, and take stock of supplies and what range they had with the fuel. Several of the crew broke off to their respective duties, while others with nothing immediate to do began to unload their gear or stow it away in the hanger’s cargo spaces. 

Tanya Carson had taken time to study the faces of the crew leading up to this moment, creating little stories for each of them to pass on. The blue-faced drell was suffering from a crippling STD that had turned his skin blue, and to escape the wrath of a paramour, he fled to the stars to look for a cure. The turian with the cybernetic arm lost a really shit arm wrestling competition where the winner played for keeps. The Slavic-looking man was also a loser of the same competition. The vorcha was there in case food ran short and they became stranded, and the maimed-looking asari had already tried without killing him first. There  was an amusing anecdote for everyone, save the batarian. Tanya tried not to look at the bastard, and even years later, being around batarians made her skin crawl. How in the hell was she supposed to sleep knowing that one of the bastards they were supposed to be hunting was probably employed by Captain Dipshit before he died? Alliance therapy did nothing to dissuade the idea that all batarians were potentially slavers, rapists, and genocidal cunts who were animals. 

[I]Red dress, blonde hair hiding her face… flash of the knife…[/I]

[color=6eccf6][I]Enough. Get your shit together.[/I][/color]

Tanya moved with what she called “determined ease” and found the rolling cases with CARSON stenciled on the sides of the blue-grey impact resistant polymer cases, finding one of the unclaimed workstations near the as-of-yet unidentified vehicles that were at least strapped down to the floor. She would have time to transfer her tools to the wall-mounted toolboxes later, and for now it was enough to establish her territory, woe to those who dared defile it. Satisfied with her hard case-lined perimeter, Tanya brushed her hair back and with a flurry of finger motions on her left hand, her omni-tool emitted, giving the surrounding area a warm orange glow. Another few gestures, punctuated with a firmly extended middle finger brought her combat drone to life, its servos whirring as it settled its “eye” on Tanya, the spheroid constantly shifting as it awaited instruction. [color=6ecff6]“Alright, Shithead. Give me a scan of the buggy, see if you can see anything’s wrong with it and if you can ID who the fuck made it so I can find the manufacture’s manual next time we send for an Extranet packet. I’ll be trying to do the same for this hauler and going to find out if I have to warn the gang if they’re going to have to update their shots if they get in the bloody thing.”[/color] The drone whirred, spinning in air, and headed off towards the smaller six-man wheeled transport that looked more like it was meant for back country camping trips than any serious business venture while Tanya looked at the heavy truck with the large caged cargo bed and chest-high tires. [color=6ecff6]“Hey, Shithead.”[/color] She called out. [color=6ecff6]“Continue playlist.”[/color]

The drone suddenly began playback of loud and driving percussion music and synth-guitars, sounding very much like the alien bastard offspring of heavy metal music. Contented, Tanya continued her inspection of the truck with a walk around, scanning things with her omni-tool as the music’s singer finally made an appearance. 

[I]With great anger: Dekuuna lies shrouded in flame/ the gravity of our homeworld can’t contain our rage…[/I]

Ignoring the indignant looks of anyone foolish enough to have lingered around, something caught Tanya’s eye as she looked at the rear wheel well. Reaching towards the straw-like mass, she pulled it free and a nest came free, along with the remains of three very tiny bird-like skeletons. [color=6ecff6]“Oh, what the fuck.”[/color]

[I]With rage: I will crush your skull and drink your blood, flay your entire clan… Screaming: You are all fuuuuuuuuu-[/I]

Crawling under the machine, Tanya’s worst nightmares were confirmed and whatever had eventually retired into the undignified tire-based graveyard had indeed made a habit of chewing on the wiring and hoses under the vehicles. If there was a likely culprit as to what had killed the bird-things, it was likely the semi-coagulated pool of brake fluid that had seeped into the floor grating. She regarded the skeletons scornfully. [color=6ecff6]“You fucking wankers. Do you know how long it’s going to take me to pull this piece of shit apart?”
[/color] The bird-things did not see fit to answer.

[I]With dark conviction: We will march on your cities, cannons bringing down the foundations. Trembling in the rubble of your homes, our lust for vengeance cannot be quelled! Chorus: WE ARE THE ELCOR APOCALYPSE, WE ARE COMPELLED/ TO MOVE SLOWLY TOWARDS OUR DESTINY/ YOU CANNOT RUN, YOU CANNOT HIDE, WE ARE AN UNSTOPPABLE TIDE…[/I]

From under the hauler came a loud clang of a heavy metal object clanging to the floor and a string of muffled profanities. Shithead reacted by turning up the volume while continuing its lazy survey around the buggy, ignoring its master. This was all standard protocol. Ravanor Tonka looked at the vehicle and grunted. He was expecting the posting to last longer than 20 minutes before he found the first signs of the impending disaster he was certain this was going to be. He didn’t bother with his gear, save for a very large duffle bag that he dragged with him up the staircase as he searched for the crew quarters, leaving behind an arguably sane human woman with an affinity for elcor cultural appropriation and machines a krogan would consider a steal on Tuchanka. Ignoring the creature comforts for the time being and the siren-like allure of what was kept in the freezers of the kitchen, he found a spiral staircase that headed up towards a long hallway along the doral spine, with 8 rooms per side and one at the end. 

[color=39b54a]“Home sweet home.”[/color] He rumbled, opening the first door on his right and tossing the duffle bag on the floor. The room wasn’t designed with krogan in mind, so he was going to have to pull the mattress off the bed and sleep on the floor, and fitting his armour in any of the compartments was out of the question. Maybe he’d talk to the others about constructing a communal armoury in the hanger before the short-haired woman appropriated the entire thing into her little empire. Not that she could have stopped him anyways; Tonka preferred not to physically relocate people unless he had no other option.

The krogan made his way down a level and found himself back in the common area, complete with furniture that looked like it had been appropriated from a garage sale decades before. It reminded him of the treasured Tomkah seat that had been his throne around the evening fires back in Clan Ravanor, roasting varren over a fire spit and telling stories. Tonka’s stomach growled, and he turned to regard the freezer longingly. [color=39b54a]“Soon.”[/color] He promised whatever was inside. Instead, he turned his attention to the door ahead with ENGINEERING lazily sprayed over the original sign, which was written in some volus commerce language that probably never left Irune. 

Someone evidently got sick and tired of trying to explain to the crew where things were located and took matter into their own hands. The ancient plasma cuts in the door frames also suggested the ship had been retrofitted by a crew that was tired of having to crouch under every door frame to cope with the volus’ tiny frames. Everything about the Borealis just screamed half-assed and Tonka was loving every moment of it. He very rarely saw someone have a mental breakdown in deep space, and he was not at all ashamed to admit watching aliens engage in TV-quality drama and feuds was a pleasure. Life for big corporations was boring, sterile, safe. Credits weren’t everything, and sometimes the good things in life were watching asari freak out about hull breaches and trying to understand what the hell a salarian was trying to say when they were in a full-blown panic. From first impressions, this lot would not disappoint, the ship would crash land on some uncharted world, and he would finally get a chance to enjoy some of that vacation time he was entitled to but could never find the satisfaction to use.

Entering engineering, Tonka was immediately overcome with the smell of burnt oils and wiring, and the engine’s drive core was surprisingly stable-sounding. Not interested in that at the moment, Tonka found a console that gave off fuel readings and set to work, determining exactly what range they had and where they could feasibly get to without being set adrift and too far from aid. He’d pass that information off to navigation, and let the more plucky bastards decide where to go while he fulfilled his promise to the kitchen and begin preparing something to eat.