Thread: Into The Black [Elite:Dangerous] (freeko & Erit of Eastcris)

A computerized, feminine voice sounded off in the cockpit, UNDER ATTACK, a useless little notification that made Harkon Muris grit his teeth as low-powered pulse lasers sliced through the kinetic barriers of his dinky second-rate Sidewinder. His opponent was piloting the same, of course, but in the asteroid belt this exercise was set in said opponent had managed to get the drop on him. Big deal, he figured, shields regenerated over time so long as he didn't take enough sustained fire for them to go down, it didn't matter. That in mind, he slammed back the throttle, throwing himself into a full reverse and pitching up, sending his practice craft into a tight vertical U-turn before reversing his momentum and directing maximum power to his engines and systems sub-routines his hardpoints could keep quiet until he drew a bead. The maneuver placed him on the far side of a hunk of space-rock from his sparring partner, but the cover wouldn't last they couldn't blast through it with the weapons they'd been given, but she could circle around the asteroid and then he'd be screwed if he didn't get his ass in gear right then. His fingers brushed against the controls, the ship responding WEAPONS ONLINE. It was time for a counterattack. He pointed his nose towards the rock's horizon line, opening the throttle and giving himself some strafe to keep from going in a straight line going in a simple vector was a fool's errand. He crested the rock, her identical practice craft zooming by to his side they both turned to face each other, but she got a line of fire first and once more his cockpit filled with visual noise and the dull, apathetic drone of the computer's annoucement. TAKING DAMAGE. Why wasn't there an option to shut that thing up? Whatever they were stuck in a turning battle now, neither quite able to get the other in their sights. His thumb clicked a button on the throttle control, firing the secondary burn and flinging him past her in a blur, the momentum carrying him into a small clear patch in the belt. Not good he hadn't thought this through all the way. Accelerating, he flew straight back into cover just as bright-red light flashed behind him with the promise of defeat if he didn't wise up. Shields were at 60, charging at a snail's pace he disabled flight assist and spun like a top, lining up his paired lasers just as she came around the bend and firing a dose of thermal energy straight into her flight path, barrier glowing its bright azure against the backdrop of the void as it absorbed his attack. Another burst, but by then she'd moved too fast to hit with both barrels a single line sunk into her shields, and they were even. The fight continued like that, dodging and weaving and trading potshots in a long, drawn-out match that to an observer was more game of chess than space battle, but to the participants was a cat-and-mouse game of breathtaking intensity. They wittled away at each other, blow for blow and shot for shot, until he found himself at no shields and critical hull integrity, computer flashing warnings every forty-five seconds to withdraw. She was a little better off probably didn't need to put up with the incessant badgering of the AI, at least. But he refused to simply lay down and lose that would hand her the prize, and he'd never hear the end of it. So, he used his greatest strength a willingness to think outside the box and cheat a little. He opened his throttle and, with a bit of guesswork, set himself on a collision course, coming around the side of an asteroid and barreling, full-tilt, into her ship, sending the pair careening off into the side of one of the many hunks of rock littering the playing field. The simulation chair he sat in abruptly quieted and changed its display, flooding with soft red light and presenting a log-in screen with his callsign already punched in. Eight of Aces. Harkon erased it and opened up the hatch on the big metal box, clambering out of it and blinking under the sudden floodlights of the academy's simulator room, his peers and instructor looking up at him with dumbfounded expressions. The wild-card pilot grinned his stupid, cocky grin and hopped down to the floor, his auburn ponytail swaying gently as he drew up his modest physique to its full, admirable height. The academy's uniform, with its deep blues and gold trim, fit him well, complimenting his own sea-green eyes that always held a self-assured gleam. The instructor opened his mouth, and Harkon raised a hand, Before you berate me, teach, the simulation's supposed to test our flight skills, not our survival instincts. The professor, a veteran of many battles and short temper, practically turned blue with swallowed rage, but everyone's attention was stolen when the hatch of his sparring partner and sole competition's simulator creaked softly before slamming open. Hey the smug snake chirped, there you are! Looks like another tie, huh?