![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Nov. 12th, 2006 05:49 pmAtton grumbled, prodding the console with one finger and watching as a string of random letters scrolled across the screen. He had found out shortly after boarding that the comm. system was temperamental, difficult, and couldn’t get a message any further than a system away.
It was much like the engines, which were sluggish, and frequently cut out. And the console, which had sticky keys, and the doors, which didn’t open unless you hit the console.
He wasn’t far from Dantooine, now. A message could wait. But, he noted, looking back in the engine rooms, that fuel overload probably couldn’t.
Exploding was never fun, after all.
(Except when it was.)
Six or seven years earlier, on the Leviathan, the personal warship of Darth Malak.
Jaq sat, with his fingers steepled, and stared at the lift door. It didn’t open, but he expected that. Banging the console hadn’t worked, nor had rearranging the wires, nor had hitting it with his vibrosword, so staring was certainly not going to work.
It was, he rationalised, to be expected. This area of the Leviathan had suffered heavy damage in the last battle. Another part of him, however - Tiny, pouting, and glaring resolutely at the door - said that of course it would be Malak’s ship that the lifts didn’t work on, and decided that this was a microcosm for the Leviathan as a whole.
He had hummed all the drinking songs he knew. Twice. Even that one Zholl had sung that was entirely composed of grunts. Good song, that.
As this thought ended, the door hissed open, presumably onto the bridge level.
It was much like the engines, which were sluggish, and frequently cut out. And the console, which had sticky keys, and the doors, which didn’t open unless you hit the console.
He wasn’t far from Dantooine, now. A message could wait. But, he noted, looking back in the engine rooms, that fuel overload probably couldn’t.
Exploding was never fun, after all.
(Except when it was.)
Six or seven years earlier, on the Leviathan, the personal warship of Darth Malak.
Jaq sat, with his fingers steepled, and stared at the lift door. It didn’t open, but he expected that. Banging the console hadn’t worked, nor had rearranging the wires, nor had hitting it with his vibrosword, so staring was certainly not going to work.
It was, he rationalised, to be expected. This area of the Leviathan had suffered heavy damage in the last battle. Another part of him, however - Tiny, pouting, and glaring resolutely at the door - said that of course it would be Malak’s ship that the lifts didn’t work on, and decided that this was a microcosm for the Leviathan as a whole.
He had hummed all the drinking songs he knew. Twice. Even that one Zholl had sung that was entirely composed of grunts. Good song, that.
As this thought ended, the door hissed open, presumably onto the bridge level.
