<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/92/1a/5e/921a5e26056ce84da5052a39054ebdf3.jpg)</div><br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>NAME:</strong>Ciane (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=333213.msg15874326#msg15874326)<br/><strong>WEARING:</strong>coverall (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/01/61/b2/0161b2e9a0471c051e77a3b661eec5c2.jpg).<br/><strong>LOCATION:</strong>Losing it a bit, then getting it back<br/><strong>TAGGING:</strong>Sarah/open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Ciane had a pretty good idea what the AI had borked on detecting the incoming junk: shite happens. It was a mathematical law, in fact. The lower you were on the totem pole, the more shite happened to you. Only made sense, seeing as had you had all those people up above you with their flies open and their knickers down. And their lot, well. They were about as far down the pole as you could slide without  falling right the fock off.<br/><br/>Naturally, that was a 'why', not a how. The actual how was probably about as simple, adding up to poor maintenance and a bunch of nobs at home not giving a rat's arse what happened to a handful of cons. At any rate, she hoped that was all it was. It'd be proper crap, having lost everything, to now have someone trying deliberately to kill her. Again.<br/><br/>Anywise, most of that was out of her hands. Back, not brain was her field, so as  others made plans to go grab the bit of junk that had hit them (and thank bloody God she wasn't on<strong>that </strong>crew), and finish up critical repairs, she decided to get down to some practical business that was within her grasp.<br/><br/>"Ay'll go walkabout, see if I can find a good place for us to doss down, clean it up some." And secure it. She couldn't say why, but she still had a 'spider on the back of the neck' feeling, telling her everything was not quite all right. Even beyond the obvious. "Look for some kip, while Ay'm at it. Right starving, Ay am." One eyebrow got raised at pink-hair girl. Sarah, was it? "Coming with then, luv? More hands means more chow."<br/>