It's nothing but static, the empty roar of communication desperately trying to establish itself, in those first few seconds. Sitting in the stolen UIC cruiser - not meant for a fight, it was no more than a light ship, meant to have a sting but not much more, but a fight it had gone through. Like it's crew, it dragged itself by its teeth the rest of the way.
Then it breaks, and it's not much more than a voice, clipped flat command. A woman, tired and exhausted and, oh she could describe herself in a hundred ways that begin and end with wretched at this point. "We need help."
Which - is that how she's meant to answer? She doesn't know. She isn't sure she cares at this point. As they drift on broken limbs and come in close enough to get visual. His face in exchange for hers. He's clean, removed, military if she had ever seen it. Open faced where she isn't and as she realizes he must be able to see her back, and her gaze goes from the console that she is bent over to look up at him on the screen - right, that should be where to look, right? Not like the UIC, nothing so modern and galactic. The bridge of the plate helmet, the chain mail and coif below it. From the amount of blood that is splattered across her face, there's enough to say it isn't for show. But it's all harsh cheeks and the jut of her chin in determination.
"Admiral Naismith, I have a crew of ten, all wounded. Three of which require urgent care." She can't tell about the ship, what would she know about it? The UIC had stopped their ability to access them as the technology progressed for centuries. "And there's a button next to 'life support systems' that has been flashing red for the last hour."
It's grim, ugly humor, as she looks screen through screen directly at him. There is a too ugly gash on her cheek, though the blood has stopped some time ago now. Her words rasp, she has been shouting and for too long now, she has been doing too much of everything, for too long now. Not that she shows a sign of faltering but it's there: the lines under her eyes, the sag of her mouth that even as she tries something dry, the glaze in her gaze that says something of blood loss and shock but not enough to stop herself yet. What commander ever stopped when there were those that needed them?
"I am begging for our lives, Admiral and if not for mine, then for theirs. Does that answer the question?"
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Then it breaks, and it's not much more than a voice, clipped flat command. A woman, tired and exhausted and, oh she could describe herself in a hundred ways that begin and end with wretched at this point. "We need help."
Which - is that how she's meant to answer? She doesn't know. She isn't sure she cares at this point. As they drift on broken limbs and come in close enough to get visual. His face in exchange for hers. He's clean, removed, military if she had ever seen it. Open faced where she isn't and as she realizes he must be able to see her back, and her gaze goes from the console that she is bent over to look up at him on the screen - right, that should be where to look, right? Not like the UIC, nothing so modern and galactic. The bridge of the plate helmet, the chain mail and coif below it. From the amount of blood that is splattered across her face, there's enough to say it isn't for show. But it's all harsh cheeks and the jut of her chin in determination.
"Admiral Naismith, I have a crew of ten, all wounded. Three of which require urgent care." She can't tell about the ship, what would she know about it? The UIC had stopped their ability to access them as the technology progressed for centuries. "And there's a button next to 'life support systems' that has been flashing red for the last hour."
It's grim, ugly humor, as she looks screen through screen directly at him. There is a too ugly gash on her cheek, though the blood has stopped some time ago now. Her words rasp, she has been shouting and for too long now, she has been doing too much of everything, for too long now. Not that she shows a sign of faltering but it's there: the lines under her eyes, the sag of her mouth that even as she tries something dry, the glaze in her gaze that says something of blood loss and shock but not enough to stop herself yet. What commander ever stopped when there were those that needed them?
"I am begging for our lives, Admiral and if not for mine, then for theirs. Does that answer the question?"