LSDF Akahar, Armoury
(We'll assume Kam'Kebek got what he needed, and Homeslice can describe his equipment on the shuttle or once he posts)
The three amigos of the Akahar, Al'ris, Gough and Yar'mak had all been keeping an eye out for each other. Yar'mak nodded at Bastion's suggestion to take the Hik'id plasma rifle and looked at the piece. "Oh, guess that works. I'll take it. Its all shiny and shit too!" He grabbed one from a rack and fitted himself with some magazine batteries.
Their armours were well sealed, they had an assortment of grenades amongst themselves, Gough was carrying a spare medical kit since he'd be in the middle of the group rather than at the front like Yar'mak and Al'ris. Merrill was still the expert stitcher when it came to medicine, but having some spare medicine on hand would never go astray.
"We have shitloads of these guns after that delivery, hopefully they don't spray and jam like the other guns we get," Al'ris sighed bitterly. Akahar was always last on the supply chain and first to get the worst - for science of course.
"We're ready when you are, Bastion." Gough said after he'd finished inspecting Al'ris' Tenshi armour and deemed it and her weapons to be fighting fit.
LSDF Akahar, Hangar
Vathr'dral was in the pilot's seat of the shuttle. He seemed to have settled quietly into the background events of the Akahar since the pirate attack, keeping his head down. He drummed his fingers against the metal around the buttons of his console and on the joystick. He wasn't needed for much save for the occasional bit of maintenance or inspection. At least now, there was a good opportunity to ply skills again.
"Ten minutes to shuttle launch. All personnel proceed to the shuttle immediately, please," the New Tur'listan bridge bunny's voice could be heard over the intercoms to Vathr'dral's headset and to the Armoury. The pilot started making his pre-flight checks again to see that nothing had gone wrong.
"Vectors, check. Trajectory, check. Clearance, check. Payload..." he turned his neck around to look at the empty seats behind him. More than enough room for the crew and their equipment. "On its way..."
-
LSDF Akahar, Keib's Office
It took the grey-skinned New Tur'lista a few moments of thought, brow furling and neck tilting ever so slightly at Aiesu. What Keib didn't have that Hakahn did was the professional detachment of his superior - the ability to just plan without emotion clouding judgement. Conversely, Keib cared for this damned crew and everyone on it. It was a quality neither good or bad - it had helped the ship when it was under attack from the pirates, able to rally and protect his crew.
However, he could not lead. He was emotionally compromised since he knew that there was no help for him, that the interests of others were breathing down his neck - anyone offering anything, even his own superiors had an ulterior motive beyond 'the mission'.
Checking the list, he struck the real Aiesu from the list of would be belligerents in this dogpile of a mission. Hakahn's motivations were cloudy but impossible to ignore if he wanted out and was willing to scuttle the ship and everyone on it. The LSDF Brass that hated him wanted him to die and made no illusions of wishing him ill on a wild goose chase. God knows what'd happen if the Akahar had the nerve to succeed.
Lazarus was doing it 'for science' - whatever that was supposed to be. Finally, there was Veronica - something about her domineering and slips of insight screamed ulterior and opportunistic; she couldn't possibly have known - or could she. Information is never secure if persistence is infinite or if a person was involved in keeping it.
All of their accumulated motives were just those: motives. They didn't matter to Keib. What Keib had on his mind was imagined purpose created by betrayal. The damned crew was united now, too far galvanised and beyond the brink, too heavily invested to just turn back empty handed and be summarily executed for failure. It'd be Keib's mouth fellating the cold barrel too.
"I knew that," he mouthed quietly when Aiesu spoke of his CO, returning her stare back at her. "It couldn't not be. Nobody aside from me, the Brass, and Lazarus is supposed to know what's going on here - until Hakahn told those pirates. How far back do you think he had this contingency?"
He let that idea sink in for all of a moment before continuing at low motormouth pace. "Could've been months in advance, the Mok'ro was always a pin on our board, kept near the very bottom until the mission and you came along. The Mok'ro mission is practically public domain knowledge for whoever's crazy enough to go after it. Wouldn't surprise me that it pinged your radar at Lazarus. Could perhaps be Veronica's angle for a big score with... the... underworld."
He took a breath. He hadn't allowed himself to breathe through that entire analysis, t-shirt hanging limply against his ribs before oxygen filled his lungs and his belly.
"I had Greg look at your sneakers. You didn't seem to mind me prying before," he rused quietly as he uncrossed his legs. "I knew it was someone's stains there. He overwrote his onsite records, so it had to be him. Thank you kindly for... confirmation of my worst fears." He stood up in front of Aiesu's battered form and stood for a moment, still looking directly into her eyes.
"To be frank," he was trying to speak directly to Aiesu Kalopsia - if she'd even listen now. He turned around and towards his desk, grabbing a candy and putting it in his mouth. "If it makes you feel better I will make Hakahn scream like a bitch if I find him. Won't undo shit," he acknowledged with a sigh, "but just imagine," perhaps she had voice mail.
"At the very least," a grin crossed his lips that seemed to be enabling sadism under the guise of hot and steaming with lots of screaming revenge, "one of you will enjoy the show and toy with him alive rather than dead." He tugged his glove at her with his brow obscuring his eyes and fingers flexing beneath the leather with loud creaks. "And that will put a smile on all of yours and my faces." It was likely nobody on the Akahar would mourn his passing.
"One constant in this dogpile that you've bought to my attention," he held his arms up over his desk and stretched his index fingers and thumbs out to make a frame, "is that I care a little too much about what's right in front of me while being pressured on all sides by these shadowy motives." He put the imaginary picture over the impish Construct, "It puts me in a precarious position, so - what're you going to do to me, Aiesu Kalopsia," Click. He snapped his index fingers and thumbs together. His voice as entirely gruff, not pretending to be inspiring or pomp like that speech at the ready room. "Cry about it, or make something of it?"
