A silent portent of death rattles with a slow hiss of stale ozone engulfed in a melange of kamitra cigar smoke and Tarach spice pooling around micro-fractures in the hull, atmosphere bleeding into the void as a kaleidoscopic array neon alarms plea for attention. The silence breaks in spurts and whistles of thrusters protesting in crackled moans and pitch screams forever strapped to its slavish rack mount. The adrenaline fire of slow motion consumes the pilot as they wave pantaa prayer sticks to the chants of "9%, 8%, 7%..." counting off the remaining hull integrity amid the cascade of reactive plating peeling off the carcass. The final lateral thrust of salvation sends a king's ransom in illicit commodities bounding across the docking bay; cases of Eranin Pearl Whisky, Lavian Brandy, and Leesti Evil Juice hammering in chorus to the encore of bulkheads giving way; ballooning the remnant of "Lucky 7's" cargo hold onto the ceramic plate of the dock
