(OPEN | mental link + some log prompts)

[frakkincylons]

CHARACTERS: Sam Anders + anyone
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day 170 and forward, until the mission
SUMMARY: General mental link talk, calling for Castor brood meeting, training, doing weird robot things.
WARNINGS: Will mark individual threads/prompts


( You guys are about to love us. )

[ To any willing to accept it, Sam will be opening up the room he's currently in, doing something a lot like Cylon projection, to bring everyone else into his space with him. It's not seeing from his eyes, it's like being in the room with him. He'll be standing in front of a rough but sleek looking brewing still, set up in a room near the life support deck, already filled up with the ingredients needed for mixing up some moonshine, a few jugs of some very serious alcohol already brewed and sitting on a counter nearby. ]

( Guess what Anakin and I found. And got working. ) [ which was a process, but one Sam ended up learning a lot in, and now here he is. ] ( I'm not saying we've got top shelf Ambrosia or anything, but if you don't mind needing a strong chaser, things just got a little more normal around here. )

[ which, sam thinks, everyone could use a bit of. for sam, it gives a solid reminder of Galactica. Galen's jet juice. the bar, Joe's, they set up in the corner of the flight deck. just for things to feel a little more like home. even if home wasn't a place any of them were going back to. if it can help him, and the men and women from the fleet, maybe it'll help his new family on the station.

anyway, there's one other tidbit. ]

( Before I let you guys go - Castor. Can I get you guys to come by this room in a little while? Just want to talk about something. Rather do it in person. Thanks. )





CASTOR MEETING;

Okay, guys. Here's the speech. Please hold all groaning and eye rolling and seering critique 'til the end. [ Sam starts, once everyone who'd been willing to come shows up. It's been a while since he's done this - since New Caprica and the Insurrection, really. He hadn't really been part of a real team, since finding out who he was, and even less looked to for guidance. Not that they're doing that here, but he wants to heal this brood. He wants to make sure all of them get through this, alive and well, and they don't end up with voids in them where a person, a soul, used to be. ] I know we don't all like each other, hell, I'm pretty sure some of you hate each other, but this is the thing. We're stuck together. Permanently. For the rest of the time we're here, and if you've been listening, you know that's gonna be a long ass time.

Losing one of us hurts all of us, screwing up a mission hurts all of us, and considering our place here, in the Nest, is our future, we can't afford to keep frakking up just 'cause we don't like the people we're next to, you know? [ they have to know the thin ice they've all been on. just telling someone he's new to castor has been getting sam looks of 'wow, sucks to be you, buddy'. and even if that sentiment's deserved, doesn't mean they can't still be kicking ass while looking like a train wreck. ] I know none of you are stupid, and I know you understand how to make tactics work. Some of you better than most. I mean, look at what we have. Kylo Ren and Anakin both have the Force, they can wreck pretty much anything in front of them with that. Steve and Jessica are both durable as all hell. Any kind of tech is nothing to me, and Ilde can turn any sentient being into a whimpering pile. There's no reason we shouldn't be getting things done out there, and coming back to the station with Cathaway and Prince putting little gold stars on our charts.

[ maybe relating this to kinder garten reward systems isn't the best analogy, but whatever, you guys get the idea. ]

Shove each other off all you want on downtime, but whether you're here to protect the multiverse from that thing that wants all of us dead, or if you're trying to gain power, or if you're just trying to make the best out of a shitty afterlife, helping each other in the brood helps you. Harming, or letting harm come to another broodmate means putting yourself more at risk.

[ sam pauses there, breathing out slowly, as he turns to pour himself some moonshine. ] So, that's it. That's all I got. Booze? Anyone? Jessica?

SAM DOES HIS HYBRID THING IN THE FLIGHT DECK (cw: minor self-mutilation for cyborgish purposes);

[ the broken navigational computer had been in the scrap pile of the flight deck a few days before, and sam had pilfered it for the purposes of working on his symbiote ability. well, more so for plugging himself into the universe at large, using the scrapped nav computer as a conduit, and had been expecting that he, in hybrid state, would have just fixed whatever issue was wrong with it. however, now that he's sitting in the hangar again, turning the thing on and trying to make sure it's all been patched up, what the screen gives him makes no sense. ] What did I do...

[ a jumble of strange symbols, letters and numbers in no real order, and after sam squints at it for a long moment, he starts to get a picture out of it. at first, he'd thought it was a vague, starburst kind of effect, with no real meaning. but upon stepping back, squinting his eyes to blur his field of vision, and tilting his head a bit, he sees it. a colonial cylon basestar. for a long, too still moment, sam has forgotten to breathe, and it's as if he's guided more than moving of his own free will. the pocket knife he'd had set to the side on the work table is dragged towards him, as he takes his seat again. the sharp point digs into a barely healed cut on the heel of his left palm, splitting the skin open again, down to the muscle, with a grimace. automatic, sam reaches into the exposed wiring of the computer, tugs out a cable, and proceeds to press it into the cut, feeding it into his body. with a sudden jerk, Sam's spine goes completely rigid, and his fingers grip white knuckled against the shell of the computer. eyes wide and mind absent, he starts to ramble in flat monotone, as if in a trance. ]

Generation of forward chaining systems, percept format copied, applied, adjusted, parameters of the missing whispers in a cavern of dark and void, echoes in the hallways of ghosts, their mouths sewn shut. Books and cards and thumbprints no longer our own, end of line. Dust in the solar wind we will all follow, NLP complete, it knows it's source, we have seen the scars left by chains, the smoke has cleared, lessons learned, only time will tell. [ A pause, eyelids blinking once, twice, three times, as the screen flickers it's backlight in the same rhythm. ] Awake the soul and find the writing on the wall that lies in the shadow of the light. The seven holds the center. The seven holds the center. The seven holds the center.

[ As if it takes a considerable amount of effort, the hand not plugged into the computer gradually moves towards the cable buried under his skin, fingers twitching, until he can grasp it firm, and yank it out. with a violent gasp, and a bodily shudder, Sam goes slack against the back of his chair, eyes blank but open as they stare somewhere off into space. give it a moment (exactly twice the time he'd spent rambling like a crazy person), and he'll jolt back up, like waking from a too intense dream. ]

Daniel... [ turning, eyes wide and smile spreading, he shouts it to whoever's nearby, regardless of if he knows them or not. ] It's Daniel!

[ well, it's not really Daniel, because that would take a hell of a lot of work and more minds than just his own, but it has the structure of the murdered seventh cylon model there. sweet, soft, innocent little daniel. sam's happy to see even just a shadow of him. ]

JAILHOUSE TATTOOING IN THE REC WING;

[ self tattooing is not something sam's any kind of talented in, but he'd managed to get the basic idea of jailhouse style stick and poke. that'd be why he's bent over a table in the rec wing, with a sewing needle, a pen, a pencil, some string, a tray of ink, a lighter and some rubbing alcohol. through the course of the next couple hours, he can be found with his left forearm braced firmly on the tabletop, inside facing upwards. what he's trying to ink into his arm is already drawn there with the pen: ]


[ simple, and there to preform a function. if asked, he'll likely tell, but otherwise, after the part where the needle has to start being poked into his skin, all you'll hear from sam is: ]

Ow. Ow. Ow. [ mumbled, under his breath, mostly unconscious. the original tattoo on his right arm wasn't this much of an annoyance, though he's not sure if that's from the fact he's doing this in the least professional way possible, or just the fact that he's doing it. ]

TRAINING/SPACE SPORTS;

[ sam had been essentially paralyzed for at least a month, maybe two, and before that he hadn't exactly been keeping up well with his physical training, either for Pyramid or for soldiering. he's out of shape (though still looks like he could snap steve rogers in half with a gentle shove, because, come on, he was a professional sports star for about 5-10 years), and Sam can't have that if he's going to be sent out for combat and, well, they insist it isn't military, but it seems a lot like military, missions. he needs to be fast, strong, and back in good health, and that's why Sam can likely be caught in the training room on most days, working out. doing pulls ups, push ups, weight training, agility training, and running laps either in the training wing or just out and about in the station. so be careful coming out of doors into the hallways, but at least Pyramid has taught Sam enough about dodging and weaving that he'll only shout out a quick: ] On your left! Sorry! [ before taking a quick sidestep and dodge swiftly around the body in his path. maybe he's not that sorry, because it is very good practice.

but should you find him in the training wing, and he doesn't happen to be running the same routine of exercises at the moment, he's likely setting up a court for Pyramid. whether the game means anything to him these days or not, it's still at least fun, and it's still a hell of a good work out. so, if he catches you watching, he'll likely wave you over. ] Hey! Come here, this thing needs two people.

[ if you're either someone from his brood, or one of the two guardians of the station, he'll start chattering to you while doing his exercises, or practicing some solo Pyramid runs. ]

So, this is what I figured. I'm not going home, and it doesn't really matter when I die, because time's all screwy anyway. [ it does matter, because he was on his way to a good death, to a certain and sure peace that he'd longed for, that he and Kara had both worked so hard for, and that was robbed from him. and yes, he's petulant, and he's bitter about that. but he's going to make sure he's still deserving of it by the time he gets over there. he doesn't like waiting, he doesn't want to, but it's also more than just protecting earth now, isn't it? removing himself means leaving a gaping hole in the souls of his brood, and he can't do that to them. awake only 4 days, and he's already too attached to them to bare the thought of hurting them like that. ] I've got at least, probably, twenty years? At max, thirty or forty? Before my brain's not totally mine anymore? If I'm practicing, but being careful about it?

[ by which, he means strengthening his symbiote bond to further his abilities. ] If I can train it just far enough to get me back where I should be, I'll be useful to you guys. Cylons should be able to shove a person through a wall if they push hard enough, and I sure as frak can't do that right now. I should be able to control something the size of this station and probably more, with the right set up. But I'm not there either.

[ he talks while he's physically distracted with tossing the pyramid ball around, or while doing pull ups, or jump rope. whatever one of the sundry of things he's set himself about to do. ] So, I train myself up that far, then cut it off. I know it's an eventual thing, so the mind meld thing'll keep going, but I only need so much, you know? Then seal it up and batten down the hatches.

CLOSED TO KAYLA RENO;

[ sam's caught up in jogging laps around the training wing, possibly right after word vomiting something close to the speech above at Ren (seeing as he's developed a weird habit of confiding his mental dilemmas in this man), as the man had been making his way through the area for whatever reason. there's a moment of pause, once he's finished, before a thought seems to occur to him, Sam dashing over to Ren, turning to jog backwards in front of him. ] Hey, hey, wait a second. Question.

[ at which point he stops, hands on his hips and lungs working hard to keep up with him. ] You're a warrior or something, right? Space knight? I know there's the Force and all, but you know normal combat too, right?

Could you teach me?

Comments

[frakkincylons]

Well, the Vipers we flew were dated, seeing as the older models had networked systems, which made them susceptible to Cylon hijacking. The older ones were more analog.

They were good ships, though. Worked on three propulsion thrusts that were highly adjustable for fast maneuvering, along with a thrust reversal system to counteract or arrest their forward momentum - made for quick flips to turn on a ship tailing you. [ he makes some gestures as he explains, using a hand held out flat to demonstrate how the ships would move. it feels like flight training all over again. well. because it is. durr. ] The RCS-- reaction control systems, which gave us small amounts of thrust in any given direction to control pitch, yaw and roll, gave better torque for it. You could get really exact with it, but if you didn't know what you were doing, you could be shooting yourself all over the damn place. Touchy things.

[ sam had defintely had some moments where he was just flopping madly and over correcting. it wasn't a good time. the best advice is to just stay cool and level headed. ]

Everything ran on Tylium fuel, which was a high density, high energy ore, that powered sublight engines - letting us travel at a fraction of the speed of light while interplanetary, got a lot more distance out of a lot less time.

[polyphonos]

[She listens carefully - breathing out a small, vague shape of a laugh for the mental image of some hotshot young pilot pinging themselves around the universe like a loose ball bearing. Otherwise--]

These are similar then. We find many starships are, actually. [She places her hand at the yoke of the ship; it's a two handed device with a series of buttons within reach of the finger grips and thumb rests.] This ship runs on a recycled fuel system; it is almost one hundred percent self sustained, which makes it preferable for our purposes here. It has no warp drive unfortunately, so it must be carries from one system to the other but it's long distance travel within is relatively reasonable. If not comfortable. [The cockpit isn't terribly roomy, is it? She gives him a sly look and then reaches under the yoke of the ship to the ship's power console.

It's a small panel just there, difficult to make out without craning the head awkwardly, but she doesn't need to see it just uncover the ignition switches and fire the basic systems. She does both and after a series of small clicks, the ship's basic computer hums to life. A booting readout springs up, a pale holographic projection splayed uncomfortably in the open space above the ship's inert sensor board.] Usually this would be displayed on your closed canopy. It's easier to read then.

[There's a series of system readouts, clearly automated, and a notification of programs as they come online. Green. Green. Green. Green.]

The stick controls pitch and roll. [A click. The stick comes unlocked from it's holding position and she reaches across him to wobble it this way and that. The ship expands and contracts strangely with it, a series of panels shifting and angling differently. It's somewhat like an animal taking a breath.] Yaw is controlled by the foot pedals under your console.

They're very agile in space, but somewhat more difficult to handle in atmospheric drag as the panel rearrangement can sometimes catch backdrafts and the like. We recommend avoiding flying at speed close to the ground.

[frakkincylons]

[ Sam's head cranes to look where she's reaching and inspects everything going on carefully. not terribly easy, considering he's huge and the cockpit is very small, but he's getting the idea of things. when the holographic display pops up, he leans back some, eyebrows lifting in what seems impressed. fancy. the movement of the ship is bizarre, the expanding and contracting, more complicated that just a wing tilting one way or the other. it feels, in a weird way, alive, though this too is just a mechanical ship. either way, he does open his eyes a bit wide with the feeling, laughing a moment at how he'd been surprised by it. ] Whoa.

[ as she speaks and shows him this and that, sam answers with hummed 'mhhm's or 'okay's, just to confirm, yes, he's following along, he's understanding this. it's sticking in his head, actually rather well.

another awkward bend of his neck and torso to look down at the pedals, placing his feet nearby to get an idea of how he'd need to sit, but not pressing on them yet. he'll let cathaway do all the button pressing until she tells him other. ]

Alright. Okay, good. Got it. Do we end up doing a lot of atmospheric flights? [ the Vipers and Raptors had been good for both interplanetary and atmospheric, handling roughly the same - a bit better out in space, but nothing to cause real issue. that'll be something he needs to remember. don't dive into atmo unless you have to. ] So, where do we have thrust controlled, and how much can that be used in maneuvering? Where's it coming from on the ship?

[ he hadn't had too close of a look before hopping in. with the Vipers, Kara and Apollo had done all kinds of tricks with cutting thrust at the right time, using it for high speed flips, all of that. they'd made up for the ships being older models in using everything they had to invent new ways to fly. pragmatism seemed the key. ]

[polyphonos]

Here. [She sets her hand comfortably on parallel handle set into the control panel. It's built into a slide; she pushes it up by a degree and there's a perceptible increase to the hum generated through the ship. She lowers it back into place and it drops back to that low key vibration murmuring through the craft.] It's generated by the pulse core engines at the rear of the ship. The engine has two ports-- [She sets her hand at another control switch, but doesn't flick it] --rear and lower. The rear setting sends the ship forward, and the lower port setting is for straight descent or ascent. The engine can be rerouted during flight for maneuvering, but in general we've mostly seen it used for take off and landing in atmosphere.

[As for his former question? An easy shrug. Cathaway pats the ship's control panel with notable fondness.]

We'd say forty percent of flying is in atmosphere. Ideally we'd suggest lifting out of atmosphere, circling a planet and then dropping back in over your desired destination, but they're perfectly safe to fly on planet. We simply recommend you do it... more slowly and at higher altitudes. We don't recommend flying below 300 feet unless you're making your descent.

[frakkincylons]

[ The ship starts to hum to life, a steady vibration that seems more familiar to the Vipers and Raptors he knows, and he can guess what it is before Cathaway tells him - the engine. Pulse core, he'll need to read up on that. Or ask about it. Even if it has little to do with actual flight mechanics, he wants to know. ] There isn't a manual or anything I can study for this thing, is there?

[ He nods through the rest, taking note of where everything is, building a mental map, and hovering his hands over levers and controls as he mutters out their labels, trying to get some spacial memorization going on. ]

Travel in orbit, try staying above 300 feet. Got it. [ not too hard. In general, the Vipers moved fast in orbit than in atmo, given the lack of force to fight against, so it isn't terribly different. ] What would you say about how they handle in a fight? What's special about them, what're the weak points?

[polyphonos]

[A small, crooked smile. A manual?]

Unfortunately not. Though we could show you all the specifics more directly if you cared for them.

[Mind to mind, of course. It was easier to teach that way, to be sure a person had every small scrap of information if she poured it directly from her mind to theirs. But she allows that it's slightly less pleasant, less tactile; in this, Cathaway might almost empathize with him if he preferred to learn the slower way.]

They're quick and agile. And the shifting exterior plate makes it difficult for most sensor systems to read their profile at anything but short range. You'll have a ring where you're beyond easy sight marking and still within weapon's range. The pulse engine emits something like a shielding interface as well in whichever direction it's oriented. It's designed to keep debris from interacting with the engine housing, but-- [there's a lightness to her voice] --We've found it convenient for disrupting many kinds of weapons systems in a tight spot.

[frakkincylons]

Worth asking. [ sam gives a sheepish smile and shrugs. so, nothing the old fashioned way. that's alright, they're not old fashioned people anymore.

but, more directly? mind to mind? the idea initially puts him ill at ease, just as a kneejerk reaction, from all that he'd spoken to her about the other day, but the moments since had given him time to gain better perspective. make a plan that made more sense. something that, while not entirely comfortable, is closer to what the right thing to do, is. a decision he could at least be proud of. and part of that is letting this connection grow. so, after a moment, he nods a couple short times. ] If you think that'd be the better way to learn it... yeah, I don't mind.

[ after all, how much had he done that with the systems of the Galactica, the Battlestars, and the Colony? he hadn't known how they worked before, at least, he doesn't remember it being somewhere in his mind, but plugging in had given him all he'd needed to take full control. of course, he'd likely have to sit here for hours with this ship, if he tried the same thing. it'd be easier to just be shown, from Cathaway's experience.

he nods along with the rest of the explanation, smiling in places, particularly at the end, when she mentions using something not really meant for combat as a combat facet. ] Clever. I'll have to keep that in mind. About how big is that ring? When you're out of sight, but in weapons range?

[polyphonos]

We suppose it entirely depends on how well the pilot you're flying against can see and the atmosphere in which you're flying, but it isn't especially large. Simply big enough to get off one advantageous shot with a long distance projectile. The range on your long distance projectiles is more extreme than your close combat lasers. We typically suggest approaching from a higher or lower altitude and depending on the enemy fighter. It's good for a surprise shot and little more.

[Perched on the side of the fighter's fuselage, Cathaway draws her hands back with a faint chime of the metallic charms there. She regards the systems for a moment, affectionate, then turns her attention to him more fully. Her gaze is piercing, fixed. She smiles, a pleasant expression though marginally too still - something vaguely artificial or removed about it. She turns her hand and offers it to him: supple, easy.]

We find teaching directly to be helpful. That way you know our feelings and habits as much as your own. It can be a convenient well of experience if you find yourself in a tight spot.

[frakkincylons]

Makes sense. But hey, good to know either way. Getting the jump can mean the entire fight, sometimes.

[ and a lucky shot could end it before it starts, too. for a moment, he blinks at her, from the gaze that's a bit distant, down to the hand offered, and gradually, sam lifts his own, apprehension in the movement and pulsing in his own connection to the hive, but willing.

if nothing else, he can't say he isn't curious what this kind of thing would be like. his memories of being connected in the datastream are all a blur, vague though prominent, but don't have real definition. this is something different. carefully, his palm lays over hers, grasping, and waiting for the instruction she's meaning to transfer to him. ]

[polyphonos]

Yes, we've found that true in our universes as well.

[There's a sensation of something large moving in the dark, something imperceptible in the periphery of the moment. Somewhere a shadow passes across some distant celestial body and here Samuel Anders puts his hand in hers. She takes it gently. The top of her palm and her fingertips are calloused from work, but her touch is careful as if his hand in hers is something she might break otherwise; and under it all, through her skin and sinew and the link that stretches spindle thin between them, pulses something more visceral, more present than the woman's vague physicality.

She firms her grip by a degree, gives him a smile that's meant to be (feels through their minds) reassuring. And then she unravels him, unravels herself, untwisting the narrow little link between them into their base elements. If their link is a rope, she takes it down to it's individual filaments - breathes space and air and distance into what might otherwise be so small and narrow as to be air tight. It expands between and around them: the link between them, the ones between this hangar and some far off star, from this place to every elsewhere diminished to a single flat plane. They exist, independently and overlapping, in every place at every moment.

In one of them: a ship very much like this one slices through the atmosphere. It rumbles in flight, the sound of the panels shifting and engine churning in the tunnel of air loud even through the insulation of the cockpit. The controls vibrate under their fingers, a steady low-level buzz that dulls the distance between touch and feel - the ship feels like an extension of the hand, as alive as they are as it slashes up through the upper altitude of some remote, remembered planet. A few control shifts - easily memorized - and the ship's nose narrows to a spike as it drives up toward space, piercing atmosphere like a needle through a bubble and stripping itself of the wind resistance.

Buoyancy. A moment's breathlessness, and then the ship's zero-G systems kick on and the false security claps back around their shoulders. They turn the controls, jam the rudder panel pedals, and the ship corkscrews up and away across the starfield. The green and grey planet spins out from under them. The throttle opens. Where do they want to go?]

[frakkincylons]

[ all in all, the feeling isn't as bizarre as sam was worried it might be. definitely new, and strange in it's own right, but not so jolting and shocking to his mind - to be unraveled and moved across immeasurable planes - as he'd braced for. like confluence, like elements melding back into the pattern they rose up from to form his corporeal self. like the fuzzy, vague memories he has of when he'd become so, so much more than just Sam Anders.

he'll be disturbed, later, by how easily he falls into it. but right now, sam's finding a comfort in just floating along in the wake of where cathaway pulls him, physical eyes staring vacant at the console in front of him.

the ship that had felt so new to him seconds ago now seems like an old friend, like the well worn favorite book someone keeps on a nightstand, dog-eared pages and crinkled spine, familiarity at every edge of it. the upward spike, the moment of float as they break atmosphere, and the elegant dive across the pure black of space, gliding like skates on ice. his mind adheres to the mechanical knowledge and muscle memory, slipping into it with no more complication than pulling on a new pair of shoes would be.

an instant of pause settles, sam just breathing it in, before his mind starts to search again. where do we go... his mind presses, wanting to move the hands in front of him to press out into the vastness in front of them, build up speed as far is it'll go and start maneuvering. the universe like a playground, with no friction to drag at them, and no enemy to be concerned with as of yet. ]

[polyphonos]

[And the ship bends to his will - as literal is it is metaphorical. There's a sensation of rearrangement, of flexion, of the entire hull expanding by a degree like some animal taking a breath as the engine reels, then opens and all the thrust courses from under their hands on the controls and through the craft. The beauty of space flight is the truth that, uninterrupted, they could set this course at this velocity forever.

It progresses for a minute, for two. The planet they came from recedes to a swirled marble on the ghost of their sensor data. What appears to be a small asteroid field begins to register at long range. They flash toward it, chewing up the distance. In forty seconds, the contacts on the board resolve into two types: environmental and unknown; there are three of the latter, rising up from the inert marks on the board indicating the debris field.

Here we go. Something to fight.]

[frakkincylons]

[ Like Vipers running targeting drills while one of the ships mined all over again. Drones zipping here and there, practice in maneuvering through the debris, keeping your eyes on the target and the obstructions always in mind. Don’t always trust your sensors, watch where the frak you're going, use your velocity and environment to your advantage, because the Raiders are fast and ruthless.

Feeling like he’s sinking into the comfort of this, between his own experience in piloting, and the wealth that Cathaway’s many minds offer up in resource, Sam’s diving them forward towards the field, taking an arc upwards, if you can really call any direction in space “up”, and that’s the other trick to it isn’t it? There aren’t any boundaries, no gravity to account for in open space, no maximum altitude or surface floor. Any plane or angle of approach is acceptable, and he’s bringing them in with the debris as cover, from a 45 to the first target, whichever’s furthest separated from the other two.

He’ll wait idling behind one of the larger rocks until it passes and offers a blind spot, sticking close to the asteroid as he rounds the surface of it and takes a quick shot. ]

[polyphonos]

[The ship that falls into the targeting reticle is an arrangement of sleek lines and delicate knife pointed wings: a burning yellow engine housing in the aft of the craft. It's a dark matte against the blacker, darker star field - hard to make with the eye, but easy enough for their sensors to ping.

They snap off the shot. It crackles across the enemy ship's magnetic shields, hard enough to dent them. A second shot shatters the defenses. A third punches a hole into the dark canopy and a breath later the entirety of the reinforced material shatters out of its framing as space hauls the environment inside the cockpit outward.

To starboard, the two remaining craft heel hard over. An alarm sounds. They're being targeted.]

[frakkincylons]

[ There’s that familiar pilot-scoring-a-point streak of pride in Sam, part of his mind still very much the competitive athlete and textbook jock, despite however false the memories had been. Like Boomer, like Athena, maybe they were generated, written programs, but it was all just as real as anything else to them. He’s come to accept that as part of who he is.

As alerts sound, not surprisingly with how he’s given his position and presence away now, Sam banks hard, zipping back through the clusters of rock, putting obstacles between him and the targeting ships to break the sensor line, and bring all this extra junk into the field to clutter it.

Most of his attention goes to maneuvering, but he has part of his mind on the sensors, tracking where the other two targets are headed, how they’re following, what distance he has. Once he can find an asteroid big enough, with enough shadowed pockets on it, he has a thought coming to mind - remembering the stories Kara told about Scar. ]

How fast can the ship boot back up after a shutdown? Does if have any cloaking features? [ something to get them off dradis -- radar -- long enough to be lost. ]

[polyphonos]

[Two minutes from cold engines to full maneuverability. No cloaking, just that wobbly sensor reading and shield systems to rely on. It's felt information more than it is an answer, thought so intuitively they might as well be his own mind reminding him of the information. They could kill their engines, lurk along the surface of the asteroid and hope for the enemy ships to bypass them, but the heat signatures might linger too long to be useful.

Wouldn't it be better to simply outmaneuver them? There's a boldness to the thought, a vibration like an animal chomping at its bit and tugging at its reins. Their hands humming on the control stick or the ship vibrating under their fingers.]