The hull of Issac's small, one-man fighter was of sleek black design and its hull was scarred by weapons fire. Armed on either side of the vessel was a set of standard fighter-to-fighter weaponry, with an additional set of not-so-standard anti-frigate weaponry. This addition was more convenient than actual intention for a possible outcome with the Millennial.
Bright lines of light stretched past the window of the cockpit and had been stretched that way for hours on end. Most view screens were dark, with only one in front of Issac being lit. The screen illuminated the cockpit with a serene, deep amber glow, and displayed a list of profiles. One such profile in particular was exposed: that of Perdante Dareva.
Issac sat in the pilot's chair, still encased in his armor, and peered forward at what little information existed on her. A name, some basic descriptors, an identification, and a picture. The picture was not what he'd expected. Instead of having any particularly strong or sharp features, this Perdante was instead round-faced with brown eyes and hair. Issac's hair was black, but he did have the same eyes as her. They weren't so tired though.
“You know, the director could have been misleading you, Issac. Men under terrible duress often will try anything to alleviate their situations.”
Issac's head snapped up in surprise. Outside the window, sitting on the nose of a fighter in hyperspace, was an old man in a decadent, brown outfit puffing a cigar. The man's hair, which protruded from under a funny hat, was pure white and overgrown, and his skin was rough but withered from age. He grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth, and when the man spoke, his voice was deep and gravel.
“But you knew that he believed it, and even if he was lying, a cult bent on the very destruction of the Force is no simple thing to overlook. Not when you yourself find it such a useful tool. I mean, you certainly couldn't let other people take care of it and try to make a life for yourself instead. You know, expanding your social group beyond people you are intending to kill and those you've already killed.”
“I will find Perdante Dareva.” Issac stated simply and returned his attention to the lone view screen, switching from Perdante's profile to that of another member of the Millennial. “And I will destroy the Found.”
“And anyone who gets in your way I'm sure. While I technically already know, I must ask, what are you looking at now?” the man asked, getting up from his position from the nose of the fighter and walking up to the cockpit. He plopped himself on a control panel next to Issac, passing through the glass easily, and glanced at the screen.
“Captain Fara Starr.” Issac replied unfazed.
A look of disgust formed on the man's face. “Girl with a nasty scar? Blah. Never did like the ebony girls either. I'm more toward the girls with squinty eyes and round faces.”
“You are lying.” Issac stated bluntly.
“Well, that's certainly a bold statement. What makes you say this?” the man huffed and crossed his arms.
“The women I prefer are blond with blue eyes. You are me.”
“True,” the man conceded, “but I'm supposed to be an original illusion, remember? A more original taste would add character to that concept. Speaking of character, have you thought of a name for me yet? These interactions really would be more productive if I had a name. You're also mentally unstable, so it's socially acceptable.”
“Okay. As Church, my newly appointed name by the Lord High you, I must inform you that you're probably going to want to stop now.” Church cautioned and then he was gone.
Issac immediately brought all of the fighter's systems online with the flick of a switch and smashed the conveniently located red button that said “Emergency Hyperspace Exit.”
The bright lines that lit the view of the cockpit slowed. They were replaced by molten slag and fiery spit and the sound of klaxons over his speakers. He had just exited hyperspace amongst the wreckage of the Millennial.
Panic set in Issac pulled back on the fighter-controls and narrowly dodged a slag of molten metal. He rolled to avoid an eruption that shot into his path and weaved between random shards of steel. Just as he was almost out of the wreckage, a piece of debris clipped his wing. Issac spun, out of control, before he was finally able to right himself just moments later. Relief, however, was not an option.
Death screamed to Issac as he glided away from the wreckage. It struck his mind like a tidal wave and he knew that the one responsible was not far. They would need to be dealt with before he could begin finding those left alive, those in the numerous pods heading at full speed toward an asteroid.
The torpedo trail was a start.
Last edited by Rexraptor2000; 10-12-2010 at 06:39 PM.