>>5943184After a minute of jogging through the twists and turns of the gamma crew quarters, you reach a transit hub providing access to the rail system dedicated to transporting the lifeblood of the ship - its crew and cargo. You punch the elevator call pad next to one set of large double doors, and impatiently watch the time tick over to twenty-hundred-eleven hours on your implant-provided HUD. While calling the transit system an ‘elevator’ may be a slight misnomer considering the rails run transversely down the spine of the ship in addition to vertically, the name seemed to stick from civilian… <span class="mu-i">DING!</span>
You hold that errant thought as the door hisses open, eager to be on your way. You attempt to barge right in but find yourself met with a wall of black uniforms — square, orange patches adorning their epaulettes. The timing couldn’t be worse, the elevator car is chock full with a damage-control team and they're escorting a hover-cargo laden with layers upon layers of priceless voidplate. They all look at you expectantly, though without any particular recognition. You aren’t exactly familiar with the non-commissioned members of beta watch yet, but the supervisor of the assorted technicians notices the lieutenant commander’s pips on your shoulders. The stern looking Tyllano salutes you, belatedly followed by the rest of his crew.
“Didn’t expect to be stopped down ‘ere at this time-a-day, sir, but yer welcome to join us.” The supervisor cocks his greying, feathered head to the side at almost a ninety-degree angle in an alarming display of his race’s biology. Even after all your years interacting with the owl-like people, their mannerisms still catch you off guard occasionally.
“I’m quite the <span class="mu-i">early-bird</span> myself, so I can relate to keepin’ odd hours.” He chuckles at his own joke and shuffles over slightly to make what could dubiously be called ‘room’ for you next to him. Apparently the gruff old man has a sense of humour, despite what appearances might suggest.
You contemplate waiting for the next car to arrive but you don't have any time to spare. After a moment's hesitation, you suck in your gut and squeeze in between his feathery bulk and a thin Laedra woman who has yet to take her eyes off her datapad. It’s a tight fit but you were planning to hold your breath anyway, considering how far into their watch the not-so-fresh smelling work crew are. You glance over at the internal control panel and thank your lucky stars that your destination is already selected. The small Marrok technician squished into that corner of the lift by his bulky supervisor jabs the door control impatiently and a few seconds later you’re on your way. You barely feel the car accelerate as it shoots off along its rail, the grav plates you’re standing on evidently doing an excellent job at damping the inertial forces. Leaning back slightly, you eye the metre wide, black hexagons stacked precipitously on the cargo bed behind you.
