Started Bad, Got Worse

February 22, 2018:

Scrapper 142 has an unscheduled course correction on her way to Sakaar.



NPCs: Various space thugs.


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Intergalactic piloting is a thing that should generally be done with a clear head and no substances in one's system.


But when you're a self-destructive former Asgardian warrior, things like 'common sense' and 'reflexes are important' and 'hey watch out for that asteroid' go right out the window.

On a bad day, Scrapper 142 is a better fighter than many of the fighters she collects for the Grandmaster, and she's had a lot of bad days. That's why her hold is stuffed full of a wide variety of intergalactic ruffians. She picked some of them because they looked interesting or big and scary, and some for their fighting abilities. A few others are named 'contenders' for their combination of both. Those ones have their own private suite in the rear.

She sits unsteadily in the cockpit of her ship, the Warsong, hands moving over the console by rote. Now and again, she reaches for a bottle and takes a swig from her clasp.

"Oi miss, miss!" calls a voice from the back. "I hate to bother you, but are we going to get a toilet break at any point? Doug has six bladders and they're all full."

Scrapper 142 glances over her shoulder, looks at her bottle of booze, then chugs the rest of it back in two great gulps. She caps it, then launches the bottle back into the hold. It skids to a stop near the complaining prisoner. She burps.

"That's great, miss. Got five more? They're large bladders."

"I'll work on it," she replies.

The ship cruises on now. Sakaar is up ahead. Normally, she'd be carefully plotting a course to avoid the portals that dot the planet, but they've been silent. So she can let the auto pilot do much of the work as it falls into its gliding approach. She stands up and goes towards a case that holds a variety of strange-looking bottles.

And naturally, because the universe hates her, it chooses just the wrong moment for the portals to reactivate.

The first sign that something is wrong is the violent rattle of the empty bottle on the floor of the hold. Then there's a flash of light and the Warsong is violently ripped sideways, Starfox-barrel-rolling through the vacuum of space. Scrapper 142 is slammed upwards, then face-first on the bulkhead, then around and around like a pebble in a rolling pop can. It's more the nauseating dizziness than the sharp blows that smacks the Asgardian into unconsciousness.

When she wakes up, she's lying face down in a potent mixture of used clothing, a tube TV and rotted fruit. The Warsong looks like a Celestial took a can opener to it with ragged twists of metal half-exposing the interior. She staggers to her feet, reeking and scratched, facing her twist of a ship. Behind her, a sign looms large: "HOBOKEN CITY RECYCLING CENTER."

The ship contains one (1) corpse of a would-be fighter, with the contents of all six of his bladders coating his dead body. The rest of the seats are empty. The 'special quarters' in the rear of the ship have also been torn through from both the inside and the outside.

Scrapper 142 stares at the mess, staggers around her, bends over, and picks up one of the bottles that miraculously didn't break.

"Well, fuck."

And then, she drinks.

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