Zeppelin #27 — Portside Gun Mount / Interior Access
a Collaboration between @InfamousGuy101 and @Expendable
The last few bursts died in Carter’s barrel with a final clack-chunk. The metal of the grip was hot, even through his gloves, and the smell of oil and burnt powder clung to everything. He stepped back slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. His ears rang, and somewhere the sharp, panicked cry of someone calling for a medic still echoed faintly.
Carter turned his head in time to catch Zoe hauling Aden off the platform like a stubborn sack of wheat. He didn’t say anything, just watched for a moment, long enough to see the blood. Carter had seen the same scene in the Main. Whatever he thought of Inburians onboard, the man's wounds didn’t deserve a shrug.
“Poor bastard,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. Then he pivoted away without lingering.
The firefight had died down with no more flashes from the hills. Just the wind howling around the frame and the quiet groans of a strained ship pressing upward through air it didn’t want to climb.
He arrived back into the control cabin as Arkadios gave his measured commands. Carter’s brow furrowed, half at the idea of being over the Morktree with anything less than full lift, and half because he didn’t particularly like Arkadios assigning their names with that cold tone of his. Even so, Carter didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll take topside,” he said, already turning for the engine lift. “If one of the bags is nicked, I’d rather know now than on a cold descent into that ghost-ridden forest.”
"Carter!" Christina roared back from the master control board, blood dripping from her right ear from a graze. At the moment, aside from one shot gage, everything looked normal. "
Che cazzo?! Who was shooting at us?"
"Sorry it's breezy," the mechanic-turned-engineer called out, hoping Carter could hear her above the wind. "Some
pezzo di merda left a window open! Going to need a warm up, that
bastardo better not have tossed the coffee!"
Carter ducked under a set of hanging wires and hoisted himself up into the compartment with the rigging clanking on his shoulder. The wind howled through the open tear and the sight of Christina's bloodied ear made him grit his teeth.
“Damn,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he crossed the short distance, “You alright?” he asked. Christina was tougher than most soldiers he’d fought beside, but even tough cookies cracked if they weren’t patched up. He only hoped Zoe could do the same for Aden.
He gave her a once-over and nodded toward the panel, “If everything else is holding, then we’re better off than we look. As for our friends shootin’ at us… by all accounts, looked like either those red-banner nutjobs didn’t like us procuring the loot they wanted to steal or perhaps someone just had the same idea we did and just didn't take too kindly to us beating them to ii.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, grimacing at the sweat and soot, “Either way, they’re behind us now. And we’re traversing the Morktree...”
He cast a glance toward the tore up canvas, “Not that I’m eager to take a sightseeing detour through the cursed forest. I’ve heard stories, and none of ‘em come with happy endings.”
Carter rested the tool rig down and began to inspect the outer tarp, boots clanking as he moved, “If we can do a quick patch job that holds and nothing’s burning, we’ll hopefully clear it by sundown. Maybe we get lucky for once.”
He smirked faintly over his shoulder, "And if Nikos hasn’t bled out or passed out, maybe we finally get a cup of that ‘world famous’ coffee he keeps bragging about.”
Christina's eyes rolled, then glanced at her reflection in the gages with a scowl. Reaching under the console, she unhooked the first aid kit and laid it out on a bare surface, then tried holding a square of gauze on it, wincing in pain. She tried to wrap it, but it was impossible to do with one hand.
"Carter...," she sighs, turning around while her right hand held the gause in place. "...I need help."
Carter turned at the sound of his name and saw her standing there with the gauze pressed to her ear, jaw tight, blood still trickling from beneath her fingers.
The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled just slightly with the pain, and it knocked the casual edge right out of him. He set the tool rig down with a dull thunk and moved to her fast.
“Alright,” he muttered, more gently now, “let’s get that cleaned up.” He took the kit, fumbling briefly with the antiseptic bottle before uncapping it. The wind made everything awkward, and the rocking of the deck didn’t help his clumsy fingers, but he managed to dab at the wound, careful as he could manage.
“Sorry,” he apologized for whatever stinging it would cause to Christina, his voice was a little lower, a little more human than usual, “You’d think someone who was awarded war ribbons would know how to dress a scratch...” He gave a faint grin, then secured the bandage in place, finally taping it down. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.
Reaching to the his belt he reached for one of his pouches to pull out a silver flask and handed it over, “Figured this might help more than me fumblin’ with gauze...”
She bit her lip. A shot from her flask wouldn't go amiss, either, but she wouldn't refuse the offer.
He leaned back on one knee and looked out over the wind-stirred canvas. “Hell of a ride, huh? Burning city, castle, now the Morktree… almost makes you wonder if the gold’s worth it.” He gave her a sidelong look, “Still, should buy us more than enough stitches and whiskey once we’re out of this.”
The antiseptic stung, making her sharply draw in her breath in pain and to grip the console handrail tightly.
"Thank you," she said when the bandage was in place, and again when he handed the flask over. She unscrewed the cap and flung it back, then drank two slugs, feeling a different sort of burn as the alcohol rolled down her throat.
"That's..." she managed, swallowing, "That's good.... What is that? Whiskey?"
Carter chuckled softly as he snapped the first aid kit shut and set it aside near the console.
“Yep,” he said, straightening up, “King’s Iron, distilled up in the high hill ridges back at the Main. Used to be a soldier’s favorite before the ration cuts. Burns like hell, but it stays warm in the gut longer...”
He leaned back against a support beam looking up to the gashed canvas, the wind whistling low through it.
“For a while,” he added, almost to himself, “it was the only friend I had left after the war. Didn’t ask questions and didn’t talk back.”
Then he looked over at her again, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the forward compartment with a smirk.
“So what about you?” he asked, “Got plans for your cut? Gonna disappear into the mountains? Buy a villa? Or just drink better whiskey than mine?”
Plans, Christina thought, frowning.
"When I escaped the
Esercito Popolare, or whatever those
figlio di puttana calling themselves now, I took only what I could carry. My rifle, my helmet, a rag to wave so the Inbur's
porca vaccas didn't shoot me."
Her face burned, remembering the hands that groped her during their search. But the hands of the
bastardo political officers were not gentle, either.
"It would have been so easy to do what was expected," Christina spat. "But I could not sit in comfort when war was coming. But Inbur's army didn't want me, I was
rischio per la sicurezza. How you say, 'security risk'? So I use my skills to fix zeppelins. But nobody trusts me, I could not borrow tools, so I had to
scroccare with what little monies I could get."
She paused, glancing over at Carter, then down at herself, staring at her stained khaki overalls that needed patching and a good wash.
"My family were merchants," she said wistfully, a small grin on her bloodied face. "My father ran grand company, we had fine house and my mother and I had many fine dresses. If only
mia madre could see me now."
"I was visiting my uncle, a mechanic who had sailed with my father, playing with his daughter, we were like sisters," she said, then continued in anger, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "But walking home, we see those
figlio di puttana dragging my parents out into street. He covered my mouth to keep me from screaming as they shot them."
"So I become
un meccanica," Christina shrugged, glancing down at her hand as if to inspect her nails. "Rough hands, broken nails, no pretty dresses, patched bloomers, but no
rieducazione."
"I need new kit," she told Carter. "No pretty dresses, just
pratica. Better tools, more guns. There are many who need killing."
She paused, taking another slug from his flask. It didn't seem to give her as much trouble, before. Was she getting used to it? She could feel the burn, countering the throbbing in her ear. Christina passed the flask back to Carter.
"And yes," she told him, "better
liquore for when I am not tired enough and sleep not come because
fantasmi that crowd my head."
Carter didn’t interrupt. He just crouched next to the open panel and listened. For all the fire and grit Christina spoke, it reminded him of too many things he’d seen, too many deaths and faces gone. And though he’d never say it out loud, her story stirred something in him, more than he expected from a Calarian.
By all rights, he ought to have distrusted her. Hell, if they’d met just a few months earlier, he probably would’ve treated her like one of those flag-waving fifth column rats torching farms and hanging officials. But she wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. Maybe never was.
He took the flask back, weighing it in one hand, then looked at her, as properly as he could.
“Well,” Carter said, voice low and steady, “I’ve seen men with less reason give up and turn mean. You didn’t. Can’t say I got a stake in any of this madness but if this gold helps you put a few of those ghosts down, maybe it’s worth haulin’.”
He tipped the flask in a quiet toast, “To practical things. Tools. Guns. And ghosts that stay buried.”
With that, he stood, giving the flask one last tap against his palm before sliding it back into his belt pouch. “Come on. Let’s patch this lady up before she decides to finish what the bullets didn’t.”
The next few minutes passed in near silence as the two got to work with Carter hauling the spare canvas roll and adhesive from the rig pack and Christina holding steady as they worked in rhythm. They clambered over struts and beams, wind tugging at their sleeves, voices occasionally barking short commands over the rush.
“Hold that corner, tight!”
“Watch your foot!"
But despite some sniping, it came together fast. They cut and sealed the canvas, taped the inner mesh, and ran a few quick checks over the exposed rigging. Carter leaned back once it was done, fingers sticky with sealant, eyes sweeping the patched section.
“Not bad,” he muttered. “Coulda been worse.”
