The Dalus

Zorya didn't accompany the crew on every mission. It was just as well, since the med bay was bound to get a little busy when the crew returned. Sterilizing tools and preparing the operating table and cots for the inevitable bullet hole or gaping wound occupied her time. Even stitching would come in handy where bonding agents and cauterizing could be grossly disproportionate to the actual injury. Energy weapons were always much easier to clean up after, but she could never get past the smell of charred flesh. Something about it made her want to crinkle her nose every time. Still, there was a meditative quality to readying syringes and sifting through vials, or taking stock of her private reserve- licenses came in handy when acquiring stock that was otherwise unobtainable- a certain knowing that put her in just the state of mind she needed to make a seamless transition to "on-call medic." Whoever said bone-setting didn't take the same delicate touch as scoping and dropping a target on a windblown tundra at twenty-two hundred meters in near-darkness had clearly never needed to sedate a full grown soldier just to re-break his proximal phalanges... without waking his comrades and half the enemy encampment two clicks off.

And then, there were dull days. Sitting around, waiting for something to happen, no one to kill, no screaming patients bleeding out, not even the unconscious captive occasionally brought in for "questioning." Today, however, tension hung like an invisible dead weight in the air. Something was going down out there, and rather than tick off the minutes pacing the corridor outside medical, the Nerebusian turned her attention to the computer, leaning on the metal desktop with one hands, her elbow bending slightly with an almost inaudible mechanical whirr. What has the captain gotten us into this time? Thumbing past the dozen or so unread messages on the terminal, she located her latest patient files and busied herself skimming notes on previous sessions, trying to get a sense of where the crew was at.

Name: Reinhardt, L: Temperamental, prone to "mild" delusions of grandeur, does not take always "life" seriously...

Session Logs
Patient Hawk, S: One of the Delta Xi figurines disappeared from the shelf inside the office again...

Miscellaneous Notes: Ask Zultak about the effects of cold climates on hemocyanin-rich blood...
Remind Naomi my private reserves are presently limited , and that alcohol can only go unnoticed on the open market so long before suppliers begin to wonder why a doctor continuously prescribes "Mikian Rum" as an "oral debriding agent..."

"Hmm. Known to cause mild hallucinations..." Naomi focused on the side-effects of the Cope Whiskey, a brand native to Canon. "Well, if that's the case, maybe I shouldn't of drunk the whole bottle." Shrugging and tossing the bottle behind her carelessly, she attempted to focus on the ships controls. "Why do all the buttons look like Zultak's head? Oh... this is bad." She tried to stand up, but immediately fell back down into her seat. "Come on, girl. One more time." Naomi stood up again, this time managing to not fall back down. "Well, alright. Now, why did I want to get up?" The sight of a bright red flash shone through the command-deck's window. "Pretty light... I get the feeling its supposed to mean something. Whatever, I'll figure it out eventually. Now, back to standing." She turned back, trying to take a step forward without breaking her leg. Yes, this is the one the crew trusted with space navigation, so you can see why they aren't in the green right now.

A few minutes past and Naomi found herself lying down on the floor, curled up like a cat after a nap. The effects of the whiskey were starting to wear off and she finally remembered what the bright light meant. "Oh, yeah... crap." She stood up, cracking her neck and stretching. She sat down int he flgiht chair and pressed the intercom button. "Zorya, the usual has happened, so expect everyone back within the next few minutes. Also, remind me to collect on the bet I had with Luke where he said nothing would go wrong this time. I;m still seeing tiny little green alien heads from that whiskey, so it might slip my mind to get the credits." She released the button and pressed the one directly above her, dropping the back hatch to the ship. "I have to make sure I don't do this to Zultak when he returns... pressing the forehead of a giant insect cannot go well."

Session Logs

Fletcher, M: Aside from my professional opinion that the inventor ought to have entered a career more befitting his skill-set, from a strictly observational standpoint outside of the office, Fletcher is the self-proclaimed, though atypical stereotype, "brilliant, but lazy." Yet, his carefree attitude and effortlessness with which he carries out his duties, coupled with his extensive knowledge of advanced weaponry and understanding of Nerebusian technology leaves me hard pressed to label him as anything but "brilliantly lazy."

Reinhardt, A: The Captain's younger sister has proven to be somewhat of an enigma in and of itself. She appears to hide behind outward ranges of emotion from joviality to dry humor. May be covering up a deeper-rooted insecurity. While she has not yet sat down for a session with me, I attempt friendly, if idle, conversation with her during meals, seeking a chance to make even a slight breakthrough in earning her trust in me as a professional.

On a side note, bearing the weight of the role as the crew's primary long-range expert, I suppose a concealed vantage point allows for a sufficient defense, but doesn't leave much by way of interacting with the team on a more personal level, save the few moments spent dressing the occasional wounds while on the battlefield...

Zorya had closed out her log files and was just about to check her unread messages when the intercom next to her desk lit up and she heard Naomi's voice over the speaker.

"Zorya, the usual has happened, so expect everyone back within the next few minutes. Also, remind me to collect on the bet I had with Luke where he said nothing would go wrong this time. I'm still seeing tiny little green alien heads from that whiskey, so it might slip my mind to get the credits."

The moment she had been waiting for, even almost expected. Perhaps she should have accompanied the crew, but Nerebusians who ventured beyond Delta Xi tended to attraction a lot of attention, and in such tight quarters, she realized, she would have run the risk of severely compromising the mission. Not that it would have made too much of a difference.

She depressed the intercom button once, and spoke quickly, already making her way out of her office into the exam room again. "I'm on it. By the way, I left two liquid stim-packs under your left armrest. I thought you could use the boost."

"Naomi, fly this bitch outta here and don't forget the stealth drive! Zorya!... uh, would you be so kind as to tend to the injured?"

Zorya smiled, shaking her head at the Captain's sudden drop in volume at the end of his announcement. And they told me I wouldn't live past nineteen. Here I am, light years from home, a stranger among allies, and Reinhardt is trying not to step on my toes. She grabbed a thin blanket for the bare metal cot that had to be less-than-comfortable for her human comrades.

Isn't that what humans think of sleeping on this? She had no idea, since people on Nerebus always slept in stasis chambers, not unlike the ones aboard most star ships, the exception being channels that continuously fed water into the chambers to keep their delicate skin irrigated. The addition to the sleeper in her quarters aboard the Dalus had been no easy feat, but with the inventor's expertise and her knowledge, they had been able to modify access to the ship's water supply and set up a crude monitoring system. Since the medical bay had to be kept at a constant, sterile temperature of 22.22 Celsius, a blanket seemed as suitable an accommodation as any. Zorya had already spread the blanket over the cot and grabbed her handheld off the adjacent table when Saphire entered the room.

To Saphire's surprise, the Nerebusian said nothing. Expressionless, she took one look at the smaller woman and pointed the scanner at her head, depressed a button and waved the terminal vertically over her form. The scanner emitted a high-pitch frequency, too high for the average human ear to detect, and indicated its scan completion with a muted beep.

Zorya eyed the woman's various nicks and scrapes, and scorches on her clothing. "Well, your vitals are normal, though your heart rate is elevated. Aside from shock, minor contusions and a few abrasions, you're going to be alright." She paused to remove a fine-tipped syringe from the table, along with a tiny vial, and drew out a small dose of transparent pink liquid. She expelled the air from the needle while she waited for the woman to bare her arm. "I'm giving you a mild anti-inflammatory and an antihistamine. Make sure you rinse well tonight, in addition to standard decontamination procedure, to ensure removal of microscopic debris...

"I won't ask how the mission went," she continued, with a note of concern as she gave the injection, finally lifting her gaze to meet Saphire's. "Your look speaks for itself, and I'm certain to hear the details sooner or later. After the others have settled, I can spare some time outside my office later, if you wish to talk."

Once the doors had been closed, the duo engaged the safety catches on their weapons and leaned against the wall, relieved to be off the planet. The rest of the pirate forces were already scrambling to their ships, but how many had stealth drives like the Dalus?

Once Saphire had adjourned to the medical bay, Monty and Zultak decided to do the same, taking their loot with them. Only Zultak stopped to say something to Luke first: "Before we make our next assault, make good use of your time and consider exactly how many lives you are willing to risk for your future victories." With nothing more to say, the Ixian followed Monty down the corridor. Because of their progress being considerably slower than normal thanks to a combination of fatigue and the weight of the sacks, there was ample time to hold a hushed conversation in relative privacy before reaching their destination.

"I know it wasn't exactly the right moment to ask you this back down there, but... what's this Code of Honour you were on about when you killed Nethle?"
"First, by killing that traitor I may have spared him a slow and painful death by torture. If anything, I did him a favour. And second, the Code of Honour is an ancient set of rules that the Ixian warrior caste has followed for generations. It is similar to that thing you humans call 'chivalry', I suppose."
"Okay, but Neth wasn't that much of a warrior, as I recall. Wasn't he one of the technicians?"
"That is correct, but he still should have respected the Code. I blame the influence of the spacefaring cultures for inflicting this upon our civilisation."
"But why? Isn't it a good thing to have a little cross-cultural influence here and there?"
"In most circumstances, yes. But it seems that, as a race, we are being dragged into this world of empires that span the stars with hardly any choice but to adapt quickly. In doing so, we lose touch with our own culture. And now that I have seen it happen with my own eyes, I know that action must be taken to preserve our ways."

If Zultak had more to say, then there wasn't any time; they had finally reached the medical bay. Monty helped the Ixian take off the body armour so Zorya could properly examine that wound in his side. Afterwards, the technician pushed their bags of loot and started taking off his own armour, sitting down on the bags in case Saphire started getting any ideas. Zultak just sat down on a free bench and waited for the ship's medic to come over to him. He must've looked like one hell of a sight to the others, his emerald green exoskeleton drenched in the blood of so many foes he had slaughtered during the retreat to the Dalus.

"Zultak, I believe humans have a saying," the Nerebusian began upon seeing his bloodied form. Passing her scanner over him, she let her gaze come to rest on the wound in his side, the only part of Monty's friend, that was not drenched in crimson vitae. "Regarding a metaphorical trip to the afterlife, you appear as if you have made, if the terminology is correct, 'a Helför'?"

She recalled an allegedly evil place in human mythology ruled by a female deity. The word 'Helför' literally translated to 'Hel Journey.' Several human factions, she had learned from her cultural course studies, believed in the location, and some even casually referenced a phrase akin to 'going there and back'. It seemed appropriate somehow.

After doing what she could to sterilize the affected area on the Ixian's exoskeleton upon checking that it was free of any foreign objects, she used a low-level ultraviolet wand to effectively staunch bleeding and cauterize the wound. While dressing the wound, she instructed him on proper care. He knew the routine, but even if this was a pirate ship and not the Nerebusian Navy, she felt it her responsibility to ensure her charges were always reminded of the importance of cleanliness. The majority of injury-related deaths came, not from the initial wound, but severe infection by improper care.

"Keep it clean, elevated as much as possible, and try to sleep on your other side, if you can. If you see any changes aside from those associated with normal healing, come back to see me."

Placing both hands on her hips, she briefly turned her attention to Monty, who appeared to be relatively intact, despite his partner's grisly appearance, and gave him a stern look. "You, Sir, are a month late for your physical. I expect you back in my office before the week is out."

With that, she made her way around Saphire's cot to Anna, and the way she winced told Zorya her leg wasn't the only thing bothering her. With some degree of apathy, she leaned over, scanner in her left hand, and met the girl's eyes. Sweat, semi-rapid heart rate, that almost glazed-over look in her eyes... all signs of fear, distress that went beyond the shock of what events may have transpired during their mission. Does the Captain even pay attention to her? She shook her head, exhaling softly. Part of her wanted to smack him upside the head and demand to know what stick might be shoved up a certain orifice, but she was restricted to patient confidentiality, thus, maintaining her calm, almost tranquil composure, she kept her back to the others as she removed the cloth covering the girl's lower leg. Swelling around the area was a sure indication of a break, but how bad was it?

Taking a pair of surgical scissors from the table, she wasted no time slicing through the fabric of Anna's stocking, and cast a glance over over the raised scar tissue dotting and spanning the length of her leg. Old injuries, maybe from other battles, but no, the welts were congruent with burn marks the width of a small, cylindrical object. A cigarette. The muscles in Zorya's face tensed only slightly before she shook her head and forced herself to focus, but as she pinpointed the location of the apparent break, she could not shake her increasing anger. Reinhardt, if you did this, I swear....

Banishing the thought of things she would otherwise consider doing to the Captain, she located the break near the base of Anna's ankle and sighed at the scanner results. Without full amenities and access to the right equipment, the break, would at bare minimum, take weeks to heal. Zorya set her scanner down on the cot, and gently tucked a small pillow underneath the broken ankle. She smiled weakly at Anna and gingerly took her foot in both hands, an attempt at soothing the girl as best she could, in spite of the cold she would feel of the titanium alloy and thin, mesh padding of her synthetic fingers.

"Take a deep breath, Anna. Relax, and try to hold still. This is going to hurt..."

Zultak stood still as Zorya cleaned the blood off him and bandaged his wound. It was a much better job compared to that hasty patch-up made back at the now ruined Treasury, and even Monty would agree to that. The Ixian listened to the medic's comment about going through hell, and even had a quip ready in response. "If that is indeed the case, then I am sure the denizens of the afterlife would be quite used to my visits by now." After acknowledging the medical advice given to him, Zultak retrieved the two bags from Monty, and had the bolter strapped across his back. It was safe to say that the loot had retired from its brief career of being the galaxy's most expensive (and probably uncomfortable) pair of beanbags. He exited to the room and made his way to the lab which also acted as the duo's quarters, where he would stash the loot somewhere, and maybe even have a quick shower and pick out a fresh tunic for himself.

Monty, now standing up, groaned loudly when the Nerebusian reminded him about that little appointment that was overdue. It wasn't his fault that various members of the crew kept him busy with requests to improve their gear, including Zorya herself once or twice. "Fine, fine. How about when you've done fixing up the others? Might as well get it over with, right?" Hardly any time passed before Saphire asked him about making some fireproof clothing for her. Didn't take a genius to work out how she'd got those burn marks, anyway. "If I had the proper equipment and enough time, I could try working on that. But with what we currently have, I'm afraid the best I can come up with involves mostly asbestos, and I doubt we even have that. Sorry." Any potential apologies were cut off when the thief showed him a map that she had found. Monty inspected it with a careful eye, even checking both sides just in case. Sadly, he couldn't really divulge any secrets from it, and so he handed it back. "Keep it somewhere safe," he told her. "Maybe you could send it to an archaeology department and rake in a good bounty for it?"

With nothing left to do except wait for Zorya, the inventor sat down on the nearest bench available. He caught a good glimpse of the burn marks on Anna's leg, but didn't think much of it at the time. He had his own problems to worry about, as well as those of his best friend. It wouldn't do any good to simply pile on more.

Anna was on the verge of hyperventilating, and there was no way to calm her without sedating her first, and that, Zorya knew, was out of the question. Feeling the girl's calf tense, Zorya suddenly tightened her grip. One hand squeezed the instep of her foot, the other clamped securely around her Achille's so tightly Anna could not even wriggle in the cyborg's vice-like grip. Just then, she might have seemed less a healer than a heartless monster that could easily pulverize her foot in an instant, but the Nerebusian only began to slowly, delicately prod the injured foot, her fingers maneuvering the area without ever releasing her hold.

Remembering the first time she reset a little boy's dislocated shoulder during her years at the university, she recalled the sweat-inducing terror she'd felt at the possibility of severely injuring a child. Remain calm. Zorya manipulated the ankle, oblivious to the grinding of bone and the sound of Anna's whimpers and labored breathing. Wait for that infinitesimal pause just before she breathes in again... She rotated the fractured joint until she met the slightest resistance... It's no different than lining up your rifle. Wait for the wind to die, adjust your crosshair, count to three.

One, two-

Anna exhaled. Just for a split second, but it was all the doctor needed.

Crrrack!

Before Anna could gasp at the sudden jolt of pain, a needle shot out from Zorya's right index finger and jabbed her square in the vein near her ankle. The doctor lowered the girl's foot to the pillow, and as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone, steadily replaced by the overwhelming euphoria of a morphine-induced stupor.

After preparing a splint and modestly covering the younger Reinhardt with a spare blanket from the only cot that had not been used, she finally turned to Monty, who sat, waiting patiently for her to give him her undivided attention. Normally, she would have sent him away to come back for his routine checkup another time, but given the situation, she decided it would be best to get things over with. The inventor didn't even have to move. Lucky him.

It was a pretty standard exam- Zorya tested his reflexes, checked his ears, nose, throat and lungs. Then, she brought up a scan of his vitals, recording statistics in the handheld terminal, barely acknowledging each with a nod or a 'tsk' and shake of her head.

"Well, your blood pressure has increased twelve points since your last visit. I won't even ask about your cholesterol this time. Other than lecturing you to lay off the excess workload and fried foods, since I know you are unable and reluctant to do either, congratulations, you're free to go, Mr. Fletcher, that is, unless there is anything else with which I may be of assistance? If so, speak now, as I have a feeling-" she paused to glance back at Anna, "The latter part of my evening will be spent here in the ward."

The results of the examination were less than desirable, to say the least. But Zorya did have a point in that Monty really should take a break from trying to carry out every request that came his way. Well, at least the Nerebusian had offered to help him with anything else at the moment, and it would have been a bit on the cruel side to leave her here with nobody to talk to other than Anna, who was currently under the effects of morphine, and likely not the best person to chat with right now. Monty patted the space on the bench next to him; if they were going to talk, then it would be as equals and shipmates.

"What're you gonna do, Zorya? When this job's done, I mean," Monty asked after a few moments of silence on his part. "We can't just keep following Reinhardt around for the rest of our days until we get killed. Once the news about the assault dies down, me and Zultak just might leave and start our own little claim to fame. Hell, we'd even let you tag along if you're up for it."


Back in the lab, Zultak was finishing an email on Monty's computer. The Ixian would have preferred to write it by hand in his native language, but when you're an indeterminable number of light years away from your home planet, some forms of communication would be better than others. Besides, it wasn't as if Beren didn't have any computer technology to speak of. He sent the message and started to prepare his equipment for the battle ahead, starting with cleaning the blood off his new armour.

Zorya canted her head, the glossy black nictitating membranes of her eyes fluttering across her eyelids in a display of curiosity such as only a Nerebusian could. She glanced down at the bench and back at Monty, one brow quirked. Having spent a good portion of early adulthood at the Academies, she was unaccustomed to interacting too closely with her peers. There was always something: a target to drop, an AWOL patient in the psych-ward of a hospital... Someone always needed something from her, and she always obliged, but of socializing, she made little time for let alone found herself with the time to do so. Still, what harm could there be in simply sitting down for a spell? She glanced back at Anna before making the conscious decision to seat herself next to the inventor.

"To be honest," she began, shifting a little awkwardly attempt to maintain a somewhat formal distance despite their proximity, crinkling mesh and scraping metal against metal as she folded her hands in her lap and crossed one leg over the other. "I haven't given it much thought. You'd be surprised to know there isn't much call for the study of genetics on my home world. The demand for prosthetic limbs and synthetic technology keeps our scientists quite busy... occupational hazards, you know.

"But, you're right. I don't expect to stay aboard the Dalus forever. Fortunately, unlike most graduates from our Naval Academy," she hesitated a moment, deciding whether or not to share information of a more personal nature, "I'm not required to continue active military duty after spending this year abroad. In theory, I could take my research anywhere."

Monty couldn't help but notice the way Zorya shifted about in her seat. Was she actually nervous about an informal chat? "C'mon, it'll be great! The three of us, working to make the galaxy a damn sight better than it is today. How about it, huh? Huh?" While speaking, the inventor had moved closer to the Nerebusian and was now insistently elbowing her in the ribs as if it would influence her decision. Predictably, this resulted in Monty nursing a lightly bruised elbow shortly after.

"But seriously," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "When you think about it, there's a whole lotta bad stuff going on out there. I mean, there's the oppression of the empires, and that... that thing about your people. You know the one I'm talking about." Monty paused, hoping that the medic wouldn't take offence about what he'd said, before pressing on to other issues. "There's also the Ixians, Zorya. Think about it: a budding civilisation in this kind of political climate? It's probably gonna be a tough time for 'em, that's for sure. Still, I wonder how much they've done since we left Beren. A lot can happen in seven years..."

He might have gotten further, but he was interrupted by a ship-wide intercom transmission. "A new ship-mate, huh? Might as well welcome 'em aboard. You coming?"


Zultak also heard the news, and quickly donned his clean armour before systematically scouring the ship in search of the new arrival. His search eventually lead him to the cargo bay, where the Ixian found them. True, he was expecting something a little, well, better than a small human female, but there was still hope. He could always teach her how to fight, with honour and dignity; Zul had sometimes dreamed of taking on an apprentice one day, but had never really thought it would be a human, of all things. He was suddenly quite aware of the fact that his entrance had been noticed by everyone else in the cargo bay, and now was probably the best time to say something.

"The new recruit, I see? She does not look like much, but I believe the upcoming battle would most likely be enough to test her mettle."

The layer of mesh barely yielded to his elbow, no more so than she reacted to his short diatribe. Zorya was long since accustomed to his straight-forwardness, and seldom took offense to anything he did or said; she glanced down at the offended area, and then gave Monty the slightest of smirks, as if implying it 'served him right'. She might have shaken her head, but, always the reserved one of the crew, she just sat up and uncrossed her legs, using both hands to push up from the bench.

"Alot can happen in seven years," she agreed, and turned, offering her hand to help him up. "I'll consider it."

There was a glint in her eyes that might have passed as a trick of the stark med-bay lighting if not for her visible effort to relax her mouth. "I'd love to join you, Mister Fletcher but, you know I never leave a patient unattended. Just send her in to me for the 'usual', will you?"

The 'usual', entailing what some of the crew jokingly referred to as a 'probe and a scrub down', only consisted of decontamination and a physical exam before allowing a new crew-member full run of the ship.


Once she was alone with Anna, she made her way to the cot and checked to see if her charge was even conscious. The immediate-release morphine she'd injected may or may not have been enough to knock her out, depending on her tolerance, but at least, Zorya assured herself, her patient wouldn't be in any pain for at least a good six hours.

Still, waving her left hand above the girl's face, she did not expect any coherent response when she whispered, "Anna, are you still awake?"

Zultak was mildly impressed that the girl hadn't yet freaked out from seeing an Ixian for what was almost certainly the first time. Most humans seemed to have this odd mindset that insectoids were rather abhorrent, for some reason. "I will show you to your quarters. This way," he said, beckoning for her to follow. As the two of them walked down the corridors, Zultak felt the need to break the awkward silence with a bit of small talk. Okay, he was better at listening to other people do the talking, but it didn't seem like she was gonna say something first.

"We can free up some space in the room next to the lab after our imminent excursion," he began. "Although I doubt Monty would be too happy about it; that room's quite good for storing spare parts with which to repair this vessel. I suppose we could just set you up with a hammock and leave it at that until further notice. Thoughts?" Zultak listened to her answer, occasionally nodding where he thought it was appropriate. But not too long later, they came across a certain technician who had been looking for them.

"Hey Zul, Zorya told me that we need to bring our new guest over to the medical bay. Don't worry, girl, it's just an exam to make sure you're not carrying anything contagious aboard the ship..." Monty's voice trailed off when he noticed the dog. For a moment, he looked like he was about to ask why the girl had brought it with her, but that was irrelevant. What was relevant to him at the moment was speculation on Zorya's reaction once she found out that there was an animal that had not been quarantined on board. With a grin that was now slowly spreading across his face, Monty lead the way to the medical bay, nodding to the Nerebusian once the trio entered.

"Oh, good, you've returned. Miss Reinhardt is still..." Zorya whirled around, sharp in her left hand, fingers curling around the syringe. Her eyes widened in a look of surprise that quickly turned horror as she spotted the stowaways.

"Mister Fletcher! What's the meaning of this? How did they get in here?" She placed her other hand on her right hip and wagged the needle threateningly in the air. "This is completely against military health regulations. Who let them on board?"

The Nerebusian marched across the room toward the girl and the furry quadruped, the metallic clanking of her feet on the floor resonating inside the large room.

"You, decontamination chamber, now. No, not you." She stuck one leg out, barring the dog's path. The animal bumped into her thigh and shook his head, looking bewildered. "Yes, you," she said, ushering the new girl toward a small door near the front of the room that opened when she approached.

"Get in, and don't come out until you're clean," Zorya demanded, gesturing toward the entrance with the flat end of the syringe.

"As for you," she pointed at the dog with the sharp, narrowing her eyes at Monty before glancing back to the dog, who sat on his haunches and cocked his head at her quizzically. "You know pets aren't allowed in here. I'm sorry, but the madman is going to have to stay outside."

Even though it was pretty funny to witness Zorya's reaction, it wasn't so funny for Monty when it was being directed at himself. "They let themselves on board! They're stowaways, duh!" he retorted. The technician and his Ixian friend then watched as the medic ordered the new girl into the decontamination chamber with the kind of mild interest that stems from having nothing better to do at the time. Of course, it didn't take long before the slight boredom was shattered. Never a dull moment on the Dalus, am I right?

"You know pets aren't allowed in here. I'm sorry, but the madman is going to have to stay outside."

The reactions of Monty and Zultak were almost instantaneous, yet complete opposites. The latter was laughing so hard that he had to sit down, and the former was almost at a loss for words. "Well played, Zorya. Well played indeed," Monty said before leaving the room. Not long afterwards, Zultak had stopped laughing and managed to calm himself down. The Ixian couldn't help but wonder why the girl hitched a ride on the ship in the first place. Naturally, questioning her at this time would be fruitless, although speculation suggested that she was probably quite desperate to be offworld. But that led to even more questions, most notably: Why?

This train of thought was derailed when Monty came back with his and Zultak's weapons, just as the decontamination process was finishing. "We'll be on the planet soon enough, guys. Zul, take this bolter of yours before I drop it on my toes by accident." The Ixian relieved the technician of the burden, and saw that Monty had even decided to take his own bolt pistol in addition to the Hydra he normally carried. Well, since the crew was about to make a suicidal assault on the single richest planet in the galaxy, who could blame him for bringing the armament he had promised not to use unless absolutely necessary?

When Monty and Zultak had been brought into the cargo bay for the briefing, they were... less than fully convinced that the plan would go off without a hitch like their Captain suggested. Admittedly, the walls of the vault were pretty damn tricky to break through, especially without damaging the valuable yet fragile treasures within. But even with Luke's brilliant plan, there was also his previous track record to consider, especially with what happened not twenty-four standard hours ago; this one job would determine the crew's reputation as either the greatest space pirates who ever lived, or the unluckiest bunch of scoundrels who were under the command of the new General Custer.

With some reluctance, Monty agreed to this plan, but Zultak glared at Reinhardt and said "If you give us the same degree of failure as last time, I am certain it will be your last." After the duo had a hushed conversation outside the room, the Ixian agreed to the plan, putting his faith in his friend.

Upon ensuring her charges were properly taken care of, and entering the stowaway's patient information into her encrypted log, Zorya made her way to the cargo hold, her footfalls quick and deliberate.

Hands folded behind her back, she listened to Reinhardt, and indirectly observed the rest of the crew's responses before answering succinctly, "You know the gamble you took allowing me to join your crew, Captain, and the risk in every mission. Skip the details once we're there; just tell me where I'm needed, and whom to annihilate."

She did not need to reiterate that if the Controllers, a large synthetic-extremist faction with several political and financial ties outside of Nerebus, got wind of a Navy officer operating this far outside Nerebusian Space, they'd assume the Admiral was secretly sending troops out preemptively to attack rebels, and in turn, would likely launch an all-out civil war on outlying colonies.

"If anyone needs else needs me," she added, glancing around before turning to exit the hold, "I'll be in the armory."

After the briefing, Monty and Zultak decided to follow Zorya down to the armoury. Although they already had their weapons, the duo needed to fetch some spare ammunition; looting clips from dead guards is a lot trickier than you might think.

While the inventor tried brainstorming a few potential plans with which to help make the operation a little easier, Zultak carefully searched the room for as many bolter magazines as he could carry. Since the Ixian couldn't find much ammo for the weapon, there was quite a bit of time left over to just lean against the wall and watch the others prepare themselves. Naturally, this got boring within a few moments, so he started wandering the corridors of the Dalus until he was called for.

Monty momentarily looked away from the small wall of weapons he was admiring. Was Zul wandering off to think things over? Couldn't really blame him, considering what was about to go down. And what was Zorya thinking, anyway? The doctor never really seemed to get nervous, even when stakes went high as a kite. Wait, had she noticed that he was looking at her for what could probably be called a bit longer than necessary? Monty swiftly directed his full attention back to the wall, looking for something suitably distracting. Ooh, a shotgun! That thing looked pretty heavy, but at least it looked brilliant as part of the scenery, and in the circumstances, that was all that mattered...

Zorya heard Zultak's footfalls as he left the armory, and chalked it up as nothing more than another soldier preparing for battle in his own way. People came and went all the time in her life. Such was the way of the healer, upholding a vow to tend the injured, no matter their gender, credit, creed, or color. The same held true for her skill on the battlefield, although one could say she was then "saving" lives at the expenditure of others. In the time she had served on the Dalus, she knew the crew inside out, perhaps better than she had ever known even her closest squad mates while serving in the Navy. Nevertheless, maintaining what she considered a proper patient-doctor relationship with her fellow comrades, she seldom gave much thought to anything or anyone outside her duties. When she did, she generally kept the thoughts to herself.

Still, there were certain nuances and varying subtext in human communication that did not exactly translate across species due to the subtle nature of the Nerebusian language which consisted of many intonations, clicks of the tongue or flexing of the vocal chords which could be used to pronounce the same term in several ways, each a different meaning alone. Humans, however, had a strange, limited form of speaking that equated to, "Hear what I mean, not what I say," so when she felt eyes on her, albeit briefly, she resisted the urge to startle the inventor by outwardly noticing his presence. Instead, she continued polishing her rifle parts as she assembled them, occasionally check down the sights or length of each piece, ensuring their proper care and condition for the upcoming fight.

It was exceedingly difficult for anything to go unnoticed by a person whose senses, naturally acute and honed to near-perfection within range, were cybernetikally enhanced to pick up nearly every detail. Detecting the slightest change in his breath and rustle of fabric, Zorya looked up just in time to see Monty divert his attention to a shotgun on one of the displays. Though she said nothing at first, her mind racked through numerous possibilities as to why he might have taken three seconds longer to look away, and none of them seemed to add up in a way that made sense to the doctor.

"Monty," she asked, by way of his first name, which she rarely used, holding up the front portion of the sniper. "Will you have a look at this rifle? I believe there is something trapped in the barrel."

Monty froze when Zorya called his name. His first name, no less. The Nerebusian wanted him to check on her sniper rifle, even though she was perfectly capable of doing so herself. To say that this was out of the ordinary was an understatement, and the inventor's mind was running rampant with theories as to why this was the case.

"This is a test, isn't it?" he began. "This is another one of your subtle psychoanalysis things, right? Right?" Looking at Zorya's reaction, this clearly wasn't it, so he moved down the list to number two.

"Maybe this is a mind game? Are you just toying with me for... fun? I... thought you'd be a little above that, to be honest..." Monty's voice trailed off as he realised that this also wasn't the right answer. Determined to figure this out, Monty stroked his chin a little while he desperately tried to think of something, eventually coming to, in hindsight, a rather foolish conclusion.

"Wait a second, don't tell me... Is this some kind of Nerebusian courtship thing? I'm not exactly refusing, but..." The inventor stopped right there when another thought crossed his mind. A thought that began with a 'What if...'

"You just wanted me to take a look at the gun, didn't you?" he finally asked. With the answer confirmed, Monty went to work on the weapon in silence. It didn't even take that long. Afterwards, he leaned back against a free space on the wall, putting some thought into what to say next. "Why ask me to take a look at that thing, anyway? Was it really a test?" he joked.

Zorya just shook her head, a tiny smirk forming at the corners of her mouth, her raised eyebrow accentuating the faint ridges in her forehead as the inventor finally reached his own conclusion with no input from her. She took back the rifle and leaned it against the worktable.

"Maybe. Then again, perhaps I merely wished to gauge your reaction," she answered simply, though 'to see you squirm', might have been a more befitting response. "Courtship thing..." she half-muttered, sniggering at the thought. "Courtship for females of our species consists of florid choreography in effort to seduce the males, and," she gestured offhandedly at her torso. "As you can see, this armor was not designed to meet the form desirable to a Nerebusian mate. I attempted the ritual only once when my mother and father tried to marry me off shortly after I reached adolescence, and it was quite awkward for those involved."

She furrowed her brows slightly at the memory, still all too recent in her mind. As with her need to establish an in-depth profile for each of her patients in order to maintain order and safety on the Dalus, she had informed the inventor of her genetic disease, should the need for replacement parts or technological upgrades arise. She had not told him the extent of the disease and its less obvious effects, however. In fact, only Zultak knew the full story, having, on one of his many walks, dropped in to her office only to overhear a rather heated conversation between her and her military supervisor, whom she touched basis with whenever a secure comm channel was available. In short, her suitor had been too afraid of injuring or killing his 'sickly' wife to consummate their relationship, and needless to say, out of convenience, they maintained the guise of a happy couple for three Nerebus years before people started wondering why they never had children.

Faced with a slow genocide, Nerebusians, almost physiologically incompatible with every other species with the exception of a few similar DNA strands in other humanoids, placed a high value on bearing viable offspring. But, by then, she had lost nearly all internal organs associated with reproduction, and their window for annulment had long passed. Eventually, their contempt for each other grew, and they could not keep up the facade. Zorya, barely considered an adult by her people's standards, ended up shouldering the blame for their failing relationship. Rather than suffer her spouse to publicly admit his shortcomings, she took the first opportunity to go abroad for a year on a covert mission, the only way to automatically terminate their legal binding on Nerebus, since spouses were never expected to return from lengthy military operations. She had never explained to the Ixian exactly what kind of mission she had undertaken, but then again, he never asked.

Zorya picked up the assembled rifle, and shook her head again, no longer entirely sure why she had called the inventor over. There was never anything in the barrel to begin with, and she knew it. How easily a PhD could turn the tables when confronted with questions they either had no answers to, or to which they decided not to reply directly.

"If one's martial prowess were the deciding factor in selecting a mate, combat would no doubt make for some interesting courting," she added with a chuckle. "Nevertheless, Mr. Flet- Monty, your own consideration of such a notion, while somewhat flattering given the circumstances, I am certain you could find something a little 'closer to home,' no?"