Dragon Star Battleship

Chapter 1

Morrigan watched the bottle smash over the head of a man, fragments of glass spraying out from the tiny explosion. One of them flew past her eye, close enough she knew she had just dodged a bullet by feel, but too fast for her to really confirm anything.

The man who had been hit collapsed over his bar stool, a brief flash of his tongue through his lips before he slid off and hit the ground. Morrigan looked over at his assailant, who was already engaged in the next fight with someone else, its reptilian tail coiled up in the air behind it. Morrigan shook her head. It was so much senseless violence. Not that that was out of order for Brigg's, but it was just slightly too close for Morrigan. She enjoyed a good show, just needed to make sure she didn't accidentally lose an arm in the crossfire.

"How's the evening, Captain?" Morrigan felt the hand of her first mate, Skidd, on her shoulder. She didn't look back to greet him, keeping her eye on the unstable crowd in front of her.

"Same as usual. Somebody said the Spot ain't real, somebody else said the Union's got it wrapped up, somebody flashed a card, and that was it. All hell here." Morrigan gestured at the scene in front of her before tucking a stray hair back out of her face. She tried stuffing it under her hat but she knew it was a wasted effort, eventually settling on her ear, where it would inevitably pop back out again.

"Drink any good though?" Skidd pulled up a chair beside Morrigan and tried to wave for the bartender. As soon as he sat, his whole body slouched down, as if all his bent up exhaustion was being released. And then he popped right back up again and laughed, smacking the Captain on the back. When you had an exoskeleton, slouching wasn't a thing. Fucking carapace creatures. It was a miracle that Morrigan had ever even let him onto the ship, and now he was just abusing that privilege everyday as her first mate.

"As good as Brigg's can get," Morrigan replied. The insectoid beside her seemed to shrug, though she could never tell with him, and his beady black eyes switched back to being fixed on the bartender.

"I'll never know if this damn bartender never gets his ass over here. Hey!" A wiry arm banged on the counter of the bar, surprising those nearby. That wiry, thin looking arm was hiding a lot of strength. Fucking carapace creatures, Morrigan repeated the thought again in her head, glancing at her own arms, reminded of the muscle definition she had once lacked and had to work so hard at maintaining. Meanwhile, this one beside her was just born this way, like they all always were.

"Don't get too happy, we'll be sailing out of her in a few minutes." Morrigan sipped on her drink, swivelling around on her seat to check the scene behind her. A seemingly endless sea of tables. A haze from sweat, breath, and moisture that almost formed clouds against the ceiling. It consumed the back of the bar, making it impossible to see through. And then, on the right, the only window out of this place, showcasing the collection of space-faring vessels docked at Brigg's. Behind them, a black canvas, coloured with tiny white dots for stars. The whole restaurant was tethered to the tiny moon, Attis, but was built so you could always see any ships approaching.

Or at least, the ones approaching from one particular direction.

"I don't see why we can't stay here longer, Captain," Skidd continued. "Not like anything is happening out there anyways."

"Exactly. That's why we need to move." Morrigan took a final drink from her glass before setting it down and shoving it across the bar. That hair had fallen loose again. This time she would give up on it and ignore it. She rubbed one of her eyes. "Nothing means something is happening."

"You always say that," Skidd replied, shaking his head. He clicked his mouth together a few times, a derivative of laughter for him and old habit, usually from when he was talking to people from his species. "And what is up with this bartender?" Skidd's eyes were unreadable, tiny black things that hadn't moved from the back of the barkeep. His feelings had to be constantly conveyed by his gestures, or those clicks, or, in this case, by the clear frustration in his voice.