[b][Stavanger Interplanetary Spaceport][/b]
[hr]
Mierda,[i] this fucking place is cold.[/i]

Dr. Itxaro Ibarra knew it was a ridiculous thought. Of [i]course[/i] it was cold; they were practically in the Arctic Circle. But did it have to be cold inside too? Already, Itxaro was bundled in so many layers she felt like she was wearing a bulky, old-fashioned EVA suit. Even still she shivered, arms clutched to her chest. [i]Fuck it. Nothing to be done.[/i] She hurried down the stark white and grey concourse, bulging canvas sea bag rustling on her back. [i]And there's another thing. Why is everything so damn sterile? Isn't it white enough outside?[/i] Accustomed to the vibrant colors and neo-Aztec architecture popular throughout the USASR, the bare nordic design was yet another reminder to Dr. Ibarra she was an interloper. She supposed the ship, the [i]Jotunheim[/i], would be more of the same. [i]Oh well, at least I'll only be on it for the foreseeable future,[/i] Itxaro thought ruefully. 

Truth be told, she didn't want to be here. Not in Norway, not with the Jotunheim. But what choice did she have? Continue to pick through the scraps of Yenge tech? Or work on a functioning faster-than-light drive, and bring that knowledge home? The choice was painfully obvious to her, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Frankly, it was a miracle she was here at all; the previous FTL specialist had disappeared, likely kidnapped by rival factions seeking to reverse-engineer the already imitated FTL drive. Dr. Ibarra was Tamerlane's second-stringer, and would receive on-the-job training before their first dry run. She'd had the opportunity to review [i]very[/i] abbreviated specs of the drive, but Tamerlane was protective of their proprietary FTL technology, so she possessed only a working knowledge of it.

Itxaro pulled on her chunky headphones to quiet her racing mind, and the world around her fell silent for a moment. Then, the sound of shuffling feet and tinny overhead announcements were drowned out by her [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Cwn72o_uiA]playlist[/url]. Dr. Ibarra tugged her fur-lined hood over her head and pulled the drawstrings shut, narrowing her field of vision to a pinhole but trapping body heat. [i]Not like there's much to see in this shithole anyways.[/i] The spaceport around her faded away, her only link to it a single eye peering out while her mind wandered to more pleasant pastures. 

Itxaro's daydreams of French knights and English archers clashing on the fields of Agincourt to the score of Andean synths were interrupted when several people sprinted past her in a frenzy. [i]Huh, flight must be leaving early or something,[/i] she reasoned. Then, through her tiny porthole to the world, Dr. Ibarra saw red flashing lights switch on from various sirens on the wall; her headphones blocked out the noise, but she knew something was wrong. [i]Some ship malfunctioned, maybe a fire somewhere.[/i] Still calm, Itxaro quickened her pace.

It wasn't until her right leg collapsed under her that Dr. Ibarra decided something was up. Her headphones slipped off as she fell hard to the ground, and suddenly her ears were no longer filled with music but screams, alarms, and the cracking of gunfire. Some distant, some dangerously close. Dr. Ibarra tore off her hood and examined her leg. Blood flowed freely from her upper thigh, the fabric and flesh ripped by the stray round. A graze, but a damn good one. She looked behind her down the long concourse and saw spaceport security as they fended off an unseen foe; they were being torn apart. Itxaro felt her heart pound into her throat and the pain in her leg dull as adrenaline flushed through her body. Acting on instinct, she regained her footing and half ran, half hobbled to the Jotunheim's hangar bay, high-powered rounds shattering the ceramic tiles under her feet. 

Even with her brain pumped full of fight-or-flight chemicals, Itxaro had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Corpo thugs, some nation's special forces, or fucking terrorists were gunning people down, and they were here for the Jotunheim. What else could it be? Why she chose to head straight for their objective, Itxaro didn't know. She could have just hidden in a bathroom and been fine, but something in her monkey brain tolde her ship equals safety. Maybe she already thought of it as home. Dr. Ibarra stumbled into the hangar bay, now filled with thick smoke, the smell of cordite, and the roar of engines and frantic gunfire. [i]Fuck it.[/i] Itxaro could barely even the silhouette of the ship, but charged ahead anyways, ducking low for all the good that would do.

[[b]The Jotunheim[/b]]
[hr]
Dr. Ibarra surged onto the ship when the doors opened, propped up by the press of bystanders caught in the firefight who also sought safety in the Jotunheim's metal womb. She was unceremoniously thrown to the floor when the crowd entered the ship and fanned out, bouncing her head off the deck and wrenching her bad leg. Several frantic refugees trampled the wounded engineer, their footfalls cushioned by her heavy sea bag. Itxaro scrambled back to her feet, head reeling, and was corralled with the rest of the civilians to the ship's living quarters. She flung herself into the first room she could, a bedroom of some kind. Itxaro didn't spend much time appreciating the ship's interior design, instead shrugging her bag off and propping herself against a cold bulkhead to examine her injury. The bullet had grazed her, but the wound was deep, located on her inner thigh four inches down. It looked less like a gunshot wound, and more like she'd been slashed with a serrated blade, the flesh and skin viciously splayed open. She remembered one of her comrades suffering from a similar injury, and remembered watching him bleed out in zero-g within minutes as she helplessly clutched her mangled arm. 

Itxaro pushed the memory from her mind as she set to work, feeling the ship vibrate to life under her. [color=fff200]"It missed the femoral artery. If it didn't, I'd be dead,"[/color] she soothed herself aloud. In a distant part of her brain, Itxaro knew the ship was moving, but as the adrenaline wore off and blood loss-induced lethargy set in, she didn't really care. Dr. Ibarra futilely tugged at her pant leg with her right hand when she realized she had a fucking [i]robot arm[/i], which she used to roughly tear the tattered fabric off her throbbing leg. Perhaps a bit too roughly, as pain spiked up and down her body and her vision was blurred with tears of pain and frustration. She tightly bound the bleeding wound in her own garment, absently noting the new fashion trend she had inadvertently created: the half short, half pant. She'd workshop the name later, maybe sell the patent to a corpo. Make billions. 

Through her ringing ears and the ship's engine, Itxaro detected a faint voice speaking. "[i]Puedo sentir la gravedad en mi pie-[/i]" Dr. Ibarra tore the headphones from around her neck, still piping out music, and threw them across the room to her sea bag as she unleashed a flurry of curses. In response, the Jotunheim began accelerating, sending the sea bag and headphones sliding across the floor back to her. Itxaro stowed them in a floor compartment, eager to avoid any more flying missiles, and took a moment to compose herself.

The bleeding seemed to have stopped, for now. She was safe, for now. Dr. Ibarra half-expected soldiers to burst in through the airlock, firing down the tight corridors of the ship; she'd seen this once before, and the memory sent a sickening chill down her spine. Now the ship was really gaining speed, and she realized they were taking off. She remembered seeing the runway filled with taxiing spacecraft. [i]Fucking pilot better know what they're doing, or the thugs outside are the least of our worries.[/i]

Itxaro drunkenly staggered out of the room, unsure if her dizziness was from blood loss, an adrenaline hangover, or a possible concussion. She started navigating towards engineering, the only place she could make much of a difference, though in her condition it was doubtful. She stumbled down the stairs, taking no notice of the red smear she left on the wall she leaned against as she walked, nor the warm blood filling her boot.

[b]“Passengers, strap yourselves in for a bumpy ride. We are attempting to exit the fjords.”[/b]

 Itxaro instinctively flung herself through an airlock in response, and felt her stomach drop when her eyes focused and began scanning the room. An escape pod. With a sickening feeling of deja vu, Dr. Ibarra tore a first aid kit from the wall and fell into a crash couch, frantically strapping herself in. The ship was suddenly rocked by an explosion. [i]Breaching pod,[/i] Itxaro thought nonsensically, knowing that wasn't even possible in atmosphere. She opened the small red box and found exactly what she needed, an aerosol coagulant and sealant. Itxaro removed the makeshift bandage, mopped up the excess blood with a grunt, and hosed down the wound, which formed a sickly yellow coat over the area; the bleeding did stop though. Itxaro started searching for her next item when the ship began a new cacophony of booms, as if the engine were stalling; but this wasn't like any thrust drive she'd heard before. [i]Oh god, did they fire up the FTL drive?[/i]

[b]"BRACE! BRACE!”[/b] 

A familiar weightlessness washed over Itxaro before gravity returned. Freefall. Apparently the FTL drive hadn’t powered up after all, which was good; there’s no telling what kind of havoc an FTL drive could wreak on a ship while in atmosphere if the vessel wasn't designed for it. But also, bad. Because they were now falling back toward the Earth. Dr. Ibarra laughed bitterly. She’d narrowly avoided death in that cramped escape shuttle all those years ago, but it seemed fate had caught up with her. What happened next was a blur. She clung to the medkit with a death grip as her body was whipped around in the crash couch, caught in an invisible maelstrom. 

When the ship finally came to a shuddering halt and the emergency lights flickered on, Dr. Ibarra took a few deep, shaky breaths. So she didn’t die. [i]Fuck you, fate. Never believed in it anyways.[/i] With a fumbling hand, Ixaro rummaged through the contents of the medical bag until she located the emergency stimulant injector. Dr. Ibarra carefully shot the syringe into her good leg and depressed the plunger. She felt a pleasant thrumming in her head as her blurry world came into sharp focus. She unstrapped herself and stood up, pleased she hadn't sustained any more injuries in the crash aside from what would soon be pretty purple bruises. 

Itxaro limped towards engineering medical kit in hand, knowing it was too late to do any real good, but she could still shut down systems, administer first aid, or extinguish fires. She pulled open the door with her prosthetic hand and was met with an engineering room in ruins. Itxaro considered saying something real funny, maybe, [i]Wow, she runs smooth, doesn’t she?[/i] Dr. Ibarra held her tongue, though, when she spotted the charred and contorted body of an engineer on the grated deck. Shame and sadness shot through her simultaneously. She tore her eyes away from the crumpled body and directed her sharp eyes toward the others. Did they even know her? Had the company supplied them with her file? She supposed it didn’t really matter right now. Her words were shaky but calm, accompanied by a flowing Cuban accent. [color=fff200]“I'm Dr. Itxaro Ibarra, the new FTL specialist. What can I do to help?” [/color]