Chapter 7 - Sense of Purpose

November 21, 2338

Plato Station

Sloan Decker

Sloan found himself in the bar again, trying to stop the former Captain from guzzling down everything in sight, a hopeless endeavor if there was one; the old man was already in deep. It had been happening for months, two to three nights of heavy drinking, then the rest of the week in bed from self-loathing. It was honestly pathetic; Sloan had known the man as an abrasive character with little emotion; now that he lost his ship and crew, however, there was nothing but sadness to him. Sloan had considered telling him to get over it, but every time he felt that he was going to boil over and lose it on him, he would see the vacant look in the Captain's eyes, and it would stop all of the anger instantly and instead replace itself with pity.

Milton was a mess and had been for a while now; his hair was barely washed and had grown out from its original high and tight cut to something that couldn't even be described as a style. It wasn't as long as it was during his Command of Evelyn's Vain, but it was getting there. His stubble had also grown, giving him a definitive permanent drunkard look.

"Get me another one, bartender!" Milton shouted towards the man behind the counter; he was used to it by now, considering he had seen the man almost every day. Once again, as he sent Milton another drink, he spared a pitied look in Sloan's direction, one Sloan mirrored but for Milton.

Sloan himself looked pretty much the same as Milton, however. He hadn't had much time to care for himself - he was afraid to let the man out of sight for many reasons. Namely fearful of the old man killing himself, he had discussed it multiple times when he had gotten too drunk - curiously enough when Sloan would mention it between the binging of alcohol, the old Captain would pretend he didn't hear it or act like he didn't remember. Which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility given the amount of booze that flooded the man's system nearly daily.

"Excuse me, partners, is that seat taken?" A noticeable country twang reverberated around Sloan's ears, the kind of accent one would hear on someone from Texas, not the Space Station but the genuine place on Earth; it felt forced, however.

"Be my guest."

With a loud clang, the man sits on the stool beside Sloan and gives an audible "Woo-wee! Been a while since I last wet my whistle. How about you bring me something strong, bartender, the whole bottle for me and my new friends here."

Milton, who had been ignoring the entire interaction, suddenly shoots him a look, "Keep them coming, and I just might grow to like you.

Sloan can't help but feel like he recognizes the Southerner as he flashes a sharklike grin aimed at Milton and smacks his hand against Sloans shoulder suddenly as he agrees loudly, "Hell, I might grow to like you too, . I hope we can get along well."

Milton's face drops suddenly, suspicious of the man knowing his name. The past few months had had more than a fair share of deadbeat journalists trying to smear the man to try and get a story for the week, textbook journalism; they all knew his name and always tried pushing him to tell some form of drama to them, despite him being well beyond old news by now. However, before Milton can question the person, Sloan beats him to the punch as he opens his mouth.

"How do you know his name, mister." A stern look is aimed toward the stranger, whose smile doesn't even twinge.

"I never gave you fellers my name, have I? My mother could never forgive me." He throws out a hand, "My names Wyatt Maverick of Stellar Industries fame if your familiar. Know the reason I know your names is simple partners. I've been looking for yah."

Sloan's eyes widen in surprise and recognition, of course! Wyatt Maverick himself, how could he of forgotten the face of the young entrepreneur, the same blood as the man who designed the first Slipspace engine several generations ago.

"That's a pretty hefty name to throw around, seeing as though you're all alone." Milton responded, not quite believing it as Sloan had; someone this famous wouldn't just be alone like he was; something wasn't adding up.

Wyatt looks bemused momentarily, "I ain't alone here, Captain; look behind you; those two in the white shirts over at the door, thems my guards." he gestures towards the entrance with a pointed finger.

Milton and Sloan both angle their heads away from the bar to follow Wyatt's finger and see the guards, a broad-shouldered man with short black hair and a brown-skinned woman seemingly in the middle of arguing with him; the broad-shouldered man notices the eyes on him and looks towards them before giving a half wave and then is right back looking to the woman an annoyed expression as she continues berating him.

"Don't call me Captain, . I don't have a helm anymore." Milton says to the man as he turns back to the bar to nurse the new bottle of liquor Wyatt had provided for the group.

"Well, I reckon I can change that soon if you'll lend me an ear."

Milton abruptly stops hosing the liquor down his throat with a sputter and looks his way. "What are you getting at?"

"It's simple, ," he reaches into his pocket and produces an ornate black business card that he hands to Sloan to read. "I want the both of you to find that last Colony Ship for me."

Sloan flips the card over to its top side, the back just having Wyatt's face and name on it, and on it, in bold gold lettering, reads "The Lost but Soon to Be Found Program." A picture of the three Colony Ships on what would be their final voyage through space is behind it.

"Cute name, right? Made that myself. So have I got you considering signing a contract already, or will I need to sweeten the deal?"

"Sweeten in what ways?" Milton asks, taking the card from Sloan to look over it himself before handing it back.

Wyatt's smile grows more prominent, "Well, for one, our Premium Corporation Healthcare Packages are notably better than our opposition, and I could offer you permanent access to it. I can provide you with a hand-selected crew of your choice on your, vessel for the most part. But here's the real kicker. I bought your last ship and have fronted the cost for retrofitting it with all the new parts of this Century." He leans back on the stool, casually resting his arms against the bar as he finishes.

Milton hesitantly responds, "I thought the Evelyn's Vain was going to be scuppered; how'd you save her."

"I have my channels, ; besides a certain old Admiral you might know, just might have been willing to break some rules once I told him my plans."

Milton laughs, "That ornery old bastard!" he takes a swig from the bottle before continuing, happier than he'd been in months. "Well, consider me convinced; maybe it's the liquor, maybe it's the lack of purpose in my life but , I am onboard entirely; you can discuss the wages with my Commander here." He pauses, "That is if your okay with this Decker?"

Sloan looks to the Captain, he still wasn't entirely convinced by the lack of details, but the Captain seems happy about it, and that's what matters to him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm in. We need to talk terms, though, and I would like some more details."

Wyatt laughs heartily; the grin had never left his face once, "This is excellent news, fellers, but I tell you what, let's celebrate for now; we can discuss the specifics tommorow; I'll front the bills, and please just call me Wyatt, belongs to my father god rest his soul."


November 21, 2338

Plato Station

F.O.S. Bishop Anders

Bishop's new trainee, some former Marine named Isabella Blaisdell, was a pain in his ass, amongst the other things that frustrated him over the past few months. It wasn't her fault; Blacklight had thrown this on him or, more specifically, the trainer he worked with that fated day.

Apparently, he had helped the guy out so much that the he couldn't help but shower Bishop with praises whenever he was brought up, and that had gradually gone up the chain of command, which in turn led to them using him as a lab rat for their brand test program that involved pairing new agents with more senior agents in a mentorship program. On top of that, the agency essentially sold him off to the Stellar Industries C.E.O. in the form of a long-term service contract that had put him under the employment of the man in everything but name, which, while inherently frustrating to Bishop wasn't as bad as the earlier problem, the pay was frankly outstanding more than most of the more dangerous, combat-intensive contracts he was usually assigned too. This had admittedly concerned Bishop. After all, you don't pay someone combat fees without expecting it, but nothing crazy had happened as of yet. He still didn't much care for the C.E.O., though.

Blaisdell's voice cut him out of his thoughts."Bishop, why exactly did want to meet those guys personally instead of sending a proxy or sending the invite through the mail like the rest? He knows the dangers of someone like him being out in public like this, right?"

They were still standing watch over the man watching as he grew drunker and drunker without a care in the world, with the two men he only vaguely recognized from a news article a few months back; he looked liable to pass out if he kept going; more importantly, however, was the fact that Blaisdell was for once not trying to bite his head off and asking a genuine question, fearing provoking her again he decided not to egg her on like he had been doing for most of the night.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure; as im sure you've noticed already, he's surprisingly tight-lipped for someone who is so earsplittingly annoying, and to be honest, im fairly certain the man doesn't possess an inkling of self preservation skills."

Blaisdell looks at him again, disappointment showing on her face at his lack of professionalism, "You shouldn't talk shit about him while on the clock, even if he is...loud." There it was again; she had a habit of looking at him like she was better than him, something that he ordinarily wouldn't care about, but from her had a way of pissing him off.

"Listen, Zips-"

"Stop calling me Zips, or Zippo, it pisses me off." She interrupts him.

"Everything pisses you off."

Bishop had mistakenly tried to give her a nickname to break the ice when they first met. Unfortunately, he wasn't aware of her burn scars; and she had made sure not to even accidentally show them, still not entirely comfortable with putting them on display. He thought he was being creative by using some trivia he had picked up about the creator of the Zippo lighter - George Grant Blaisdell, whose last name matched hers. She had taken it another way than he expected, and it had started them off on the wrong foot and given her an instant dislike of him.

"Look's like Wyatt's done drinking; come on, we should get going." Blaisdell suddenly changed subjects before another argument broke out.

If there was one thing to appreciate about Blaisdell, it was the fact that she could go from snipping at him over the slightest transgression to full work mode, and as much as they disliked each other, they worked well together - it was the only reason he hadn't complained about it to Blackwater.

"Yeah, looks like it. Let's get him back home."


November 22, 2338

Plato Station

Captain William Milton

His head was throbbing, not from the hangover, though that certainly played a part in his current pains; for once, the drinking hadn't been to numb the depression and had instead been in celebration. It was a strange feeling he'd not had for months at this point. Still, his head throbbed as a direct result of the numerous pages of , Contract, it was ninety percent legal drabble that only a lawyer could hope to understand, but the parts that were legible to the ordinary person were generous, a far cry from what most people expected from a Corporation. The only mind-boggling thing about the Contract was how much it insisted on secrecy, and he wasn't sure if that was a Corporate Security thing or not, having never worked for one before.

Wyatt Maverick was sitting across from him in the fancy office he had rented, his guards were nowhere to be found, and he looked much the same as Milton, leaning overhand against his forehead, dealing with a hangover.

"Excuse me, , I don't know if this is a routine pretext for these sorts of documents but why the emphasis on secrecy."

Maverick glanced up at him with his head still in his hands and adopted an expression that one would find on a coonhound unintentionally as he pulled himself up to say,

"Again, please just call me Wyatt. It is a little unorthodox regarding the emphasis on secrecy I will admit, but I feel as though it is needed; I don't need people looking into why I want to find the "Remnant of Asgard." and the best way around that is by them not even knowing about it." Milton didn't mention how the Southern accent had slipped from the young man's tongue.

It was odd to Milton just how tight-lipped Wyatt got around mentioning the Colony Ship and his reasons behind finding it, it was something Decker had mentioned last night when his guards took him away, but he was too happy to possibly be back at the helm of his ship to think too hard about the whys and instead skewed himself towards the why-not side of things. He nods, accepting the answer for what it is as he continues signing off on the paperwork.

His pen moves across another signature line with a flurry staining the document with his name, and he continues, "And that looks like the last thing i need to sign, I take it that means I can see my ship again."

Wyatt is fully leaned back in his chair now, mouth agape as he looks at the ceiling; he answers without looking, "Yeah, congratulations Captain, but I am in no state to be giving you a tour of your vessel and naming its changes so how about we wait for your Commander to sign his Contract okay?"

Milton was admittedly disappointed at that, but he could understand he was hungover as bad as Wyatt was - he was just used to it after such a long time binge drinking. "Very well, I suppose I can just form a list of crew that I want to bring on board in the meantime.

"Yeah, sounds great, can you dim the lights on your way out?"

/-/

It had taken until December to get everything that would be involved in taking a ship out to space, namely training on all the new equipment added to the Evelyn's Vain. She had essentially been gutted inside and out, leaving her with only the framework of the ship to be worked with, one such thing being the addition of multiple extra compartments on the vessel that increased her size by a surprising amount - it was a costly endeavor for Stellar Industries much of the funding being provided by Wyatt himself from his personal coffers.

Numerous things were added that Milton found himself concerned with. One of which was several retracting weapons hardpoints being added on the ship's top, bottom, and front, with some sort of expensive-looking laser weapons system as a primary gun. It wasn't an uncommon thing for a ship to have - practically every cargo freighter in existence had at least one due to the staggering amount of piracy both in and out of U.L.N.-controlled sectors. But, when you were expected to wander dead space where the possibility of encountering anything was less than a percent, a weapons point would just become extra space that could be used for cargo storage or really anything.

Speaking of the cargo bay, it was drastically downsized and mostly turned into a Shuttle Bay with a small Armory tucked away in the corner to be used by the small group of security hired onboard, two of which being Wyatt's own guards, Bishop and Blaisdell for some reason, despite him not coming along himself. The earlier iteration of the Evelyn's Vain may have had too expansive of a cargo bay, but the downsize was more drastic than Milton liked; he had always used the extra space for extra food rations, fuel, and the like. He also didn't see the need for a small security team. Such a small amount wouldn't stop a committed pirate attack, and the crew onboard were frankly not significant enough to warrant a security detail off ship either.

That is not to say that the retrofit as a whole was terrible by any means; the thickened hull, while making her slower, would be able to deflect debris that passed through the shields a lot better than the earlier design had. The power systems had been fixed entirely, replaced with a much more robust system that outperformed the previous systems by at least tenfold. Incredibly enough, the radar systems had been upgraded as well, and Crowley, who they had managed to hire alongside the lovable Conor Daly, would not stop praising the thing, no doubt happy he didn't need to adjust it every single day. All in all, they had managed to salvage the majority of the original crew that hadn't been assigned to different Contracts that Captain Milton had wanted; they, unfortunately, had to assign the Irishman a lower position as the Shuttle Pilot rather than piloting the entire ship, but he had agreed readily, just happy to be out looking for the Colony Ship again. Most of the original crew had said the same thing; the search for the lost seemed to have somehow infected them all.

Perhaps the most significant upgrade of all was the habitation pods hodge-podged on the side; It didn't directly benefit the Captain, but it would do wonders for crew morale by having the extra space for activities and even better individual bedrooms that, while spartan would still give much-requested privacy for the crew. After its retrofit, the ship was almost unrecognizable, but Milton still knew deep down she was the same old bird he had cut his teeth on all those years ago.

They set off once they had finally prepared enough for Captain Milton's standards - ironically, on New Year's, the station had played Aram Khachaturian's Masquerade Suite: Waltz over the docking radio as they had left, and Milton had poured a glass of some fancy whiskey for good luck, which seemed to instantly affect them because, as it turned out, they wouldn't be entering dead space at all if the coordinates for the last known jump of the "Remnant of Asgard" were correct.

It would put them smack dab in the middle of "The Punch Bowl," A primarily empty section of the Orion Sector with a sizeable ominous wormhole in the middle of it that tended to try and suck ships in. The crew theorized at first that maybe that's what happened to the Asgard, but given the size of the Colony Ship, it would have had to pilot itself through it to get sucked in actively. Not so much, though, for their ship, the Evelyn's Vain was a much lighter class of ship than practically anything fielded nowadays except for scouting ships and could easily be pulled in if they weren't careful.

It was hard even to see, given as how it was a large black dot amidst the sea of blackness known as space but ever since a small freighter traveling off-course had gotten sucked in and never returned, the U.L. had placed large beacons around it as a sort of minefield type warning just outside its gravity well. It worked well, as no other ships had gotten sucked in since, not that the lane was used often, if at all.

Nevertheless, scary wormhole or not, they were in for a long job; the sector as a whole was expansive, and the coordinates, while accurate to the sector, weren't accurate enough to pinpoint the wreckage.


January 12, 2339

Orion Sector "The Punch Bowl"

Field Operations Agent Isabella Blaisdell

Blaisdell's head is connected to the metal framework above her bed with a loud ding as she climbs forward in a blind panic. Covered in sweat, she swings her now aching head around in a blind panic only to discover she isn't being burnt alive like the nightmare she woke from had made it seem. She moves into a sitting position, resting her bare feet against the cool metal flooring as she takes a few deep breaths to calm her heart rate, her brain still struggling to connect real and fake.

These nightmares were becoming a nightly occurrence for her, and her sleep had suffered drastically as a result. She didn't know why she had them in the first place; she didn't even really remember the injury, only being thrown from the Sentinel Striker and hitting the ground. With a sigh, she gets out of bed; to put on a new change of clothes that weren't soaked through, she was an hour and thirty minutes early, according to her wristwatch, but she wasn't going to fall back asleep after that dream.

A moment spent looking at her scarring in the mirror with a grimace later, and she's fully dressed in the strange Security Uniform - it was camouflaged much akin to the Swedish M90k pattern instead of the assumed flat colors one would expect from security forces. She steps out in the quiet gray halls of the Evelyn's Vain shortly after, Sidearm on her hip - not that it was necessary. The security team other than Bishop had done practically nothing over the week or two - she couldn't remember, that they had spent in The Punch Bowl; wanting to be helpful, she assisted the crew where she could, but there wasn't much she could help with due to the lack of specialized training, not to mention the majority of the staff were particular about only having themselves touch the hardware on the ship. Really the only one willing to even accept her help was the Shuttle Pilot, who Bishop had consistently referred to as Irish so many times she found herself doing it, much to her frustration - so that's where she found herself wandering.

Cutting a corner in the corridor that would lead her down a level, she already heard the dialogue in the chimera-like cargo/shuttle/armory bay.

"It looks like the kind of cut-outs you would mount a machine gun to. Y'know, like those old Toyotas the U.L. gave to the Outer Rim Farmers in the hundreds of thousands had."

Fully coming into view revealed who it was, Irish or Conor when she could remember; his real name was inside the large shuttle at the entrance, looking at some cut-outs in the metal the Bishop was pointing at. She thought about turning around at the sight of the man, but he apparently noticed her arrival and motioned her over.

"Hey, Zips!" God, she hated that nickname, "Quit being such an ornery bitch for once and settle this for us. I think it's a mounted gun cut-out, but Irish over here thinks its something else- what was it again? A fucking escape slide mount?"

"It's an Aeronautical Emergency Descent Apparatus mount, I swear it on me, mam."

The shuttle was new to everyone; not a single person on the ship could recognize what it was; it was clearly something custom-made and had some insane features that resembled something you would find on a camping trailer rather than the gigantic inter-atmospheric taxi they had initially thought it was.

Blaisdell, having reached the shuttle, or a more apt name would be Rv in space given the size and features of the large ship, looks at the cut-out, and knowing that this argument would continue all day out of boredom alone if she didn't end it, mutters quickly. "Looks like a gun mount to me."

"See, I told you!" Bishop claps his hands, jumps off the shuttle to roughly eye level with Blaisdell, and looks at her with an eyebrow raised. "You look different today Blaisdell."

Blaisdell quirks an eyebrow assuming that Bishop is going to try and rile her up with an insult again for entertainment but stops herself from beating him to the punch when she sees a rare look of actual concern on his face; she stretches her arms over her head and through a yawn mutters, "I didn't get much sleep again, guess its showing on my face."

"Yeah, you look like hammered shit. Did you talk to the C.M.O. yet like I told you to?" Bishop responds, crossing his arms.

"I do not want to be on some sort of crazy drug to help me sleep." Her arms cross as well.

"Don't you know her? Im sure if you brought it up, she wouldn't give you something crazy. Quit being such a stubborn bitch for once, won't you?"

"That's rich coming from you asshole. Weren't you the one that wouldn't go to her when you got that stomach bug right after we left Plato Station?"

Bishop throws a knife hand at her threatening to press it into her chest but stopping an inch or two away from her breast. "That was a different situation; your issue will very clearly affect you long-term as long as it's not attended to. Go to and fix that fucking issue."

Blaisdell narrowed her eyes at him with as much venom as she could possess. God, she hated this man. "Is that an order?" She challenges.

Bishop's voice lowers slightly as he removes the knife hand from her chest, "Just fucking do it, Blaisdell; im not willing to risk one of my guys catching a bullet to the head because you're too tired to keep your head on a swivel."

Blaisdell unintentionally reels back with a cringe; it was clear this wasn't an attempt to attack her personally, and she got a bit catty; as much as she disliked the man, it was rather apparent that he cared for the security detail's well-being despite not really knowing any of them, even her. She deflates a bit, frustrated at her ego getting the best of her, and lets out a sigh.

"Yeah, alright, Bishop, I'll visit the doc., I didn't think about how it would affect the team's cohesion; I don't want to take any medications, though."

"I can agree to that, Blaisdell. But when you're done, I want your help getting a proper stock on the shit in the armory."

Blaisdell gives a quiet 'Okay." and turns back around to visit the Med Bay. When she's clearly out of earshot, Conor speaks up, having just listened to the growing argument up until now.

"You let her off easy, and I was hoping for a free ticket to you two fighting again."

Bishop glances back at him, "Yeah normally i'd try and piss her off a bit more but, I dont know she isnt looking good, and even i've got my limits. Besides she didnt have any fight in her today."

Conor sits down at the shuttle's open entrance, "Say I ever tell you the story about-"

/-/

Blaisdell hesitates by the door and thinks about just lying and saying she had visited , but she knows those types of lies had a way of uncovering themselves at the worst time. She still hesitated, but her choice was made for her as the door to the med-bay hissed open, and a crewman she didn't recognize nearly walked into her with a muttered apology. Having seen her, quickly ushered her in while in her chair with a beckoning motion.

"Oh, Isabella come in, come in, how are you? Your burn scars aren't aching or anything, are they? Because I have some topical ointment, I can give you; I think it's-" She cuts herself off as she rises from her seat and goes to look in a cabinet before Blaisdell stops her.

"It's not the scars, Belmonte." Being some of the only women on board the ship had quickly left them on a first-name basis with each other- not that Blaisdell could shake the military habit of referring to everyone by last name. However, Blaisdell still had difficulty discussing her issues with her. The same couldn't be said for the young girl.

"Well, what's wrong then? It's not Bishop being a jerk again is it."

Veronica had a strange way of referring to her relationship, or lack thereof, with her superior, tending to make it sound like they were a couple.

Blaisdell resisted an uncomfortable grimace at the thought of that. "No, well he actually kind of ordered me to see you."

"Is it something relating to your lack of sleep?"

Blaisdell rubs one of her eyes, "Bishop said I looked like hammered shit, but I figured he was just being a dick, I didnt realise it was actually that obvious."

"You do look tired, but I wouldnt phrase it in such a... mean way. But thats what im here for, lack of sleep is suprisingly common in space and i have some medications I can offer you-"

Blaisdell grimaces, "I'd rather not take any pills, Belmonte."

"If it's the side-effects your worried about I have some different ones that have less of them."

"Any that dont give me intense nightmares?"

Belmonte's face, which was all laughs and smiles earlier, suddenly goes stone-cold severe, "Are you having nightmares relating to your accident Isabella?"

Shit, she hadn't meant to let that slip, but the cat was out of the bag now, and Veronica was frustratingly good at figuring things out.

"Maybe a little bit," Blaisdell responds with a squint.

"You know I told you to tell me about any possible Ptsd symptoms; I was there when it happened, remember?"

Blaisdell hurridly responds, "It's not Ptsd; it's just bad dreams."

"Bad dreams don't cause most people to lose this much sleep, Isabella."

A further discussion between them is suddenly cut short as a Klaxon blairs across the ship, and then Captain Milton's voice is heard over the intercom, uttering a simple sentence that throws them both into action.

"All hands to Combat Stations, repeat all hands to Combat Stations."

Blaisdell begins to run out of the med bay but is stopped by Veronica catching her arm,

"We'll talk about this later." she orders before letting her go. The young woman appearing surprisingly intimidating to Blaisdell.

Just another situation Blaisdell found herself not wanting to be in, but one was more pressing than the other; the fact that the Captain had ordered them to Combat Stations meant only one thing, they had stumbled upon pirates. She was halfway to the armory when a sudden rocking struck the ship, causing her to stumble into one of the walls before the intercom buzzed again,

"Brace for Impact!"


January 12, 2339

Orion Sector "The Punch Bowl"

Captain William Milton

"Pilot adjust heading to 050, full thrust."

The Pilot repeated his order rapidly, then proceeded to do so.

"How the hell did we not see them, Crowley?" Milton ordered with a snarl, grasping at his new command seat's arms, frustrated at having a sudden fleet of pirates barraging his ship's shields from seemingly nowhere and, even worse, spill his glass of whiskey all over himself with the rattling.

Crowley rapidly presses buttons on his sensors array as he answers, " They must have been hidden amongst that debris field Captain." He hesitates a moment doing calculations in his head amongst the chaos of the command deck; he suddenly does a double take at the sensors array when a collision warning pops up and then warns the Captain, "Sir, your current heading is taking us dangerously close to the Wormholes gravity well!"

"We'll be fine as long as we don't get past the warning posts. It's the only way we stand a chance of evading them. They won't come close as long as that wormhole's there."

Another rocking hit the Evelyn's Vain, "Status?"

Crowley pressed another button, "Kinetic Shields are holding but wont last long if we keep getting hit like this."

Milton then looked to the Gunnery Chief - the one responsible for the fancy new main gun, who was profusely sweating, "The gun is having minimal effect on the ships, sir."

Milton twirls a stressed hand against his mustache before ordering, "Disable the guns then and reroute the energy to our engines; I want those thrusters hotter than hell."

"Affirm," a voice rings out; one of the engineers responsible for routing power throughout the ship, and soon the ship is gaining a lead against the pilots before another shot rocks the ship, and the ship slows.

"Sir, a shot went through the shields. We lost power to the secondary thrusters!"

Before Milton can respond, another voice belts out in a blind panic.

"We're caught, in the gravity well! That hit drifted us right into her!"

Milton shouts rapidly to the Pilot, "Williamson get us out of here! And I want all Engineers getting our Secondaries back online."

The ship groans as the engine's throttle is pressed fully forward, struggling with all its might to break the wormhole's hold on the vessel, but it does nothing, and with a hurried response, the Pilot shouts,

"We dont have enough power to break her hold Captain were stuck."

Milton utters a curse, then slams the intercom button, "All hands brace for impact!" Milton had never gone through a wormhole before, but he'd met some Captains that had; it was not a pleasant experience.

He then looks towards the Pilot, "Get the ship faced towards the wormhole. I want us to be able to react to whatever's on the other side of this thing! Engineers belay the engine fix; get me some extra power to the gyro's so we can ride this out in one piece!"

Milton didn't know if they would even make it through the wormhole alive, but he had to try his hardest to keep his crew prepared for anything. The cockpit windows were suddenly enveloped in black as the ship was sucked into the wormhole, followed by a pregnant pause as the team braced against anything they could as the ship buckles, groans, and shakes around them before rapidly a giant burst of light blinds them. They are spat out of the wormhole at an uncharacteristically high velocity that sends the crew reeling as the wormhole proceeds to eat itself shut behind them, leaving the Evelyn's Vain face-to-face with a massive debris field.

The ship rattles once more as the Pilot - needing no command, forces the controls back as hard as he can to avoid a large chunk of rock before reversing the engines to prevent them from rocketing into another rock next to it as it gradually slows down. It's just barely not enough, and they scrape against a rock, sending them temporarily out of control for a brief moment until the Pilot reorients the ship and manages to slow it down.

Finally, with the ship at a complete stop, the Command crew breathes a collective sigh of relief, both at the fact that thanks to the Pilot's hasty maneuvering, they didn't get smooshed into a pancake by the large rocks in the debris field and perhaps more surprising the fact that they survived the wormhole trip in the first place.

Milton was the first to regain his senses, still clenching his command seat with white knuckles,

"Williamson, that was a hell of a maneuver you pulled right there. Good job."

He takes a brief look out of the cockpit's windows; there's a planet below them, small patches of light glittering like gold on its earthlike surface. No colonized planets existed in the Orion Sector; its entire sprawl was used mainly as a seldom-used shipping lane, and it left Milton confused as to where they were.

Seeking to regain the ship's bearings, he turns his head to the Sensors Operator and asks, "Crowley, where are we?"

Being referred to directly forces the bald man out of his thoughts, and he rapidly presses some buttons on his terminal with dull little beeps, "We are in unmapped space, sir, theres not even a beacon to ping off of."

Milton shakes his head, "Look out the window Crowley I see lights on that planet and backwater or not that means its civilized, and that means its mapped. Scan it again."

Crowley proceeds to do so, waiting a moment before a perplexed look hits his face, "Sir, it's the same result. Maybe our sensors got damaged in the fight."

"We have taken significant damage to our superstructure; it is possible the sensors are malfunctioning, sir." An engineer quickly responds.

"Captain permission to contact the planet to find out where we are."

Another engineer asks.

"Permission granted, and good idea, crewman."

Milton stares out the cockpit window and takes in everything before stopping as his eyes fall over something of note. It looks like a piece of hull, he leans in closer as he studies it lazily spinning, and it gradually reveals in what would have normally been a stark white bold lettering but now faded in the sun reads, 'Remnant of' where he assumes 'Asgard' would be is to far faded to be legible. That was one problem solved, Milton reckoned; well, really, it was two. He doubted the pirates were crazy enough to chase them through a wormhole.

"Move us out of this debris field, Williamson, I want a better look at our surrounding's."

The Pilot does so, the damaged engines struggling to propel her with the customary grace she was designed for, but gradually, they make it away from the debris field. From a distance, it was obvious what happened. The "Remnant of Asgard" had gone through the wormhole and crashed right into the planet's moon, shattering it in many large chunks and nearly completely disintegrating itself, and knowing that the only way the Colony Ship could have gone through the wormhole was if it was willingly guided through it left a question that remained on the tongue of the entire crew of the Evelyn's Vain. What could have caused her to do so?


January 12, 2339

Beacon Academy, Remnant

Headmaster Ozpin

He was looking out of his tower as he always did on clear nights, leaning on his cane and taking short sips of his preferred blend of coffee. Its unique flavor profile had always centered him and let him clear out his current issues of the day, today's problem, namely relating to his old friend Ironwood who had insisted on providing security for the coming Vytal Festival.

It wasn't a bad idea considering Vale had no Military or assets of the like to provide proper protection; it was more the underlying issue with the fact that Ironwood wanted to bring along far more personnel than anyone wanted besides him. It was a Festival, not a Military Parade. He took another tentative sip; the coffee was too hot still.

His eyes shoot to the moon suddenly as they are drawn to a sudden peculiar flash next to it, far too bright to be a shooting star. He analyses the spot in the sky where the flash happened for a while, fighting down a strangely familiar feeling, maybe something he experienced in a past life long forgotten. He shrugs his shoulders, dismissing the odd feeling, and decides that he has contemplated life for long enough. Besides, he needs to finally get started on the stack of papers that Goodwitch had thrown at him earlier in the day. He sits in the chair and grabs a sheet off the stack,

"It's going to be another all-nighter for you, Ozpin."


January 12, 2339

Unknown Space

Commander Sloan Decker

For all things considered, Sloan considered himself to have lucky days for the most part; for example, finding out he was being assigned a second-in-command position on the same ship with roughly the same adaptive crew he had beforehand was a lucky day. This was not one of those days.

He had just finished confirming the damage to the ship on the Captain's terminal, Milton and the rest of the day crew having long since turned in for the night- they had worked themselves to the bones running diagnostics and checking the quality of the exterior hull to ensure no breaches between the armor plating and framework. While not as serious as a complete hull breach still provided a severe weak point in regards to the stability of the ship that could turn into a severe issue if left unattended. Thankfully other than a couple of pockmarks in the armor plating, and one noticeable dent from a large chunk of debris, it was secure.

The main damage that they had taken was from the engines. Initially, it was just the secondary engines that had suffered damage. The Pilot's hasty scrambling to escape the wormhole on top of the hasty maneuvering through the 'Remnant of Asgard's' wreckage had introduced the primary engine - which was already under a heavy workload by name alone, to numerous stress fractures. The engines had done their job and saved them, but at a severe cost to herself, she would never work perfectly again, and until they fixed the stress fractures, would only be operating at roughly a quarter power so as not to strain the engine further into complete failure.

Thankfully there had only been light injuries across the board from the crew, namely a couple of spills below deck in engineering and cargo where stuff wasn't tied down enough. Some cargo was damaged as well as a result, but nothing too severe; according to the report, it was a miracle they had made it so well off. Everyone who has ever set foot on a ship was told stories about how a wormhole's gravitational pull could rip you to shreds when it sucked you in; it seemed as though they had either gotten incredibly fortunate or wormholes were drastically overhyped in their danger.

"Have we made contact with the planet below us yet?" Decker asked to no one in particular, assuming someone from the less populated night crew would answer. Ironically enough, it was bigger than the old crew's day shift.

One of the engineers responded in between sips of coffee as he tapped away on a terminal to see, "Uh negative on that Commander, not a single pip from them."

"Thats rather odd, dont you think?" Decker responded, arching an eyebrow at the man; very few people drank the ship's coffee on the old ship, so it was rather odd to see it being so common since it was replaced, and Decker still didn't entirely trust it new or not.

The engineer gives a quick response, "I don't think their ghosting us or anything sir, its just like they dont have the signal range or anything." He pauses and looks around the room for someone, and when he finds him, shouts across the deck, "Hey Abraham, did the Planetary Scan finish yet?"

"Yeah I'll send it over to your terminal right now."

"Send it to mine as well, Abraham." Sloan ordered.

"Right on boss," Abraham haphazardly hits keys on his terminal before continuing, "-And it should be on your computer now."

Sloan looks towards it and see's the report, clicking on it so it can take form. The planet was much like Earth, albeit with only five continents instead of seven. Curiously though, unlike other earthlike planets, it wasn't wholly colonized - it was instead barely populated, with only a few city-sized settlements across the entire planet.

"Maybe they just started colonizing the planet; it would explain why they don't have a Comm's Tower, Satelites, or anything like that yet."

"I don't think so, Sir; if it was a newborn colony, the ships would still be landed, and those are pretty hard to miss. Call me crazy, but I wonder if these are colonists from the 'Asgard.'

An engineer scoffs at the statement, "Ridiculous, if they had lived that 'moonsplosion,' they would be a hell of a lot farther along then this."

"Maybe it's fauna-related; Amazonia only expanded across a quarter of a continent because of the dangerous wildlife."

Decker decided to join in on the conversation, excited at the idea of helping solve the presented mystery, "Yeah, but that was a planet made entirely out of jungle and dinosaurs. This planet looks extremely earthlike. Other than that dead region in the Northwest Hemisphere."

"Maybe they lost all of their equipment and supplies in the... what did you call it again... a moonsplosion? But they made it down in an escape pod or something." The engineer ends it with a wave of his hands.

Soon enough, the entire Command Staff is exchanging theories, with a litany of excitement filling the air that goes on for at least an hour before Sloan says the final words and puts them back into the silence of work.

"Alright, guys, whatever the ranging theories are, we simply aren't going to know for sure until the Security team touches down tomorrow morning with the shuttle to make contact. Let's set everything up for them; Abraham math out a stable approach vector, and you," he points a finger towards one of the men standing over the communications station, "Let the lower deck engineers know that they have to sortie that shuttle before the day crews awake.

Numerous affirmations are responded to him, and the crew files back into work mode.


January 13, 2339

Unknown Planet

F.O.S. Bishop Anders

"Stable approach vector, my ass Irish, what the fuck!

Bishop was currently sat next to the shuttle pilot as he jerked the controls to keep control of the craft as it bobbed and weaved itself through the storm they crashed into as soon as they broke atmosphere. The large shuttle not being nearly as airborne capable as the rest.

"Bring it up with the Command Staff they're the ones that didn't account for a storm."

The shuttle continued to rattle and shake until they finally broke the cloud coverage and approached the rainy city they had decided to land on. Or so they thought; instead, they were met with a small island off the side of it, just barely visible through the heavy rainfall.

"Oh hell, were way off course? I'm going to have to set her down on that island there and wait for the storm to pass, its just too choppy to keep going."

A voice comes from the back of the shuttle and shouts out behind them, "You should have left the autopilot on you dumb Irish bastard, im about to spill my guts over here!"

Bishop turns to Conor, "I hate to agree with Zippo but, shes right you know."

"The second I trust autopilot's, the second I cease to live, don't try me, boyo."

"Boyo?" Bishop turns away, puzzled.

Conor doesn't respond back and instead throws out a hand, pointing it at what looks to be an empty field next to a large building. "Im gonna set her down in that there field over there."

The craft slows down until it gradually begins to touch down in the field; Bishop eyes the area around it, namely the building, which in a flash of thunder, reveals itself as 'Signal Academy.'

"Oh, you cruel bastard, you set us down in a soccer field. How are the kids going to play it with this big bus in the way." Bishop teases Conor with a laugh.

The second the engine turns off, Bishop claps his hands and unbuckles himself from the seat, grabbing his MX ACS off a wall mount and slinging it before turning on its red dot and slinking out of the cockpit and into the main compartment.

"So we stuck here or-" Blaisdell began before a rapid knocking against the door interrupted her thoughts.

Blaisdell gives Bishop a perplexed look; he goes for the door and responds quickly to her. "Probably a teacher or something."

"We landed at a school?" Blaisdell's eyebrows rise further.

Bishop opens the latch and slides it on their rollers with a swooshing noise, revealing the man who was knocking at the door, "Yeah Signal Academy or something?"

"Uh, excuse me, gentlemen but your kind of on our training field."

The voice rings out, shouting through the rain.

Bishop shouts back, "Yeah, sorry about that, but, the storms are a little too rough for our Pilot here! He's still learning!"

"Are you from Atlas?" The man shouts back.

"What?"

"I said, are you from Atlas?" The man shouts back.

"I don't know what that is!"

"What do you mean you don't know what it is?" The man responds.

"Look buddy, I can barely hear you, why don't you just climb aboard so we can talk." Bishop ignores the question and reaches out a hand, which the man grasps back with his own, willingly letting himself get pulled onboard, Bishop spotting some tribal tattoo on the man's bicep.

Bishop slides the door back shut against the growing wind to dull the ambiance outside so they can hear each other. The man stands at the door to not get everything wet and brushes a hand over his blonde hair before throwing another hand out.

"Thanks," he says, "I'm Taiyang."

Bishop grabs the hand back, "Bishop Anders, this heres my rookie Zippo, and the man in the cockpit's Irish."

Blaisdell responds with a twitch of her brow, "It's Blaisdell, and the man in the cockpit is Conor."

Taiyang responds with a smile, "Nice to meet you three, but, what are you guys doing here, when you could have landed at the airfield just over the hill?"

Bishop turns to Conor, who has rotated his chair to meet the newcomer, and just shrugs and simply states, "Didn't see it."

"You guys must not be from around here. I tried asking earlier but you must have misheard me, you guys are from Atlas right?" Taiyang asks, laughing slightly at the earlier encounter.

"No, we came from Space." Conor says.

Taiyang laughs politely, not finding the joke funny but laughing nonetheless to not appear rude. However, this laugh quickly petered out as he noticed none of the people were laughing or even smiling back.

Blaisdell, to her credit, was the first to realize something was up and suddenly said, "Holy shit! These guys are uncontacted!." It was something she had heard about when she was a child, a cosmic horror story that her Grandmother used to tell about how lost Colony Ships would, after losing contact with anyone, grow in isolation and have to learn everything anew, forming completely different cultures and becoming alien to the united government.

Bishop scoffs at her, then smiles at the tattooed blonde "Not a chance Blais; Taiyangs just rattling our chain a little bit because we parked on his field. Right? Right?"

Taiyang doesn't return Bishop's smile, and his own soon falls as he puts a hand to his head and lets out a lengthy, "Ohhhh fuck me."

He recovers quickly, "Irish, can we contact the Evelyn from here and get the Captain or Commander down here so they can do the First Contact stuff?"

Conor spins in his Pilot's seat and taps a few buttons, "Not a chance this storm put a haymes on our communication relay, I wont be contacting nuttin' until its gone."

"Okay then, this has gone to Hell in a handbasket real quick then hasnt it? But, uh, where the fuck do we go from here?"

Taiyang chooses this moment to speak up, "Not saying I believe that you guys are from space but on the off chance you are." He pauses, a grimace coming to his face as if he can't believe he's saying it, "You should talk to Headmaster Ozpin at Beacon. He would be able to help you."

Blaisdell leans forward in his seat and looks at the man, "Does he live here?"

Taiyang looks puzzled, "On Patch? No he's in Vale." His eyes widen as he looks at the blatant confusion on their faces; he wouldn't brag about it, but more than that being a father for seventeen years had made him rather good at telling when someone was lying, a subtle reflexive twitch or a hesitance to meet his gaze, the three people had none of it. They were either really good at lying or (and he wouldn't entertain that thought) actually from space. He throws a finger off in a vague direction of Vale and continues talking rather than dwelling on it too much. "It's the uh, city over there, more specifically the big tower on the cliff."

A look of surprise dawns on the three strangers before Conor responds, "Thats were we were fixing to land, actually, we thought it was an ornate ATC Tower."

"But instead you landed us in a field." Bishop deadpans

"On an island." Blaisdell adds.

"In the middle of nowhere." Bishop finishes.

Conor was glad they didn't get along more often; they made a pretty nasty pair when working together.

Blaisdell turns back to Taiyang, "Taiyang, I assume you know this Headmaster Ozpin?" When he nods yes, she asks, "Would you be willing to take us to him when the weather clears?"

Taiyang cringes momentarily before responding as he realizes that he has dug the hole, so he may as well fill it. "I suppose I could, but how will we get there? The Ferries don't come here on the weekends, and it is Saturday."

Bishop looks at him like he's an idiot. "On our, Space Ship?"

Taiyang looks defeated, "Right. On your Space Ship."

Conor crosses his arms, "It's a Space Shuttle, not a Space Ship; this is for transporting people onto a planet, Space Ships for transporting people through space. Theres a difference."

Taiyang was at a loss for words; he really screwed up this time; Ozpin was going to freak out when he dropped off a bunch of crazies on his doorstep. Still, this was a strange event, and given the weapons, he couldn't identify slung on Bishop and resting next to Blaisdell on top of the strange Bullhead, it was a safe assumption that they were some sort of Atlesian Special Forces of some sort likely getting a lay of the land before the Vytal Festival. It made sense to Taiyang at least, because who could actually believe they came from space? It was a ridiculous claim.


Authors Note: Wow, fellers, that was a bit longer than usual, wasn't it. I decided I should get RWBY in the story ASAP, given the frankly ridiculous amount of words I have thrown down without a single reference to RWBY - so I shortened some stuff I had already written down and compressed it all into one chapter instead of having an extra one or two chapters. But hey, it worked out, and the gang's finally on Remnant.

Im not the happiest with how this chapter turned out, namely given the staggering amount of POV shifts but on a reread, it's clear enough to me what's going on, but I also have the foreknowledge to know precisely what I mean when I put something down.

Oh yeah and as for this being posted on Tuesday instead of the usual Thursday, Friday schedule I vaguely stick to, well I had an extra long weekend from work and ruined my sleep schedule so I ended up staying up until like 2 AM writing this. Im also very upset at myself for this but, I just found out about the horizontal line break feature on the editing thing. Godamnit.

Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I am glad to say that im finally actually writing a RWBY fanfic.