[h3][color=limegreen]Maxima[/color][/h3]

Synthetic fingers carried a finely polished leaf spring, gently guiding it home amidst a beautifully oiled piece of machinery. It was the last part to replace for the restoration of an old but still reliable pistol - Old enough to be more of a collector piece than actually used for its original purpose, but it could still get the job done, obviously. 

Until something rocked the ship, forcing Maxima's hand forward. The spring was bent from the force, and the finish marred by Maxima's armored nails. Her eyes narrowed in frustration. She gently set down the disassembled pistol, her expression the only thing betraying her anger. "[b][color=limegreen]Unforgivable.[/color][/b]"

Maxima only grabbed two things from her room: Her beloved machine gun and a recent acquisition as a sidearm. Truth be told, the sidearm had no place being used by any normal person: It was designed as an attempt to have the power of a shotgun in the small package of a pistol... With catastrophic results in regard to human wrists. Needless to say, Maxima had wanted an excuse to use it, and scattering little holes in spacesuits seemed like a good use case.

She wasted no time in directing herself to the nearest airlock. Maxima had a bit of a disdain for the vacuum of space - without sound, there was no music, and what was the point? She would simply have to captivate her audience through choreography, instead. Luckily for everyone else, she could still transmit her lovely voice through local communications channels.

"[b][color=limegreen]There's never a bad time for a guerilla live show, right? Luckily you've-[/color][/b]" Maxima shouldered her automatic rifle. "[color=limegreen][b]Got.[/b][/color]" She depressurized the airlock. "[color=limegreen][b]Me~![/b][/color]" She vaulted into the fray as she delivered her last line, her entire body glowing as her shield emitters projected a bright yellow shield of hard light.

A textbook start to a performance: The arrival of the star. Perhaps literally, in this case, as Maxima was a glowing ball of yellow light peeking out from the hull of the ship - she could be mistaken for a sunrise, in her opinion. Maxima's eyes narrowed as she snapped her aim to the nearest pirate, her expression of cheer twisting somewhat with the sudden focus of aiming. Then, of course, the music started.

To Maxima, it was music - Her machine gun was intimately linked to her, as a purpose-designed peripheral. If anything, it was just as much a part of her as a limb. Each time it fired, she received information from her link - weapon temperature, remaining ammo, trajectory estimations... It all came to her as a sixth sense. It was the gun's music - there was no other way she could manage to describe it.

Perhaps the artistry was lost on the enemy she had in her sight: They of course could not hear the music, just feel the hail of bullets that rained upon them. After what they did to her most recent restoration project... That was the least they deserved. It was a simple fact that a star like Maxima would have pushy fans, but luckily she knew how to deal with them. She tracked to the next pirate, but kept aware of the others in case she needed to move. Her shields would likely hold against anything they had, but what was music without dance? She had an image to uphold.

"[color=limegreen][b]The performance for these pushy fans who ruined my pistol restoration project is on! Any aboard the Guernica who want to watch the lights are welcome~![/b][/color]" Maxima kept this comm chatter to the crew only.