[center][h3]Teg (Cora)[/h3][/center]
[hr]

Teg felt the heat of the explosion as it rocked the ship. She heard Maria's shouts over the ship comms. She had no time to react when fire from the enemy ship smashed into the turret she was manning. Paneling shattered from the force of the blow and glass rained over her. Her hands were fast enough. They always were. She'd covered her eyes. She needed to be able to see. She needed to be able to fight. 

"Fuck," Teg groaned, pushing off a loose panel of sheet metal that had fallen against her. She shifted her fingers. Her hands still worked. Sighting the enemy ship and placing it in her sights she squeezed again. Nothing. The gun was silent. The gun remained silent even when she hit it with an angry fist.

"Fuck," Teg swore once more, before centering herself. She could still fight. She keyed the intercom.

"Turret is damaged. It's done for. Enemy ship is closing fast. Preparing for boarding action." Teg said. Her voice had shifted, gone serious in a fleeting moment. She was focused. She was ready. She was serious. Old memories, old habits had taken hold. She didn't feel panic. There was no point in panicking. She was the muscle. She was the guns. She had a job to do. She'd make them pay for every step they took into the ship. Uninvited guests were rude. Very rude. And bullets were the cure for rudeness.

She needed guns. Firepower. She need firepower. Sliding a hand over the pistol she kept on her hip, Teg considered that she needed a bigger gun. Kicking her way out of the shattered cockpit, Teg sent glass and scraps of plastic flying in her wake. She felt a trail of blood slowly rolling down the side of her face. Brushing her hand over the wound, she felt a sudden needling burst of pain. It hurt, but she was alive. The cut wasn't deep and it wouldn't slow her down. Steadying herself, the mercenary bolted down the corridor, practically crashing into the door of her quarters.   

Throwing open the metal door to her quarters with a stiff shoulder, Teg pushed over several boxes that had been stacked atop of a another larger box. Sprawled across the large case, she took a moment to breath before flipping open the heavy latches. Grunting she retrieved a large, brutal firearm. Metallic chitin had been shaped into a jagged weapon that spoke only of grim efficiency and killing power. Stamped with an impressive array of alien symbols and handles where there should have been none, it was clear at a quick glance that the weapon had not been designed by or for any humans. A Glaos special, Teg had no idea what it was called. But she understood it. She knew what it was capable of. She knew how to use it. Loading a heavy drum of ammunition into the weapon, Teg couldn't help but smile.

She'd have another dance, one way or another, she'd have another dance.