Post by Cole Torin on Aug 29, 2006 21:18:37 GMT -5
Coruscant...
So this is what it looks like... thought the pilot of a triple-tone Incom/SubPro Z-95 Mk.II Custom as the small fighter craft cruised through the upper layers of the city planet's atmosphere.
The pilot, nestled in the rather cramped, yet homely cockpit of the snubfighter, activated his comm system and spoke into his helmet mic.
"Coruscant Control, Coruscant Control. This is Independent Pilot Cole Torin of Swift Vengeance requesting landing vector, over."
A dozen or so kilometers below, the highest layer of Coruscant repulsor traffic skimmed through the vast spaces between the highest skyscrapers of the Republic homeworld. As Cole dipped his craft to starboard to get a better view, Coruscant Control came back on, the voice on the other end fuzzy from the typical distortion of the Headhunter's comm system.
"Swift Vengenace, roger. Set navicomputer to beacon K278C5 and land in the auxiliary bay."
Cole thumbed the mic button on his throttle control with his left ring finger and spoke again.
"Roger, Control. Beacon K278C5, auxiliary bay. Swift Vengeance, out."
In a few seconds the Z-95 made an inverted split-S and zoomed through the atmosphere towards the distant beacon. Cole let the autopilot make the initial run, Coruscant's central computers temporarily controlling the snubfighter as it travelled over to the day/night line of the planet. As the Headhunter hit an air pocket and buffeted momentarily, Cole instinctivly reached for the control stick, only to have the snubfighter regain altitude a moment later.
Soon Cole's fighter had made it's way towards the heart of the planet's surface. Just visible on the horizon was the Jedi Temple, and not far away the Senate building, it's large convex dome sticking up like a pimple on the planet's surface.
"Heh...well that's really what it is, isn't it?" said the pilot to his cockpit sensors. "A festering hive of squabbling bureaucrats and corrupt politicians. I'm glad I'm never going to end up there."
As the Headhunter made a gentle roll to port, Cole placed his hands back on the controls as the computer beeped that it was returning control to him for the final leg, which required finesse that a computer couldn't possibly hope to possess. As Cole gently guided the snubfighter between skyscrapers and walkways, random Republic citizens stopped to eye the red, black and yellow fighter as it made it's way towards a small bay that seemed only a few klicks away. In fact, the hangar was huge, easily big enough to fit a luxury cruise liner or a medium transport. Several other independent pilots had their craft resting here. They ranged from almost-new snubfighers similar to his to old, dilapadated craft barely able to be considered flyable. The fact that the owners of those ships were able to keep them flying was a testimony to their skill. It took Cole another five minutes to make the trip.
Because the hangar was in-atmopshere, it lacked the magcon field, or magnetic containment field, found on space-worthy starships. Cole glided his Z-95 Mk.II into the hangar on repulsorlifts, settling down towards the center of the hangar, the snubfighter's nose facing a trio of brightly-colored Mk.I Headhunters. The Z-95 Mk.I possessed a swing-wing, V-tailed shape, and were purely atmospheric, although they could be refitted for space within a few hours. The pilots watched the freelance pilot guide the Headhunter down, then returned to their conversation, seeming to concentrate on the swing-wing assembly of the yellow Mark I of the trio.
As Cole felt the landing skits hit solid durasteel, Torin powered down his systems and doffed his helmet before popping the canopy and climbing down a ladder that a hangar technician fit on the side of the craft. Rustling his hair to free the sweat droplets from it, Cole took off his gloves and placed them inside the helmet before putting it under his right arm and making his way out of the hangar, nodding at the three Mark I pilots on his way towards the turbolift.
As Cole stepped in and the doors began to close, Cole saw the three pilots walk towards his craft with a welding torch and a painting gun between them. Cole reached for his pocket comlink and hit a red button on the back of it, activating a proximity alarm for his Headhunter should the pilots get within ten meters of the craft in any direction. Surely enough, a few moments later, Cole heard the distant wailing of a high-pitched klaxon eminating from a custom storage bay in the nose of his Headhunter. Cole merely smiled, knowing that the alarm would go off as soon as the perpetrators got outside the proximity range.
As Cole stepped out of the turbolift into the main lobby of the building, he whistled down a repulsorcab and stepped in, headed off to the nearest decent pilot's cantina for a good drink...
OOC: Replies, although not expected, are welcome.
So this is what it looks like... thought the pilot of a triple-tone Incom/SubPro Z-95 Mk.II Custom as the small fighter craft cruised through the upper layers of the city planet's atmosphere.
The pilot, nestled in the rather cramped, yet homely cockpit of the snubfighter, activated his comm system and spoke into his helmet mic.
"Coruscant Control, Coruscant Control. This is Independent Pilot Cole Torin of Swift Vengeance requesting landing vector, over."
A dozen or so kilometers below, the highest layer of Coruscant repulsor traffic skimmed through the vast spaces between the highest skyscrapers of the Republic homeworld. As Cole dipped his craft to starboard to get a better view, Coruscant Control came back on, the voice on the other end fuzzy from the typical distortion of the Headhunter's comm system.
"Swift Vengenace, roger. Set navicomputer to beacon K278C5 and land in the auxiliary bay."
Cole thumbed the mic button on his throttle control with his left ring finger and spoke again.
"Roger, Control. Beacon K278C5, auxiliary bay. Swift Vengeance, out."
In a few seconds the Z-95 made an inverted split-S and zoomed through the atmosphere towards the distant beacon. Cole let the autopilot make the initial run, Coruscant's central computers temporarily controlling the snubfighter as it travelled over to the day/night line of the planet. As the Headhunter hit an air pocket and buffeted momentarily, Cole instinctivly reached for the control stick, only to have the snubfighter regain altitude a moment later.
Soon Cole's fighter had made it's way towards the heart of the planet's surface. Just visible on the horizon was the Jedi Temple, and not far away the Senate building, it's large convex dome sticking up like a pimple on the planet's surface.
"Heh...well that's really what it is, isn't it?" said the pilot to his cockpit sensors. "A festering hive of squabbling bureaucrats and corrupt politicians. I'm glad I'm never going to end up there."
As the Headhunter made a gentle roll to port, Cole placed his hands back on the controls as the computer beeped that it was returning control to him for the final leg, which required finesse that a computer couldn't possibly hope to possess. As Cole gently guided the snubfighter between skyscrapers and walkways, random Republic citizens stopped to eye the red, black and yellow fighter as it made it's way towards a small bay that seemed only a few klicks away. In fact, the hangar was huge, easily big enough to fit a luxury cruise liner or a medium transport. Several other independent pilots had their craft resting here. They ranged from almost-new snubfighers similar to his to old, dilapadated craft barely able to be considered flyable. The fact that the owners of those ships were able to keep them flying was a testimony to their skill. It took Cole another five minutes to make the trip.
Because the hangar was in-atmopshere, it lacked the magcon field, or magnetic containment field, found on space-worthy starships. Cole glided his Z-95 Mk.II into the hangar on repulsorlifts, settling down towards the center of the hangar, the snubfighter's nose facing a trio of brightly-colored Mk.I Headhunters. The Z-95 Mk.I possessed a swing-wing, V-tailed shape, and were purely atmospheric, although they could be refitted for space within a few hours. The pilots watched the freelance pilot guide the Headhunter down, then returned to their conversation, seeming to concentrate on the swing-wing assembly of the yellow Mark I of the trio.
As Cole felt the landing skits hit solid durasteel, Torin powered down his systems and doffed his helmet before popping the canopy and climbing down a ladder that a hangar technician fit on the side of the craft. Rustling his hair to free the sweat droplets from it, Cole took off his gloves and placed them inside the helmet before putting it under his right arm and making his way out of the hangar, nodding at the three Mark I pilots on his way towards the turbolift.
As Cole stepped in and the doors began to close, Cole saw the three pilots walk towards his craft with a welding torch and a painting gun between them. Cole reached for his pocket comlink and hit a red button on the back of it, activating a proximity alarm for his Headhunter should the pilots get within ten meters of the craft in any direction. Surely enough, a few moments later, Cole heard the distant wailing of a high-pitched klaxon eminating from a custom storage bay in the nose of his Headhunter. Cole merely smiled, knowing that the alarm would go off as soon as the perpetrators got outside the proximity range.
As Cole stepped out of the turbolift into the main lobby of the building, he whistled down a repulsorcab and stepped in, headed off to the nearest decent pilot's cantina for a good drink...
OOC: Replies, although not expected, are welcome.