<ul>On the floor to the left of her were the two handguns that had previously inhabited her hands. The world was growing fuzzy, the blood loss seemingly more stubborn than her will to stay awake, but even so Zilah was aware that she could potentially pick up the weapons and riddle whoever was on board with holes. Then again, that was all contingent on the number of bodies on board. There was a huge difference between one and twenty as she had come to learn on Prozea I. <br/><br/>When the air-lock doors hissed open, a paper-thin plane of green light began to scan over her features, much to her annoyance. Knowing it was useless to try to move away from it, the woman simply stood there, until the computer had identified her. <br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Zilah DronstrÃ¶m. Imperial Space Corps number three most wanted.</span><br/><br/>She'd gone down a notch. Who the hell had taken second place now?<br/><br/>It had been a while -- maybe about three months? -- since she'd been captured by one of these Corps ships, and so the luxury of being daily informed of the Most Wanted list was not one she possessed. Just as the AI system was about to prattle on her list of accomplishments, a deep voice disrupted the reel. Raising an eyebrow, Zilah's eyes blinked and tried to focus on the speaker. <br/><br/>The first thing she saw was the barrel of a gun pointed directly at her, and attached to it was a pair of arms that belonged to a space patrol agent. As was her natural instinct, Zilah sized him up first in order to better understand what kind of person she was up against. Despite his training, space patrol was boring work and he had likely grown soft flying through space day in and day out, with little to keep him sharp. This played to her advantage. He spoke to her in the Official Interstellar Language, and so in her incapacitated mental state it took her a long moment to rifle through the phonological information contained in her brain and pull out the necessary words.<br/><br/>"It was just about to get good," she snickered, leaning against the cold, metal doorframe when her legs threatened to stop supporting her weight. The criminal's speech was fluent, though the sounds were lined with the edge of an accent that hinted this was not her first language. As the Corps puppet aimed his gun, Zilah found that she was not terribly intimidated, knowing that she was far more precious alive than dead. Surely the Human Empire would want their priceless artifacts back.<br/><br/>"You know what? This is for the better." Nodding, she flashed him a winning smile, her face betraying her physical state as the colour washed away entirely from her skin. "My ship is a piece of shit and what's the nearest prison? Kryoli? Perfect, I have some business there, anyway."<br/><br/>Pushing off the doorframe, feet dragged themselves into the hull of the Agniastra, her hands pawing at the contraptions on either side of her as she held them for support, not much caring whether they were of some value to someone. <br/><br/>One step, two step, floor.<br/><br/>Her legs buckled beneath her and thankfully Zilah had the foresight to spread her hands out when she crumbled down. Groaning softly, the woman rolled onto her back and peered up with dark eyes at the face hovering above her, a hand instictively cupping her stomach. "This is when you help me, soldier. Or did you want your next big promotion to die on the floor of your ship?"<br/></ul>