"No!" Velia held up a finger to silence the grey talking toad in the scooter, "No, you can't come aboard. We'll let people on at some point but that point isn't now. I'm the communications officer," she motioned at herself. She was actually wearing an Edenite uniform for a change. The Colonial Support Fleet wasn't technically military though an alien observer might have mistaken them for a military branch. Their uniform was a soft green color with pale white trim. The fabric and her brown leather belt were pristine, which looked nice, but was, incidentally, a sign she was a fresh recruit... along with the distinct lack of any rank insignia. It did, however, make her look official.

"What exactly are you waiting for?" the frog puffed himself up, leaning forward in a gesture she assumed was meant to be menacing, "The surface is lost. This station needs the surface to supply it with food. You can at least take us somewhere where we might have a chance to survive instead of slowly starving to death up here!"

"Goodbye Divaldo," she replied, reaching up to grasp the edge of the metal shutter at the end of the boarding tunnel, bringing it down with a satisfying crash.

From the other side she could make out the outraged spluttering of the toad, "That's Gloriont Divaldo to you, you dhasath tralk!" Velia couldn't help but smirk a little out the outrage in his voice.

She crouched down, making sure the shutter was firmly sealed, then began to walk back towards the ship, loosening her collar as she did. Divaldo was repeating more or less what the Station Supervisor had been demanding she do in his office a few minutes earlier. Velia agreed - there wasn't much point hanging around, but the problem was she had never flown a Spaceship before (except in a simulator and her crash record in the simulator didn't inspire her with confidence to pilot a Colony Ship), so she intended to wait for a few more days at least, until it was abundantly clear nobody else was coming from the surface, or one of the other colonies, in the hope that someone with some actual experience with something other than a shuttle arrived.

She gave a small sigh of relief as she stepped into the familiar comfort of the ESS 3822-01, pressing the button to close the door to the station, shutting out the bickering irritation that the station provided. The off-white corridors had a pleasant soft lighting installed; it was aesthetically pleasing, if a little spartan. The modest cabin for the Comms Officer had new fixtures, a comfortable mattress and (probably since nobody else was using it at the moment) good water pressure in the shower. Get changed, let your hair down then head out for the bar, she decided. While they were waiting there was precious little else to do other than drink.

---

Velia opened the shutters at the end of the boarding tunnel with a degree of trepidation, half expecting to see Divaldo or some other annoying Station dweller to try to pester their way onto the ship. But thankfully there was nobody in sight. So she quickly locked the shutter behind her, taking a few hurried steps away from the shutters.

Velia had changed into a much more casual affair; jeans, a tank top and a black leather jacket and had let her hair fall free across her shoulders. Hopefully she looked sufficiently different that in the context of the bar people weren't going to see 'that woman from the Colony Ship'. There was only one on the station, with the slightly depressing name of 'The Drink'. Ironically, it was still charging money for alcohol - Velia figured nobody was going to be left to audit what she had done with the petty cash and the Metacer apparently hadn't eaten into the bank's electronic infrastructure yet, so she was able to flash her CSF card around at will.

She pulled up a stool next to the bar, casting an eye around the establishment. A few depressed looking patrons, none of whom she recognised. Perfect. She did notice, however, that the humans and kiellar had all stripped down to their shirt sleeves and mostly looked a little uncomfortable with the heat - presumably the station's heating system was on the fritz again, not that temperature changes bothered dhasath too much.

A sleeping looking human barman shuffled in her direction, "Whiskey, on the rocks..." he opened his mouth, presumably to ask her which one, "Whatever the most expensive is," she paused as he reached up towards the top shelf, "Save yourself a job and leave the bottle," she said.

He glanced her way, his eyes alighting on the CSF bank card she was tapping on the bar, then shrugged, bringing the bottle over. Until a pilot arrived, there really wasn't much better to do with her afternoons. Or was it morning? It was hard to tell on a space station.

Shipyard Med-Bay
"I must warn you that this is patchwork at best." Doctor Raphael Vitella, the last human from Tigris, said to one of the engineers assigned to work on retrofitting the colony ship as he finished up on the radiation burn on the patient's hand. "Can I get back to work? Yes or no?" The engineer asked Raphael. "Yes, but you won't be able to use heavy machinery. The nerves in that hand are too severely damaged." Raph answered. "My supervisor won't like that." The engineer said to Doctor Vitella. "He can complain until the heat death of the universe. The nerve damage you have suffered will be permanent without surgery and there are no specialists available to perform it. Now, unless you have any other injuries, leave so that I can tend to other patients." Raphael Vitella said to his patient, the engineer walking out of the Med-Bay. "Long night?" Doctor Ferdinand asked Vitella as he approached with a mug full of coffee in each hand. "Everyone is on edge. We're facing supply shortages. Workers pushin' their equipment to the limit to get the colony ship retrofitted for long distance travel, and rumors of Metacer in the bowels of the shipyard is spookin' the refugees." Raphael Vitella said to Doctor Ferdinand as he took the mug of the other doctor's left hand and gulped it down. "Supply shortage is correct. With Eden Prime and its colonies overrun, shipments of necessities have stopped completely. I went through several crates just to find coffee. I need the caffeine to get through long shifts like these." Doctor Ferdinand said to Vitella as he took a sip. "Well, this cup should be enough to get me through the rest of the shift. Idle hands are the Devil's playthings." Doctor Raphael Vitella said to Doctor Ferdinand as he handed him the cup and got back to work. "Doctor. This security officer is wounded bad. He was jumped by several men outside the bar." One of the nurses said to Doctor Raphael Vitella as a patient was brought into the Med-Bay. "You'd think a time of crisis would cause people to put aside their differences, but it seems that some people will use it as an excuse to be violent against others. Get him on the table and bring me some painkillers! We need to seal these wounds fast!" Doctor Vitella said, the nurse who had brought the patient in scrambling to get the required medications while another put the patient on the table. "I told them to put down their weapons and put their hands on their heads and they didn't listen. it was like the lights were on in their head but nobody's home. Then they ran towards me with knifes like they came right out of a horror movie. I was able to fight them off, but they shrugged off wounds that would cause other humans to collapse in pain or back off. They must've gotten high on some real heavy-duty shit." The wounded security officer said to Raphael as the doctor was handed the vial of painkillers. "Royal Jelly. Prior to the fall, some of the more enterprisin' gangs were able to get their hands on entire jars of the stuff and began sellin' it on the Black Market. I wouldn't be surprised if the survivin' members established new operations after arrivin' on the shipyard. I will inform the Chief Of Security, but you will have to provide the exact details once you are no longer on painkillers. Nothin' good can come from drug dealers turnin' desperate refugees into Jelly Heads." Doctor Vitella said to the security officer as he injected him with the contents of the vial, immediately following it up by sealing up the wounds.

Once he had patched up the injured security guard, he headed to the nearest terminal. "One of your officers was attacked by several men high on Royal Jelly. I had to give him painkillers before sealin' up his wounds. His condition is currently stable, but I do advise holdin' off on questions until the painkillers wear off. Thank you." Doctor Ralph Vitella said to the Chief Of Security through the terminal before turning his attention to other patients.

Two hours later
Doctor Ralph Vitella got changed and headed back to his quarters. They weren't far, as he might be called back to his temporary workplace to perform surgery. He entered through the door and closed it behind him before heading to his desk. His quarters were larger than average, but they were mostly bare, as he didn't bring much with him. He looked at the mirror and saw his reflection be replaced by fire as he heard shouts and machinegun fire. He headed to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of Whiskey and opening it before pouring himself a glass and taking a swig.

---

Waiting was the worst part.

Sarvenolos didn’t sit in the same way humanoid sapients would. Or, rather, sitting by itself is a foreign concept to him. It was as foreign to a Morelian like himself as slithering would be for the two-legged people that he had spent most of his life accustomed to. Instead, Morelians coiled. They coiled around the branches of the trees that their ancestors based their lives around. They coiled around poles that the humanoid races would usually use for strange dances. Right now, Sarvenolos was coiled around a seemingly arbitrarily placed pole in the docking bays; if there was one thing that all Edenite colonies and Eden itself had in common, it would be that infrastructure wasn’t built with the Morelians in mind. Or that of the other predominantly primitive alien races of those worlds, for that matter.

Everything revolved around those three. Human. Dhasath. Kiellar.

And now, for all Sarvenolos knew, he might be the last of the Morelians. Maybe there were other Morelians aboard the other ships that had fled, he hoped. Right now, though, there was no way to know for sure. Communications to the surface were down; that, or there was quite literally no one left to receive messages down there. They would all be digested within the stomachs of the ravenous Metacer right now. They’d be protein slough, biomass, flesh soup, liquified meat ooze; whatever the hell the Metacer turned their victims into after digestion.

Damn the Metacer.

Why did those creatures have to enter his life? Why couldn’t they have come after he was already dead from old age? That way, he could at least just be watching from Providence rather than experiencing these events for himself.

Such are the tests of faith.

Ah, well. At the very least, he got to the space station before he was unceremoniously converted into Metacer groundchuck. That should at least count for something.

Sarvenolos’ ruminations would be interrupted by the last voice of his old life. “Meow.”

“Yes, I know, Verminslayer, but we are yet to get aboard the ship,” Sarvenolos turned his head to look back towards his cat, who had been sitting on his back. “The crew is still retrofitting it so that it may be worthy to cross the sea of stars and not sink into the tides the moment it lets the anchor loose.”

“Meow.” The cat nudged her head against her owner’s, communicating the need to be petted. Sarvenolos was only glad to oblige.

Instead of using his tail-that-is-also-a-hand. Sarvenolos used the other form of articulation that Morelians had: a pair of prehensile tongues. Cats were, of course, very accustomed to having a tongue touch their fur, as licking is how they cleaned themselves. Verminslayer purred as a pair of prehensile tongues rubbed against her fur; Sarvenolos didn’t mind that other people were watching. They are the weird ones, after all, using only their hands to pet their pets. Cowards! It is only proper that a cat’s affectionate licking be returned twofold.

Either way, there wasn’t much else to do. Sarvenolos doubted that people waiting to get aboard the last starship would be in the mood for a musical performance…

This was not the first time that Ginny had slept in a barn, though it had been a long time since she had last done so. Becoming an agri-tech again had a nostalgic charm to it for the Texarkanan. The morning light streaked through the wooden walls across her face, its gentle caress rousing her awake. Rising to her feet, she'd brush straw off her coveralls, the golden chaff falling from olive drab while she stretches out her neck and arms. It was more comfortable than nights she spent under open sky, in caves or dilapidated ruins, but significantly less than her apartment in the nearby city.

Before her was the reason she was out here: the crop-skimmer needed maintenance, and the poor thing had been neglected for at least a decade. Components had rusted shut, and it had nearly fallen out of the sky last time it had taken off. Ginny had spent the last two days cleaning and replacing components, and she was close to finishing her work. Something like this could keep the entire town’s fields covered, and was worth almost as much as a spaceplane with its specialized high-efficiency airframe and solar arrays.

The owner, a human named Sarak, was a kindly man, but one who was nearing the end of his career, and had grown stubborn. She opened the barn door and looked over to the white-painted house, the smell of breakfast was reaching her already, tempting her over. What she saw immediately left her uneasy. The door was open, and one of its hinges were caved in with splintered wood.

Someone had broken in.

The ranger would go back into the barn, taking her belt off a hook and throwing it on, drawing the blaster pistol from the leather holster. The trill of the heavy revolver loaded with individual chamber-capacitors. It was a small comfort to her: as her father had once said, if she was going to shoot someone, it had better be only once. She wasn’t aware of any local trouble Sarak had, let alone something that could escalate to something like this.

By the time she reached the doorway, she could hear a chittering sound reminiscent of a ratchet wrench but much louder. The walls had holes and gouges in the side: this wasn't a home invader, this was an animal of some sort. Giant insects were not native to this region as far as she knew.

The smell of burnt bacon put Ginny into even further unease. She brushed her red-brown hair to keep her vision clear, and raised her revolver from a low ready to a trained eye-level. When she peaked her head around the corner into the kitchen, those steady hands faltered for a moment.

Sarak was on the ground in the kitchen, still wearing his white morning robe with little bee designs on it. That robe was tinged pink, doing its best to suck up the pool of blood he was in, a giant gash through his midsection leaving him almost torn in half. The thing that had rent him so loomed over him, its scythe-like mandibles digging into his flesh.

Virginia had seen Metacer drones in museums, both in holo-exhibits and in dead artifacts. They were a rare occurrence, but individual specimens were terrifying. A formicidae the size of a small horse, the poor farmer had never stood a chance. She was in danger, that creature could kill her just as easily as it had killed her host. Its antennae flicked about, and when it froze, she didn’t hesitate.

The sharp whine of a capacitor discharge heralded the head of the drone exploding into a shower of green gore, some of it sizzling onto the stovetop, some sizzling from the sudden vaporization. A good chunk of the wall behind it was blown away, scorched, and catching light. Ginny started running to the side door, stopping for a moment to look down at Sarak’s body with some regret. She couldn’t bury him, the other drones were likely already aware, the controller could be nearby, but she wasn’t about to try and hunt it down alone.

Indeed, looking out from the higher ground, she could see more in the fields and adjacent homesteads. Her heart sank and her breathing quickened as a panic began to rise, but training took over, and she ran back towards the barn. She took up her duffel and threw it into the cargo trunk of the skimmer.

Part of her was cursing herself, she could try to save another, but she had no idea who was even still alive. This was a remote corner of the planet, and there was still a chance that a warning could get out before they overrun this place. She got into the pilot’s seat, tapping the console on the dash and grabbing hold of the throttle, the thrusters roaring to life as the skimmer inches forward on a ground effect bubble.

Making itself free of its enclosure, the craft would rise into the sky a few hundred feet, and Ginny could see dozens of the Metacer scouring the fields for food. Taking a shallow breath and raising her nav, she would begin heading towards the nearest city.

---

That had been three months ago. Ginny had only wished that the government had listened, that anyone had listened before those damnable bugs had swarmed the first cities and military actions failed. She wished that she had spent more time among these people, that they could trust her expertise, but they didn’t. She was still in the same fatigues, and had that same duffel on her back.

There was only one ship left in the station, she hadn’t managed to make it onto any other, and she wasn’t about to wait for her Society pick up to find her on this station, if she could even survive long enough. No, she had already left her beacon on the station, a repeating message of what had happened. The last that any of her people would know is that she was trying to find an escape, and that the people here had indeed descended from true Terrans.

The bar had been her last bastion of solace in a world that was rapidly collapsing. Things had an eerie stability on the station. Doom would not come for some time, but hope was running low. 3822-01 was her last ticket out of here, and the best shot was her mark at this bar. Walking to the seat next to her, she’d wave the tender down and get her own glass of straight vodka, not bothering to burden the bartender at the end of Eden. “So, any plans to survive the apocalypse?” she’d ask idly of the pilot.

Reenneesuash (Ren to humans) daughter of veanamdarr

“Warning… facility decontamination In 10 minutes. Lab levels sealed. Evacuation orders to all staff…” reenneesuash ran as she strapped tight another bag, back back and a pistol strapped to her leg as she ran past the numbers, to sector 001. “Ren… damn you late out.” The man called as he joined her break neck pace to the outside and then onto the space port. The thermobaric bombs would take out everything inside and burn the building interior to ash and melted metal.

“Needed to raid the armoury, they unlocked everything.” Ren said as she ran, short as she was… every step took about two of someone else's as they escaped before they joined the rest of the building as a ruin.

“Still late, there's a ship on dock Theta left, docks Omega are all gone…” He had not always got on with the Kieller woman, she was prickly but did not deserve to be incinerated. She looked about the height of his daughter and despite knowing she was older still looked like an intern. The Kiellar were hard to predict or even guess, it made life on the station tense at times.

“Lock down protocol beginning in 5 minutes. Warning. Lock down on 5 minutes prior to thermobaric gas flood.” Came the computer's voice. They made it out with 2 minutes to spare and took a direct bee line for the ship. The man looked to see the woman in the open light and noted her eyes, unlike the norm she had her fatigue from the last few months evident, the pressure had suppressed what he had found out was their healing abilities. They were annoyingly fast to recover especially if you got a bad cold, they just came back a day or so later happy as can be when you laid in bed half dead.

…

“Welcome to Dock bay Theta 4. Please have your passport and documents ready.” The auto systems remained on but formal boarding passes had long been abandoned, most of the place had been shoved out the way or smashed to evacuate faster and the crew had long given up enforcing rules such as enter visa and who had what baggage allowances.

She was panting, they barely had stopped and reached the last docking bay showing green. Red lights ran down all 9 other bays and was not sure if any other docking zones had anything left? Northland had clung on to the last to save what they could from the labs and data and now it was probably already been obliterated, the exit too rushed to even tell if one whole area of station had been destroyed.

“Alert. Fire Alert…. Fire breach in zone…” came across the PA, it looked like the Northland blast had escaped it's housing or just whatever inside burned hotter than intended… that was a joke. Northland did not care at this point, they had facilities on dozens or more worlds by being assholes.

“Ren… reenneesuash” She choked out her name as she panted to the boarding ramp who demanded her name, maybe there still was some organised structure aboard as she joined the remaining who escaped the coming apocalypse that was at the heels of them all. It would only be so long before the horrors found a way in, they at Bio security had done their best to keep the space ports open but even then… only so many could make it and entire compromised flights had been obliterated. All in the vain effort to keep the life line out open that was being cut as she entered the vessel and felt the recycled air of the ship.

“Frak you too” She said as someone pushed into her and past not looking, the dim lights rising into the ferry ship away from the boarding gate.

“All passengers. Move along steadily. Do no stop. Shuttle flight to final station departing in 5 minutes.”

…

Behind her the station burned rapidly as it turned out the shelf destruct was far more potent, the whole station burned and the last ferry flight crew watched as it and its reactor failed falling into the pull of gravity to land on the planet below.

…

Station. Final station. The bar.

Life was normal here.. what the hell? Things were not screaming or falling apart, no self destruction? The woman was tired and spotted a whole mix of primitives, local and far off species that remained of all kinds. Combined Station Northland Raincoat 6 had it turned out on final departure being deliberately dropped on the remains of the Eastern continent, a blast probably killed tens of millions of the damn bugs and not even scratched their numbers.

“Whiskey…Coffee, beer or health shakes… whatevers left.” She said as she approached the bar, her bags still about and the Kieller looked like she had barely slept for a week, because she had. Even their physiology was not immune.

The unusually short Kiellar woman pushed her hair into a messy pony tail still wearing the reinforced lightweight armour they had all been given as their former station fell apart trying to keep bugs from breaking into the redoubt and keep bio security intact in deteriorating labs among the chaos clearly marked of course with company branding and “Bio station 6. Lab team.”, because they were paranoid bastards about even pens being taken and sold on any kind of post or illegal sale.

“I'm sure my bosses would find a way if I owed them student loans.” She said to the woman who seemed to be nearby, Brunette, one of humans, or this subspecies whichever they hailed from exactly. She was too tired to be exact in mind.

“Ren” She said as an introduction, falling almost into a seat with relief that her aching feet she had been on for hours now without rest had a short break before they had to try and make it to the last ships off planet.

Had she finally started hallucinating. That snake had a hand...?

Mmentions
@Pragia12@El Gato Naranja

Captain John Lockman

John wasn't sure how long he sat in the station's docking bay. Pressed against a wall with his helmet off. The docking crew bustled around refueling and prepping the bird; not from any order but because it was the normal thing to do and no one had countermanded them.

Not that John noticed. The sounds around him muted as he stared at his flight suit's gloves. Stained.

Blood. There had been so much blood.

Back at the base splattered over the walls, the inert forms of the marines and militia. Firefights and screams of terror coming closer as they prepped the bird.

Then Amanda and Dmitri. They hadn't donned their helmets yet; their eyes on full display full of horror and fear forever. Their blood stained the lowered ramp of the shuttle; a reminder John had tried to ignore as he disembarked.

Sounds. Muffled. John ignored them until a light kick hit his boots. He jerked; hand flying to his holstered blaster as the offender, a weapons tech, took a step back with hands raised. Sound came back slowly till the bay's clamor, and the man's words, were back in full audio.

"You hurt sir?" John blinked for a second before he realized the still drying gore across his suit's front.

"Not mine." The words were graveled. Adrenaline having stolen his energy and his hydration apparently. A few seconds of awkward silence before John's tongue touched his dry lips and basic needs came to mind. "Place to get something to drink around here?"

The weapons tech regarded him wearily. The line's of John's face and the exhaustion evident in the pilot's eyes'.

"The Drink. Head that way and follow the signs. Can't miss it." John didn't say anything say hauling himself to his feet and staggering down the hall with the gait of someone trying to find their feet. His helmet swinging limply in his grasp.

The weapon's tech gave a shake of his head and turned back to the shuttle. At least there was no need to replace the bird's ammo; an easy refit. Probably the last one in the days head for his crew.
******

John barely registered the bar's occupants as he staggered in. Collapsing into a stool and tossing his helmet onto the bar.

"Give me a bottle. Strong stuff." A handful of hard credit chits pulled from his thigh pouch and shoved towards the tender. He was a sight; perspiration from his recent brush with death still coated his features. Blood sprayed a pattern across his chest armor, suit sleeves and gloves. His survival knife was missing and a gash adorned the back of his armor. The only part of him with any color was his squadron patch; a field of blue with six stars in a semi circle surrounding a green one.

---

...

The bar had been her last bastion of solace in a world that was rapidly collapsing. Things had an eerie stability on the station. Doom would not come for some time, but hope was running low. 3822-01 was her last ticket out of here, and the best shot was her mark at this bar. Walking to the seat next to her, she’d wave the tender down and get her own glass of straight vodka, not bothering to burden the bartender at the end of Eden. “So, any plans to survive the apocalypse?” she’d ask idly of the pilot.

"One or two," the woman replied, taking a sip from her whiskey, and giving Ginny a thoughtful look, "I mean, if I were the station chief, which I am not, I'd be looking at getting everyone onto that colony ship then setting out to find a new home... can't go to the original location, the primitives have proper guns and we don't have an army to slap them down anymore. I understand they have some crew shortages though," she shrugged as if to say she didn't really know what she was talking about.

...
The unusually short Kiellar woman pushed her hair into a messy pony tail still wearing the reinforced lightweight armour they had all been given as their former station fell apart trying to keep bugs from breaking into the redoubt and keep bio security intact in deteriorating labs among the chaos clearly marked of course with company branding and “Bio station 6. Lab team.”, because they were paranoid bastards about even pens being taken and sold on any kind of post or illegal sale.

“I'm sure my bosses would find a way if I owed them student loans.” She said to the woman who seemed to be nearby, Brunette, one of humans, or this subspecies whichever they hailed from exactly. She was too tired to be exact in mind.

“Ren” She said as an introduction, falling almost into a seat with relief that her aching feet she had been on for hours now without rest had a short break before they had to try and make it to the last ships off planet.

"Velia," one of the women replied, offering Ren the bottle of whiskey. She was wearing a jacket and seemed unconcerned by the sauna-like conditions of the station. That along with the name, picked her as dhasath, "Well thankfully, one of the advantages of the apocalypse is there is nobody to chase you for your debts or audit your use of the company card," she gave a charming, albeit somewhat roguish grin at the last point.

"I refuse to believe," she declared, "That we aren't going to make it out of here," her hand subconsciously wandered to her chest, toying with something under her jacket - a pendant perhaps? "There are ways out of here, we just need to be a bit resourceful and we get a second chance at this with our debts wiped clean."

...
John barely registered the bar's occupants as he staggered in. Collapsing into a stool and tossing his helmet onto the bar.

"Give me a bottle. Strong stuff." A handful of hard credit chits pulled from his thigh pouch and shoved towards the tender. He was a sight; perspiration from his recent brush with death still coated his features. Blood sprayed a pattern across his chest armor, suit sleeves and gloves. His survival knife was missing and a gash adorned the back of his armor. The only part of him with any color was his squadron patch; a field of blue with six stars in a semi circle surrounding a green one.

"Looks like you had a close shave on the surface... Pilot?" Velia asked as the man with the helmet dropped down beside her. She recognised the uniform... sort of. This was, perhaps, her lucky day, though Velia wasn't so naive as to imagine that someone who typically flew fighters might struggle to adapt to the lumbering inertia of a colony ship, but it never hurt to check. In the morning sow your seed, and at evening do not let your hands be idle, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good.

Mutely she motioned at the bottle of whiskey, encouraging him to help himself (which would hopefully put him in a better mood to humour her).

"I don't suppose you're here to fly that Colony ship are you?" the question was really more of a suggestion. She knew damned well he wasn't here to fly the colony ship, but if he came back to say he could, or with some flavour of 'maybe', then the woman with the auburn hair's question about surviving the apocalypse might have just received a much more definite answer...

“Ren” She said as an introduction, falling almost into a seat with relief that her aching feet she had been on for hours now without rest had a short break before they had to try and make it to the last ships off planet.

"Ginny" she offered, raising a glass in recognition before holding the cool drink to her forehead for a moment. She wasn't sweating hard, but beads were blending with condensate before she withdrew the drink and took a long draw.

"One or two," the woman replied, taking a sip from her whiskey, and giving Ginny a thoughtful look, "I mean, if I were the station chief, which I am not, I'd be looking at getting everyone onto that colony ship then setting out to find a new home... can't go to the original location, the primitives have proper guns and we don't have an army to slap them down anymore. I understand they have some crew shortages though," she shrugged as if to say she didn't really know what she was talking about.

The redhead gives a quick hum in interest, letting the firewater flow through her. "Plenty of people not wanting to die, I'm sure if they're needing extra hands, they have them. Might need to barge into the office and get my ticket out of here." She says with an earnestness. She regards the man who joins them curiously, the accusation of a pilot being plenty to get her attention on John. "Well, worst comes to worst we can try mobbing the ship, right?" she offers idly.

Captain John Lockman

Motion in the corner of his eye causes him to turn his head slightly. Hand inching towards his blaster….

"Looks like you had a close shave on the surface... Pilot?"

Mutely she motioned at the bottle of whiskey, encouraging him to help himself.

Pre-Metacers the dark haired woman focusing on him while offering a bottle of whiskey would have been a preamble to a weekend adventure in a hotel.

Now, he simply took the bottle with singleminded fixation. The first slug went down burning. The urge to cough prickled. He bit it back in favor of a second swig. It went down easier. The panic at the back of his head dying down by the third gulp.

"I don't suppose you're here to fly that Colony ship are you?" the question was really more of a suggestion.

John realized she was addressing him again. He paused from taking his fourth ship in favor of examining the dark haired woman in the leather jacket.

“I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

He went to take another swig before he realized the amount he had put down. The empty splashes sloshing very noticeably.

Mark A. Lopez

---

Mark kept his rifle close—across his chest, finger off the trigger but resting near the guard—as he pushed through the station’s outer ring corridor. The air smelled like sweat, ozone, and desperation. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting, pleading, screaming at locked bulkheads. Some were just sitting, staring at nothing. One kid, maybe twelve, was sobbing while gripping his mother’s coat. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, “EDF!? What’s happening? Are they letting us on?”

Mark shook his head, “I don’t know.”

That was all he had, he kept his brisk pace. He didn’t wear the uniform because he had answers, he was a grunt by most means and that meant being in the same boat of knowing jackshit as these civvies. He kept walking. A scuffle broke out near the stairwell, two guys grappling, one with a pipe, the other bleeding already. A third jumped in and Mark just angled away, ignoring it. Security wasn’t coming, they were either dead, underground, or getting blackout drunk like everyone else trying not to think too hard and he wasn't about to play hero, he had bigger problems, they all did.

At the far end of the corridor, the viewplate showed the ship, the ESS 3822-01, still docked, still inactive. Still his only shot.

Mark stared for a moment, his jaw flexing. The idea of stealing a shuttle crossed his mind again. Maybe he could rig something to extend the oxygen, scrub CO₂, maybe. But the conclusion was always the same: a few extra days before he’d die cold and alone in deep space. Not a real option. He’d made it this far, and this? This was as far as he could get without help.

His legs carried him without much thought to the nearest familiar neon. The Drink was half-lit, half-packed, and half-silent in that low, pressure-filled way that meant everyone was thinking about dying but pretending they weren’t. He stepped inside, rifle still slung, eyes scanning habitually for exits. Always did. He clocked a few people at the bar; what seemed to be a Dhasath woman, a redhead in fatigues, a Kiellar in lab armor, and then someone else.

A man; human, tall, face like someone had just thrown him through a war and he was nursing the last of a whiskey bottle and talking with more confidence than sense.

"I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

Mark stopped mid-step.

He caught the tail end of it. He didn’t know if the guy was drunk, post-shock, or just trying to impress the women. But he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip.

He approached slowly, setting his rifle against the edge of the bar with a quiet thunk. His left arm—mechanical and old but well-maintained, whirred faintly as he adjusted the sling.

He didn’t sit. Just looked at the man and said:

“Then maybe you’re the luckiest bastard in the room.”

Mark nodded toward the viewplate window, where the massive hull of the colony ship hung in orbit like a ghost.

“Because if you can really fly that thing, I can probably get us past the locks and patch what’s left of the launch systems.” He paused, “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and see how long it takes the bugs to eat through the bulkhead.”

He the proposal hang there and looked around the group. None of them looked sure, but they looked like people who had already run out of better options.

“Name’s Lopez by the way,” he added, “Engineering, Eden Defense Force. I don’t do pep talks. I fix things.”

He took a seat, reaching at the other side of the bar and grabbing the first thing, a bottle of tequila, fitting.

"So, what do you all think?"

---

From the window in the station, Vitiafa stared down at the surface of Eden and felt the enormous sorrow tightly knot itself in her chest. A year ago, Eden was lit by a well ordered network of cities and towns forming an almost geometric web of civilization across the planets surface. It was a long built and hard fought prosperity that was now being wiped clean by the Metacer below. The darkness greeting her, interspersed by out of control fires, brought her localized conception of the ongoing apocalypse into the global scale with all the weight and tragedy it deserved.

"What unknown hubris of ours wrought this fate?" Vitiafa vocally mused before wiping the sweat from her face with a cloth. Was it some hidden sin by the central government that brought this curse on the Edenites? Was it arrogance regarding security due to a relative and splendid isolation? With a sigh, she decided these would be thoughts for later.

As she turned away from the window, she eyed the arrangement of busts behind the empty podium. They stood out in the otherwise spartan setting of the station's kiellar temple, most anything of artistic or aesthetic value would have been taken or built to a more permanent location on Eden or out to one of the colonies. She read a stern disappointment in the Patriarch's dour look, while the Mother seemed to look back with a sorrowful reassurance. The Twins seemed to match the circumstances around them with a grim determination as many a fighter most assuredly did over the past few weeks. The Traveler's confidence was still etched into the ceramic. He would still move on, as he had so many times in so many odysseys.

"Our fate shall mirror that of our Terran ancestors, so guide us on this exodus," she added before grabbing her luggage and making her way to the door out of the small temple. She paused just before crossing the threshold, and twisted one of the rings off her finger. She dropped it in the offering bowl with a satisfying clank.

"ESS 3822-01," she vocally confirmed with herself, "our last ship out."

---

Vitiafa was uncomfortably sticky with sweat by the time she arrived at The Drink, and was scowling quite intensely. After placing her luggage next to an open seat with what care she could muster, she took one of the increasingly few open stools. She flagged the bartender with a wave of her hand. "Wine, just a glass please," she placed her card on the bar. "And it should be chilled, ideally.

---

“They are taking an awfully long time with the starship, aren’t they?” Sarvenolos muttered to his cat as he slithered away from the pole and headed to the bar. He still had a hefty sum of credits to spend on food, drink, and other miscellaneous expenses, having withdrawn every bit of money he still had in his bank account when news of Eden’s colonies falling to the Metacer menace reached him. Right now, there was just no banking system. The automated teller machines scattered all over the station, which would have facilitated commerce, registered… nothing. They all told the same story; the story of Eden’s fall, the near extermination of the populace.

This ATM is offline, please come back later.

Yeah, fat chance. The Metacer had crawled out of myth and legend to destroy this place. It was as though the stories themselves came to life, writhing and hungry for flesh.

Does currency still hold value now, even? There was no more central bank. No more government. No more vaults of gold that are represented by the credits held in the pockets and accounts of the citizenry. There were just the credits of those who were fortunate enough to still be alive and breathing at the moment.

Ah, well.

Sarvenolos slithered into the bar, his cat clinging onto the back of his head. He coiled himself on top of one of the chairs designed for humanoids just beside the man with a metal arm. With his tail-hand, he fished a few credits from his bag. “Capuccino, warm, not hot nor cold,” the Morelian spoke as though his voice was a two-part harmony; a little quirk of his biology. He could already feel the stares coming... and cared not. He extended both of his prehensile tongues, took the glass, and drank. In the meantime, his tail-hand continued to stroke Verminslayer's fur, making the cat purr.

@InfamousGuy101

"Mr. Jaggard..."
"'Oddfather'," the man stressed, climbing into the lifepod already crammed with Sabato the lying snake and a pile of old emergency batteries, worth good money to recycle - and unstable as hell.
"Don't go to the surface! It's not safe..."
"It's a lifepod, 'n't it?" the gangster snorted. "You know, Uncle Tony loved ya kid, but yer just adopted, ain't one intelligent brain cell in dat head of yours. But I'll take care of ya iffen you just get on board."

The bastard grinned, patting the seat next to him with a hopeful grin.

Billie stepped back, shaking her head.
"Sorry," she told him. "I have to stay here." Where it's safe. -Ish.
"Don't say I didn't offer," he shrugged, closing the hatch. Alarms blared into life, then moments later the pod dropped, its little rocket motor flaring to life as the pod's autopilot started its long path towards the surface.

"You idiot," she muttered, brushing a strand of her ginger hair out of her face as she turned away. "There's Metacer down there. They're not going to listen to your talk, even if you survive in that 'lifepod'."

It was a good thing nobody was around, this being the farthest spot from the main concourse. Seeing the directory sign ahead, she paused, then turned down another corridor, heading towards 'The Drink.'

Just another example why you shouldn't let an engineer name anything, must less a bar.

---

The heat in the bar was staggering, but she welcomed it, it was a nice change from the air-condition repair shop. Her manager kept it bitterly cold in there, claiming how heat was the bane of electronics.

Maybe cheap electronics, she scowled as she made her way to the bar. A man with a rifle was standing next to the bar by another man, introducing himself.

"Name’s Lopez by the way,” he added, “Engineering, Eden Defense Force. I don’t do pep talks. I fix things.”

People were muttering among themselves as Lopez sat down, talking to the guy next to him. EDF too?

For a change, everyone was still looking at him while she made her way towards the bar, leaving a seat open between Lopez and herself as she flagged the bartender over, who was already puffing up at the sight of her.

"Hey!" she told him, flashing her bank card. "Larry! Let's not go through this again! I'm legit, I work here, and who's left to complain to? Just get me a beer without the hassle. Honestly, you'd deny a burnt a drink, wouldn't you?"

It was a pity she never got to learn how to pilot something like that colony ship. She'd never taken a ride out before on a Skrim Drive, this station was the farthest she'd been from the planet below. What was the odds she'd get a chance now?

...
The redhead gives a quick hum in interest, letting the firewater flow through her. "Plenty of people not wanting to die, I'm sure if they're needing extra hands, they have them. Might need to barge into the office and get my ticket out of here." She says with an earnestness. She regards the man who joins them curiously, the accusation of a pilot being plenty to get her attention on John. "Well, worst comes to worst we can try mobbing the ship, right?" she offers idly.

"From what I understand, there's plenty of room on the ship, they just don't have a crew," another idle shrug from Velia. Though the suggestion worried her. It was probably only a matter of time before someone decided to take the ship off her and, potentially, leave her to starve on the station.

...

“I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

He went to take another swig before he realized the amount he had put down. The empty splashes sloshing very noticeably.

Velia rested her hand lightly on the pilot's arm, giving off the impression of flirtation while secretly fantasising about dropping a 1,000 page manual on the man's lap (there was a physical copy, just in case the electronics broke). Which would be a bit of a buzz kill but if there was a chance to get out of here alive, other recreational activities could wait...

She opened her mouth to speak, which was when Lopez appeared along with a growing number of other people,

...
“Name’s Lopez by the way,” he added, “Engineering, Eden Defense Force. I don’t do pep talks. I fix things.”

He took a seat, reaching at the other side of the bar and grabbing the first thing, a bottle of tequila, fitting.

"So, what do you all think?"

"Velia Larci," she replied, "Communications," she said, leaving out any other pertinent details and making her seem like an office worker, "I also don't dp pep talks. I drink things."

She took a larger swig of her whiskey, taking the bottle back off the pilot and topping her glass up before handing it back to him.

"What do I think?" she asked before answering her own question, somewhat facetiously, "I think that I was kinda both looking forward to and dreading the 'Crybaby Nebula' comeback tour but I rather suspect they're making their way through insectoid intestines at this point. Which, incidentally would be a great name for a band: 'Insectoid Intestines'."

She paused, then grinned, "Relax buddy. We're in space. Unless the Metacer can jump into orbit now, we're quite safe."

Reenneesuash (Ren to humans) daughter of veanamdarr

Ren looked up as she reached up to loosen the body armour she was wearing and though unwilling to fully take it off she loosened and gave her more room for air. It was far too hot? It was way too hot for normal operations. Ren had worked on multiple space stations and this was far far from the regular temperatures. Even the labs at Northland that where Xeno habits did not bleed heat into the rest of it like this place was?

She looked up, her gold eyes rimmed with a glint of platinum fanning herself showing a fairly normal company under shirt below the protection. Thankfully she chose to wear more than she had some days in case she needed to lose the armour. One small mercy in a day of hell. “Thanks Velia, needed this…” Ren took a slug of the whiskey before returning it and gave a nod, it was not good quality but it was alcohol and the hot burn in her throat was not unpleasant.

"Next ones on Northland then. Whatever it is.” returning a tired grin as Ren faced the woman. This woman had more hope than others and probably still was alive and on this station, the very last station orbiting a planet that was taken over by the enemy. Consumed more like.

“Theirs is a ship, just got to sell our skills. We have to scrape together a crew from whats left.” Ren said, surely a Bio Scientist was useful, she knew how to make a hydroponic bay, research unknown life and honestly? This woman's enthusiasm was a little infectious even to an exhausted Kiellar who just escaped on the last ship put once already.

Ren nodded to Ginny too, the whiskey hit and she felt the alcohol hit her stomach, the warm buzz of the alcohol that would come soon. “What's with this heat, Station 6 was never this hot…until it went nuclear.” She added the last part, it had gone nuclear and taken out a area probbly an metropolis.

Looking about the room, yes she was not that tired, a snake with a hand and a cat, a man walked in clad in flight armour and blood, maybe the last thing ever to Dock here and .. an elderly member of her kin hand made it, she looked old, maybe a 150 years or more. It was not always easy to tell unless they where very young or very old, her kinds age was not a regular and stable pace throughout life.

“That's on me, Northland can pay for the end of world drinks.” She found to her shock that the card worked and the chip pinged back, how the fuck did that still work? Maybe a localised backup that sent data every day or so? She nodded to the elder of her people, the tried eyed Keiller tried to be respectful but formality was long gone right now.

People said what now…well that was a question was it not, had she been less exhausted she might have a better answer but theit was not one.

“Maths is pretty clear, we have one option, ship, get safely out of orbit. After that, find a planet, anything to rest or resupply." She spoke with a scientist's fact, a little grating maybe to some but calmly as fact and not much else. There was no other way off and no other plan. Some way, somehow the bugs would find a way to get them.

She turned her head and a new comer entered the corner of her eye order a beer, She still gave a tired nod and fanned herself from the heat, it was far too hot to be normal?

Working the side catch she slid the armour off and revealed a simple blue women's sleeveless sports top with bruises, scuffs text on her arms and shoulders from it where it caught. It was far too hot. “Did someone not pay the AC bills?” She tried to joke, too warm indeed!

@Dyelli Beybi@Bingelly@Expendable@InfamousGuy101@Pragia12

---

She dreamed of kelp gardens.

Vast strands curling in the current, thick with darting fish and soft-filtered light. Her fingers brushed the fronds as she swam past, chasing the sounds of her sisters laughing just out of view. Then came the hum of engines, low, constant, not quite right for the water. And a sudden tone.

A flat chime, followed by the familiar clipped voice of the station’s automated comms systems.

“Thank you for your patience. Our records indicate that you have been on hold for two hours, forty-three minutes. You are currently in position one thousand, two hundred, and seventy two in the queue. No staff are currently available to answer your call, and we are experiencing technical difficulties in our customer service hotlines. Please continue to hold.”

Fihlyn blinked herself awake, the soft hiss of her hydration suit reminding her where she was. The recycled moisture in her bubble helmet had begun to fog at the edges, and her stomach growled. She rubbed at her side absently, glancing at the small wall screen in the station berth. Still no updates. No orders. No pingbacks from the command crew.

And no word from Eden.

The hold music hadn’t played in hours. Maybe the line had dropped. Maybe no one was left to answer it. That silence sat heavier than she liked to admit, hanging over the eerily empty bridge. She had hoped that someone might have arrived while she slept. A commanding officer, a pilot, even a comms tech. But no. Just rows of dormant stations.

For a long moment, Fihlyn sat there, arms crossed loosely as the silence pressed in. The smart thing would be to stay: wait for official orders, for confirmation that it was safe, for someone in charge to finally make contact. But how long had she been waiting already? The bridge was still empty. The crew was still missing. The planet still silent. If no one else was coming, then she couldn’t afford to just sit idly by.

A knot formed low in her stomach. What if the station wasn’t safe? What if she left, and the ship launched without her? Or worse, what if it didn’t launch at all? What if everyone just kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting until it was too late.

After a moment, Fihlyn forced herself to her feet. Her hydration suit hissed gently with each movement, the sealed environment humid against her skin. She passed the sealed crew quarters, the darkened mess. No signs of life. No orders. No footprints left behind.

Whatever had been meant to happen here, hadn’t.

She didn’t know if that made her late, or early.

---

The docking umbilical shutters closed behind her with a metallic thud. The station’s interior felt tense, as if everyone was standing on the edge of a knife. It also felt…warm. Even through her protective suit, Fihlyn felt discomfort at the blast of hot air. She frowned, not the first time glad that her hydration suit was able to keep the worst of the outside environment at bay.

Fihlyn made her way through dim hallways, dodging supply drones and clusters of displaced passengers. Here and there, people spoke in low voices. A few glanced at her hydration suit with the usual mix of curiosity and unease, but none stopped her. Fihlyn felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she saw the ragged collection of survivors. How was it that the colony ship was sitting there, empty? They had a chance to help these people, but instead time was being allowed to waste away.

She asked about command. About coordination. Evacuation.

The answers were vague, conflicting, or absent. Some hadn’t heard anything. Some were sure someone else was handling it. One technician shrugged and told her people had started gathering at the bar.

The bar.

It was the best lead she had to go on.

---

The Drink was well-lit with its neon sign, and it seemed to have become a refuge for those seeking respite from the unfurling apocalypse outside. As Fihlyn stepped inside, her hydration helmet caught the light oddly, a shimmer playing over her scaled skin. Her stomach growled as she picked up on the smell of food from the kitchen, and her eyes rested for a moment on some of the liquor sitting behind the bar. Now wasn’t the time, not when there was a chance that they’d have to leave at a moment’s notice.

As she glanced around, Fihlyn’s eyes lit up as she recognized one of the Edenites sitting by the bar. The dark-haired dhasath had been listed as one of the bridge crew - one of the faces that Fihlyn had taken the time to memorize before being properly introduced. She’d found the Edenites usually appreciated the effort, especially when it came to figuring out the pronunciation of their names.

Walking over to Velia, Fihlyn’s excited smile was easily seen through her helmet.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

Fihlyn’s stomach growled again, louder this time. She glanced down at the CSF card sitting in front of Velia.

“Although, perhaps there is still time for a snack?”

Ginny gave Ren a quick look up and down with a furrowed brow, station 6 meant nothing to her, but the way the Kiellar spoke implied things she would leave unquestioned for the time being. Despite this, she'd regard Velia with a growing grin "Well, think we've got a pilot now." her eyes flitting to John with as much interest as Velia. When the fish-woman arrived and identified the CSF-certified pilot affirmatively in front of everyone, the Texarkanan would scoff in amusement, clearly laying low was going to work out in her favor anyways. She'd nod in affirmation, despite not being the officer Fihlyn was looking for.

"I've got enough technical chops to do whatever wrench monkey work they'd need in machine spaces." she'd offer casually. "Hydroponics, Engineering, co-pilot." she'd nod down the line to the growing throng of eager would-be crew. "Sounds to me, pep talks aside, we got the right people in the right place with the right ship." she downs the remainder of her glass with gusto, confidence on her lips and courage burning down her throat. "I say we load up that ship with everything not nailed down and try to find solid ground before this station toasts us all alive." She holds up her empty glass in a toast before resting it back on the bar.

Captain John Lockman

Perhaps it was his liver finally regaining functionality. The touch of the dark haired woman giving him a physical sensation beyond the insulation of the suit. Or maybe the increasing crowd of individuals coalescing in his corner of the bar.

Either way the result was John’s surroundings snapped into clearer focus. Understanding dawning on him. The crew of the only ship capable of escaping was missing.

He fought back the rising dread with another slug of whiskey before he turned his attention back to the group’s conversation.

“Isn’t there some kind of back-up crew for that thing. A Bravo and Charlie crew?”

The arrival of a slim figure in an environment suit followed as if in answer.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

“Well looks like we have our pilot.” John lifted the bottle in salute before taking back a healthier swig then his last. His vision starting to muddle at the edges again. “You have need of a next generation assault shuttle with provisions and armaments already onloaded?”

He tried to keep his voice calm. Hoping no one would ask where his crew or passengers were; the thought of them twisting his guts. His gaze shifted back to the bottle in his grip.

Mark A. Lopez

---

"Velia Larci," she replied, "Communications," she said, leaving out any other pertinent details and making her seem like an office worker, "I also don't dp pep talks. I drink things."

She took a larger swig of her whiskey, taking the bottle back off the pilot and topping her glass up before handing it back to him.

"What do I think?" she asked before answering her own question, somewhat facetiously, "I think that I was kinda both looking forward to and dreading the 'Crybaby Nebula' comeback tour but I rather suspect they're making their way through insectoid intestines at this point. Which, incidentally would be a great name for a band: 'Insectoid Intestines'."

She paused, then grinned, "Relax buddy. We're in space. Unless the Metacer can jump into orbit now, we're quite safe."

Mark let his eyes rest on Velia a moment, something about the way she carried herself, half-grin and all, struck a nerve that hadn’t twitched in a while. He gave her a short nod then said plainly, “Mark.”

He didn’t press the moment. Not the time. Maybe not the place. Still, it felt good to say his name like it meant something again.

He leaned forward, glancing toward the door and the corridor beyond. The sounds of the station weren’t distant. People shouting. Something smashing. Another voice screaming a name that never got answered.

“I wouldn’t count on the Metacer being our only problem. People’re already cracking. Food’s limited, water’s rationed, the vents are pushing hot air, and someone’s already got a shiv in their back down in sector three.”

Mark turned the tequila bottle in his hand once, then set it back down.

“I say we take our shot before this place turns into a coffin. Ship’s our best chance. Maybe our only one.”

The doors opened again and the blue-glint of a hydration suit caught his eye. He turned just as the aquatic alien stepped into the bar and approached the group. Mark wasn’t used to seeing one of her kind up close, but the suit said more than the species ever could.

Fihlyn Numosath

---

The Drink was well-lit with its neon sign, and it seemed to have become a refuge for those seeking respite from the unfurling apocalypse outside. As Fihlyn stepped inside, her hydration helmet caught the light oddly, a shimmer playing over her scaled skin. Her stomach growled as she picked up on the smell of food from the kitchen, and her eyes rested for a moment on some of the liquor sitting behind the bar. Now wasn’t the time, not when there was a chance that they’d have to leave at a moment’s notice.

As she glanced around, Fihlyn’s eyes lit up as she recognized one of the Edenites sitting by the bar. The dark-haired dhasath had been listed as one of the bridge crew - one of the faces that Fihlyn had taken the time to memorize before being properly introduced. She’d found the Edenites usually appreciated the effort, especially when it came to figuring out the pronunciation of their names.

Walking over to Velia, Fihlyn’s excited smile was easily seen through her helmet.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

Fihlyn’s stomach growled again, louder this time. She glanced down at the CSF card sitting in front of Velia.

“Although, perhaps there is still time for a snack?”

Crew. CSF. Pilot.

He exchanged a look with Velia, then sat a little straighter as the fish-woman—Flynn, apparently—made herself known.

“Well,” he said, a bit of grit cracking through, “looks like we just got another ticket off this rock.”

Ginny gave Ren a quick look up and down with a furrowed brow, station 6 meant nothing to her, but the way the Kiellar spoke implied things she would leave unquestioned for the time being. Despite this, she'd regard Velia with a growing grin "Well, think we've got a pilot now." her eyes flitting to John with as much interest as Velia. When the fish-woman arrived and identified the CSF-certified pilot affirmatively in front of everyone, the Texarkanan would scoff in amusement, clearly laying low was going to work out in her favor anyways. She'd nod in affirmation, despite not being the officer Fihlyn was looking for.

"I've got enough technical chops to do whatever wrench monkey work they'd need in machine spaces." she'd offer casually. "Hydroponics, Engineering, co-pilot." she'd nod down the line to the growing throng of eager would-be crew. "Sounds to me, pep talks aside, we got the right people in the right place with the right ship." she downs the remainder of her glass with gusto, confidence on her lips and courage burning down her throat. "I say we load up that ship with everything not nailed down and try to find solid ground before this station toasts us all alive." She holds up her empty glass in a toast before resting it back on the bar

The redhead, Texarkanan, no doubt about it, added her voice to the mix. Confident. Direct. No posturing, just intent. Mark raised the bottle slightly in her direction.

“That’s what I needed to hear.”

He knocked back another drink, set the glass down with a clink, then stood, retrieving his rifle from where it rested against the bar.

“Shall we move then?”

Iorosinn of Vendarrdech

---

The recent rising temperature aboard Station Six has driven Iorosinn to seek a drink while waiting for the boarding call for ESS 3822-01. Walking through the relatively empty station halls, she's lugging her Heavy Repeating Blaster by its sling. Staring down the corridor that ends with the docking tube, a sign hanging from one of the doors calls to her, "The Drink." Entering the bar, she orders a root beer and a bar food-grade burger before taking a seat at a booth, laying the repeating blaster on a bench. Looking about, she notices a fellow EDF trooper.

“That’s what I needed to hear.”

He knocked back another drink, set the glass down with a clink, then stood, retrieving his rifle from where it rested against the bar.

“Shall we move then?”

"Hey Lopez, I'm not sure what you're planning, but if it gets us out of this heat, I'm in." She calls out to him from the table.