Securely strapped in to the driver's seat of the Salamander, Hannabel curses the limited view afforded by the front viewport. "Like lookin' out of a grox's ********..." she mutters in disgust. She blanches involuntarily when she catches sight of Moore's ride, unleashing another string of expletives, then quickly thumbs the vox to the Absalom forces' secure channel.

"Everyone is seeing this, right? Moore's got himself a proper tank, and we're in an open-topped tin can. Vulture One, new mission. As soon as the race starts, your priority mission is to take out those exposed gunners, got it? We can't outrun a battle cannon, so the only way we get out of this alive is by sniffing Moore's fumes and shooting his fat arse full o' lead. We'll do our bit down here - we might be able to take both the stubbers out with our flamer, but the more firepower that's coming their way the better."

Just then she hears Echo's transmission, despair mounting as she listens. Finally, she begins rhythmically banging her helmeted head against the controls in sheer frustration. "Lord-Captain, please tell me that you didn't authorise that transmission? Please? You realize that he just told everyone out there that they're heretics and that if they don't bend the knee to us we'll kill 'em? If anyone needed an extra push to target us in this race, he just gave it to 'em!"