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News Scrolly Thingy

Welcome to Year Eight

"Love keeps her in the air when she oughta fall down, tells you she's hurtin' fore she keens. Makes her a home."

Year Eight and Still Flyin'! Thank You, Everyone!

Pages: (7) [1] 2 3 ... Last » ( Go to first unread post )

 Band of Brothers, Season 1: Episode 2
The Shangren
Posted: Oct 14 2010, 08:27 AM

Holy Diver

Group: NPC
Posts: 27
Member No.: 564
Joined: 16-March 08

<Dropping Soon!>
Lt. Douglas Marker
Posted: Oct 15 2010, 10:26 AM

He's a Liar

Group: NPC
Posts: 2
Member No.: 1,120
Joined: 15-October 10

Somewhere in the Black…

Between the worlds and wars, great empty plains of stars and openness acted as the link to everything created by mankind. The vast majority of this void, this Black, was empty, left alone in patience and peace, but across the universe, small pockets found themselves converted from space to stage, where the plays of humanity told their tales for an audience of immortals.

The curtain rose, and the players, a Jo Lynn class freighter and an Allied Whippoorwill, found themselves stage center.

And among a spotlight of stars, the play began…

”Unidentified Jo Lynn Class…gunboat I guess…this is Lieutenant Douglas Marker of the I.A.V. Ticonderoga. You are hereby ordered to power down your reactor and prepare to be boarded.”

A stickler for rules and the brutality bequeathed on the breakers of said rules, the Allied Officer seemed a chiseled paradox; one befitting a poster-boy for Allied Law enforcement with the soul of a fairy tale troll.

Several beats passed before a female voice responded to Lieutenant Marker’s ultimatum, ”What seems to be the problem, Lieutenant Douglas Marker?”

Marker’s considerable neck clenched in irritation, displaying a roadmap of veins and violence beneath the thinnest of flesh, ”Power down…now, or…”

”There it is,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the wave.

”There’s what?” barked the now fully perturbed Douglas Marker.

”The threat I assume,” she replied coolly, ”Sorry for interrupting…I tend to jump the gun, but to make up for it, I promise to gasp or something, when you make your big reveal.”

Muting his head set, Marker glanced at this tactical officer, ”Fire a warning shot by their port engine.”

With the blind obedience reserved for career military, or a cult, the tactical officer fired a missile beyond the Jo Lynn’s port engine and manually detonated the ordinance a safe distance from the craft.

A smile, smug in design, crept across Marker’s face as he reengaged the audio of his wave, ”Now, power dow…”

”(GASP!)”, as promised, the woman delivered her ‘surprise’ and again interrupted the law enforcement officer.

”I have had enough of this SHIT!,” screamed Marker, ”Power down that wreck and prepare to be boarded on suspicion of theft, armed robbery, and destruction of Allied property!”

A bark of laughter floated through the wave followed quickly by the female voice, Suspicion!?! Let me see if I can solve this case for you, Doug.”

Beyond the forward glass of his Whippoorwill, the Jo Lynn did not power down or roll for a boarding solution. Marker’s clear blue eyes measured the craft ahead and weighed the woman on the other end of his comm channel.

”They’re going to run,” he whispered to himself.

“Readings say that her core isn’t ready for full burn, Lieutenant,” answered his tactical officer.

”They’re going to run,” he repeated.

Triggering his mic, he spoke to his adversary, ”Don’t do it. We’ll cripple your ship before you can warm up your core.”

Beats turned to seconds, until Marker was convinced that the woman had severed the feed, ”Hail her again,” he ordered his Tac Officer, while his eyes remained on the Jo Lynn.

“Sir, the wave channel is still open,” he quickly replied.

”What,” the lieutenant looked confused, but his confusion soon turned to downright bewilderment, when music started to pour from the comm.

”What the rutt is that…a recording?”

“It sounds ‘live’, sir,” answered the Tac Officer.

Marker stepped toward the forward glass, glaring, ”What the dry-humped schoolboy is going on here!?!”

But that question would have to wait, as the Jo Lynn, its core still reading dormant, blasted away from them at an incredibly high rate of speed.

In her wake, The Shangren left behind three stunned police officers and the music of Jeth Riddle and Killi Crash.


<<Please hold for general posting. I want to make sure everyone is comfortable before we start>>
Eleanor Lee
Posted: Oct 19 2010, 09:41 AM

No Chickens

Group: OC
Posts: 59
Member No.: 473
Joined: 17-November 07

”Don’t do it. We’ll cripple your ship before you can warm up your core.”

Eleanor Lee, tyrannical and beautiful, redirected her wave feed from her mic to the array of mics arranged in The Shangren’s galley, which was currently fulfilling its other roll as stage for one Jeth Riddle and one Killi Crash. Heavy chords vibrated from the Jo Lynn’s inner comm system, gifting each crewmember with the first notes of their performance .

Bobbing her head slightly to the beat, Lee switched her mic to feed into the Engine Room, ”Mr. Cooper.”

The line opened in the Engine Room but from all the ambient noise, it seemed that the intercom was being employed. However, amidst the din, Dade Cooper’s voice broke through, ”COUNT ME DOWN, CAPTAIN!”

Spinning away from the comm station, Eleanor absently nodded toward her mono-monikered pilot, Miriam. Bringing the mic to her lips, she spoke for the benefit of both her engineer and her pilot, ”On three…ONE…TWO…THREE!”

As Killi’s drums began to pound, The Shangren blasted into a full-throated heavy burn. Inside the Jo Lynn’s engine, Dade’s Frankenstonian, boron-cooled fusion reactor cycled plasma hotter and faster than all but a handful of craft flying the Black and blasted them away from the Allied Whippoorwill.

With the channel still open to the Engine Room, Dade could be heard screaming in triumph, ”LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU THE QUICK!”

As Killi beat the time, Lee witnessed a power fluctuation flutter across the Bridge’s systems, leaving nothing more than momentarily dimmed readouts in its wake, but from the ‘pop’ that came from the Engine Room, more than a simple power spike was afoot.

”GORRAMITT!”, came Dade’s pain-filled shout over the still active comm.

Without asking about his condition, Eleanor checked her screens to see that the Ticonderoga was indeed in pursuit, albeit at a substantial distance behind them, and The Shangren’s power output, while still well above normal, was less than it had been before the mysterious ‘pop’.

Switching her comm to the Infirmary, Lee committed to the least emotional response to the situation, ”Davina, go to the Engine Room and see if Mr. Cooper is still in one piece.”

”I’M FINE! I’M FINE!,” Dade’s voice burst into the line.

Allowing a beat of irritation to enter her voice, she barked, ”That’s not your department, Mr. Cooper. Davina will make that determination. Now get us at one hundred percent or I’m siding with the engine.”

”SUIT YOURSELF,” Dade’s own irritation was apparent in his less than respectful answer…an answer that actually brought a brief but genuine smile to Lee’s face.

Closing her channel to the Infirmary and Engine Room, she opened one to The Shangren’s two manned turrets and current stations of co-pilot, Jeremiah McKenna, and First-Mate, Reggie Barbossa, ”McKenna, leave the turret and head to the Bridge.”

Leather pants creaked as Eleanor stood from the comm station, pausing briefly to grab the wireless earpiece that allowed her to patch into the internal P.A. from anywhere on the ship.

With a yell over her shoulder to Miriam, Eleanor exited, ”You’ve got the Bridge. Tell McKenna to be ready in case we lose any more power. Going to need you both if we’ve got to dance with this Purple prick.”

And with that, the Captain moved deeper into her ship to ready her ‘Plan B’.

And Jeth Riddle's voice filled The Shangren,

"I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back..."

<<Okay, crew, lets start the ‘steady cam’ shot. Anyone mentioned can post, just make sure to hand the 'ball' to someone else at the end ;)>>
<<music by The White Stripes>>
Posted: Oct 20 2010, 04:37 AM

Scar Tissue

Group: Members
Posts: 59
Member No.: 575
Joined: 22-March 08

They're gonna rip it off . . . Taking their time right behind my back

High speed, high pressure flying is typically associated with white knuckles and pounding pulse; tensely shouted orders and strongarm wrestling of controls.

Miriam was never more calm and in control than when she was flying.

Her hands stroked the control yoke, fingers reaching out to make adjustments, eyes scanning readouts, interpereting more by patterns than data. Most pilots would consider her control settings too sensitive, especially for a brute ship like a Jo Lynn. The pilot's control yoke had to be modified to work the way she wanted, with some of the dial controls augmented with lighted touchstrips. It was also outfitted with a secure switch; the "Miriam Switch"; to restore default operation so that someone else could fly it without overcorrecting into the ground while trying to land. It was a highly tuned sports car, a precision target rifle; high performance, but fincky in handling. Combined with the modified engines, it was a system riding the edge.

It was on the edge that she could feel complete.

She didn't need the readouts to know that power had dropped. Or to know that they were still faster than a gorram Alliance Whipporwill. She had been given the burst of speed, and from where she sat, she could finesse things so as to hold on to the threads of it as long as possible.

Boots hit the deck behind her in operations. with the music, she probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been told to expect it.

"If we lose too much fire, we're playing dodgeball." she shouted.

She had felt threatened by McKenna at first. Didn't know how to work with another pilot. Now, she didn't, and she did. She could feel her place on The Shangren. Feel she belonged.

She hadn't cut in weeks.

And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
J. McKenna
Posted: Oct 20 2010, 01:26 PM


Group: Members
Posts: 28
Member No.: 892
Joined: 21-January 09

Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette

He'd been a blockade runner, gorramit! Exactly the kind of pilot needed for a situation like this! But he was relegated to the ruttin' co-pilot's seat where he could just sit and watch the crazy Jewish chick fly the ship in a way where all that seemed to matter was speed. There was no reason for him to be on the bridge, really, and if it hadn't been for the captain ordering him, he would've gorram well stayed in the turret, where at least he was in control of the instruments. Jeremiah hated being on the flight deck now, a feeling he never would have thought possible.

But at least, he had to tell himself, he was moving. Wasn't landlocked and floundering in the dirt on some back o' beyond moon. This was better. Maybe. He still kept telling himself that as soon as he had a lead on a job, he'd leave this boat without looking back. Trouble was, he didn't have a lead on a job. And it wasn't for lack of trying, but every contact he had had come up short. No one was looking for pilots. So he was stuck here, manning the co-pilot's console, and being gorram pissed about it.

At least the feeling was mutual; he knew perfectly well that Miriam disliked having him here as much as he hated being second to her. Not that she showed it. But Jeremiah didn't doubt it for a second. Settling in the chair, he leaned back, feigning a calm that matched the expression on the other pilot's face as he took in the output on the various screens and dials on the console, grunting quietly at what he saw. Definitely not going as fast as they ought to be.

"If we lose too much fire, we're playing dodgeball."

He smirked, blue eyes glinting as he turned to look at Miriam, though she was far too occupied with flying to probably notice the look. 'Tha' an invitation?' he thought, but kept from saying it out loud, instead letting his smirk become an all-out grin. “Lucky tha' dodgeball's my speciality, innit?” he said just loud enough to carry over the music and leaned forward to snatched up the mic, keying the engine room, keeping his voice raised as he spoke. “Hey, Dade! Miriam wants t' know wha' happened t' her fire!”

Deep down, he wished that the extra power would fail to arrive. At least then, he would have something to do!

And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone
Vangy Chamberlain
Posted: Oct 20 2010, 08:04 PM


Group: Members
Posts: 27
Member No.: 424
Joined: 28-August 07

Don't wanna hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell

The young Evangeline Chamberlain stood watching from the entry of the bridge at the busy bodies planning their escape from the Alliance ship, doing her best to stay out of the way but eager to find a way to be useful. Captain El was as usual in the midst of one of her brilliant plans sending orders every which way but hers. The two pilots doing their best to co-exist but she could tell from their body language regardless of how much they tried to hide it that the two were not all that happy working together.

"Hey, Dade! Miriam wants t' know wha' happened t' her fire!"

There was no answer, Vange smiled as she realized this was her opportunity to be useful. She wasn't sure anyone had noticed her, Jeremiah had passed by her on the way in. El on the way out.

"I'll go ask 'im. Might not hear nothin' all them 'chines runnin' an' all." With a hop in her step she scuttled out of the bridge area and through operations into the central hall. In her rush to be useful she forgot how difficult running on grating in high heels and a long skirt. The fall wasn't graceful but her elbows and forearms did most of the work breaking her fall, her chin did the rest.

Not one to dwell on a couple scrapes she quickly picked herself up, this time removing her heels before continuing through into the cargo bay then up into the engine room where Davina had joined Dade. Proudly Vangy opened her mouth to deliver her message, drawing in breath and ready to spew it before pausing mid-inhale realizing she forgot what she was supposed to relay to them.

"Uh.. oh right..." Her eyes lit up as she thankfully remembered. "Jer said Miriam wants t' know where th'fire is, or was that is there a fire? No wait she wants ya t'start a fire, no that don't seem right..." She began mumbling to herself trying to decode the message before realizing an easier solution.

"Bridge wants t'talk ta ya." She proudly beamed as her objective was complete.

Every one knows about it
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell
Dade Cooper
Posted: Oct 25 2010, 10:46 AM

Here's to you...

Group: OC
Posts: 46
Member No.: 565
Joined: 16-March 08

And if I catch it coming back my way
I’m gonna serve it to you

Shoulder-length hair framed a face lined with grime, bottle bottoms, and the memories of war, while the face's owner, Dade Cooper, found himself, elbow deep in The Shangren’s engine. Throughout the charged atmosphere of committed crime and mechanical law, he managed to focus on the relay between his fingers and not the rapid revolutions of the reactor’s drive-wheel spinning inches from his head. Unable to actually see the damaged component, The Shangren’s mech relied on his calloused fingers to guide him in the boat's dark belly. Everything bled into the far recesses of his busy mind, and all he knew was the wound he tended.

With each spin the reactor blew Dade’s hair into a halo, but none would ever confuse the man under it as an angel. Looking up, he concentrated on the relay he held hidden in his hands. Ignoring the heat and the random spark singe, he traced the piece…till he found its flaw.

”She’s blown,” he decided in an instant.

Without hesitation, he pulled his right hand from his metallurgic surgery and reached for the patch cable on the grating beside him. Once free of the engine, Dade’s fingers seemed painted with a bright red solvent, but upon closer inspection, one would see that it wasn’t The Shangren’s coolant that covered his digits but his own. Blood poured from his right hand, where a fragment of the relay’s housing had sliced deep into his knuckles, but like the rest of the crew, Dade had a job that needed doing and only he could get it done. That’s why he hadn’t permitted Davina to help him, and that loyalty to the Rocket Jock on the Bridge kept him from answering Vangy.

He fed the bypass cable into the hole he had made, an evisceration run in reverse but ultimately no less fatal, if done incorrectly. His fingers blurred faster and faster while the engine began to whine louder and louder, a scream of pain that only Dade could hear…that only Dade could heal.

”Come on you stubborn bastard,” Dade softly cursed the craft around him, ”…somedays I think you’d like to nova just to spite me.”

Finally, he felt the input terminal reveal itself to his index finger, and he couldn’t help but smile. However, when he went to plug in the bypass, the space was too narrow to accommodate the rubber insulation of the patch. On cue, the engine whined louder, and The Shangren wailed. Time fought a war of attrition, and so Dade used the only lubricant available and coated the bypass with his own blood.

Seconds later, a deep ‘click’ marked the conclusion of his task and Dade stood and stepped back from the whirling engine, and his sea-faring eyes ran along the whole of The Shangren’s heart, looking for a weakness…listening for the ship’s rhythm. Slowly he heard the beat of the boat, the one that told him The Shangren was running hard and true, and Dade closed his eyes. The ship’s heartbeat found its time with the pounding of Killi Crash’s bass line, and a smile found its way under the grime and stubble to the mechanic’s lips.

He didn’t need to look at his own readings to know that The Shangren’s fire burned bright and hot for the Rocket Jock up on the Bridge. Weeks ago, Dade had told Miriam that The Shangren was to be her boat…despite the beliefs of Eleanor Lee, and in the time they had shared together, the mech had worked toward that goal. Dade Cooper had found purpose; he didn’t want to disappoint Miriam or The Shangren, which, as far as he was concerned, was the same thing. If the Rocket Jock and the Jo Lynn were the dancers immortal than he was the musician that formed their twirl.

Eyes still closed, Dade absently wiped his hands on his overalls, leaving trails of grease and gore, and his words ran the length of the Engine Room, though whether they were for Davina and Vangy or The Shangren, even he did not know, ”All quiet, friend…all quiet now.”

Shirtless beneath his overalls, Dade’s skin glistened with the heat of the engine room and the manic of the moment. Turning to Davina, he finally opened his eyes and raised his bleeding hand to the doctor, ”Do your worst, darlin’.”

And that ain’t what you want to hear
But that’s what I’ll do

Posted: Oct 25 2010, 10:06 PM


Group: Members
Posts: 21
Member No.: 701
Joined: 15-July 08

And the feeling coming from my bones
Says find a home

Time was short. With the Alliance behind them, with Dade's blood staining everything he touched, Davina put subtlety aside. There was no time for jokes, no time for breathless runs back to the infirmary, and there was certainly no time for her to kiss his hand, ignoring the itchy feeling she felt, like a delicate shiver of ice working up her spine. Both hands felt like eyes on a crack in the door. She ran them along the sides of Dade's body, not kissing him or talking, not staring at Dade, but through.

Then she dumped moonshine on his hand.

"Big baby," she said over his attempts to macho his way through, and smiled, dark eyes glittering needles through her lashes. Up, up, smiles and skirts and metal, this light that came and went away like twenty violinists jumping from a skyscraper under a starry sky, in slow motion, playing the mad rush. And down. Too bad about those pesky MedAcad guidelines, but she hadn't exactly had work on her mind when she'd come down here, but Dade didn't look half bad in puce. Maybe racing stripes...?

That made him laugh, where she and he and they had felt the lack.


Blood and liquor welled up in the space between, grew enormous, and fell. Down into the mesh and the piping and into the throbbing centre. Deep, but clean.

She looked up into the fire and grinned, all teeth and heat and bad decisions, a fierce, bright joy come to a boil, nowhere to go but up, as they say, and the sky never burned so sweet but behind a Jo Lynn. Her grin took it all in. Took in Dade and Vangy and the Shangren and everything, everyone, until there was nothing left. Just that fire, that spark, alive in the liquid pulse of air around them, in the deep cough of light and sound and power, seething, roaring defiance, in Dade's eyes and Vangy's steps and voice and her hand on his.

It felt like dying. It felt like the edge, going over, and in the freefall, knowing that there would be someone beside you, laughing at everyone who'd brought parachutes.

"Mr. Cooper, I need your wire cutters." El, in her usual role of omnipitant voice from above, to which Dade looked up, up and away and told Davina, "In the Galley...cupboard with the chopsticks I think."

That earned a laughingly raised brow. Really? The cupboard? And a sigh, as Davina drew herself up off his lap and bobbed a curtsy, with much twirling of the hands and hips and lips, because she could. "Well then." A touch, alighted on Vangy's arm. A grin. "Mustn't waste time. El just hates keeping new friends waiting."

Then she was gone, a flash of lace and leather and bells, ting ting ting-a-ling-ing around the corner and up and into the galley. "What kind of weapons have they got?" She grinned as she grabbed cutters and a protein muffin, tossing a nod and a wink at Jeth and Killi on her way out the door. "The softest kind ever shot."

I'm going to Wichita
Far from this opera for evermore
Pensive Insect
Posted: Nov 10 2010, 06:43 PM

I know this one...

Group: Members
Posts: 3
Member No.: 690
Joined: 2-July 08

<< An Ertia and Jeth production >>

"What kind of weapons have they got? The softest kind ever shot."

The newly reformed Pensive Insect acknowledged the doctor's grace with nods, but any smiles wanting returned were lost in the sounds they produced.

Each note reverberated through the Shangren with a primal, thunderous rhythm. The bass line led with the promise of action... a slow and deliberate march into fire. The reluctant passenger, Jeth Riddle, was ignited by the music. His disregard of everything around him, other than the next note and phrase, superseded all of the irrational impulses that normally paralyzed him.

The galley, placed as it was on the top of the ship, hummed with the engine vibrations that Killi Crash could feel through the floor-plates. It flared up through the bones of her feet and into the electronic drumset before her, echoing louder as her fingers strolled along her bass guitar, jolting out chords between the flying fingers and rolling lyrics of Jeth Riddle.

Three years ago he had met a child with Williams syndrome, Ben Rooney, who had abnormal amounts of anxiety and phobias, much like Jeth himself, yet was doubly burdened with physical abnormalities. Germs and odd numbers scared him the same way high speeds and death frightened the rest of us. Ben, who could not even open the metal clasps of his guitar case without assistance, could play the most beautifully haunting pieces on his guitar, such that Jeth nearly wept during a performance.

Something about music bypassed normal functions of the brain; it brought forward feats from those who should not have been physically capable of performing them. This anthem, tearing through the purified air of the ship, storming through speakers and echoing into space: It was not just the background to the Shangren's mission, it was the driving force behind it.

Riddle knew Eleanor had seen it work on the Torrent years before and he had few doubts she incorporated it here for the same effect. Like the ancient drummers of Earth-That-Was, the artisans of Shangren played a song of death and war.

For Killi it was a song of fear, of fleeing. The rhythm was a ruby-encrusted charm, held against the Allied gods of Spite and Evil. These lyrics that they sang, this rending of the air with sound that pulsed in time to the ship's very heartbeat were a talisman against the future that was racing towards them. It seemed the only thing that mattered was the the lyrics that ran through her body, thrumming, energizing more deeply with every stroke of the steel strings, every tap of her foot against the hammer.

This energy became so thick in the air that the first mate of the Shangren, Reggie Barbossa, almost seemed to materialize out of the music itself, a physical manifestation of the beat. The exploding bass became the weapons of death on his hips and back, and the screeching solo formed the contours of the wild dreads draped around his shoulders.. He did not need to acknowledge their presence, for the music acknowledged his.

There was nothing Pensive in the way they slammed home the transition to the final verse. The clarion challenge rang over the Shangren and into the pursuing Alliance vessel. If the Shangren had to fight, or if the Shangren had to run, these players upon it's time-weighed stage could think of no better way to go.
Reggie Barbossa
Posted: Nov 14 2010, 11:23 PM

El's First Mate

Group: OC
Posts: 87
Member No.: 555
Joined: 10-March 08


I'm gonna work the straw

Reggie Barbossa closed the door behind him as he exited the galley, making sure it was well sealed. The dreadlocked man moved silently down the spiral staircase with determination in his eyes. When he passed through the doorway that lead into the central hall, he sealed it behind him.

He did the same with every door that he could get to along his way towards the cargo bay. He did this in a diligent manner so that he didn't inadvertently leave one open and decompress the ship. Breathing vacuum wasn't really high up on Reggie's list of things he wanted to do.

Aft Cargo Bay

Sealing the door behind him, Barbossa made his appearance in the cargo bay. He was menacing with the weaponry strapped to his body. Nary a word escaped his mouth as he walked with a purpose towards his Captain. Her blue hair was like a flame and Reggie was like the moth mesmerized by it. He kept drawing himself closer to her until he came to a stop at her side.

"De doors from de galley eend back 'ave been sealed, Captain." he replied without looking at her, his arms clasped behind his back.

Make the sweat drip out of every pore
Abenette Kelker
Posted: Nov 22 2010, 11:17 AM

If it has bullets, I can shoot it.

Group: Members
Posts: 60
Member No.: 837
Joined: 17-November 08

And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding

"De doors from de galley eend back 'ave been sealed, Captain."

Abe turned to look at the man at the same time that Eleanor did, only their reactions were totally different.

Abe smiled and El seemed to snarl a little. With her face shielded behind a blue atmo-helmet painted to match the deep ink tattoo on her back, Eleanor Lee took her first mate’s report and returned it with her usual charm.

”Rutt off, unless you feel like floating.”

Abe rolled her eyes and made the two steps to get to Reggie’s side.

”We got it, now get back to your post before El does space you,” Abe stood on her toes and kissed him softly. She traveled back to her original place and slipped on the helmet to her own atmo suit. ”See you later if we aren’t blown to bits, m’kay?”

She watched Reggie leave and secure the door before turning back to El.

”You ready Captain?” Abe asked. ”You know I love this part.

El nodded and Abe opened the cargo bay doors.

Right before the Lord.

*GMing of El and Reggie approved by GrimJack and Pain.

This post has been edited by Abenette Kelker on Nov 22 2010, 11:20 AM
Eleanor Lee
Posted: Nov 23 2010, 11:45 AM

No Chickens

Group: OC
Posts: 59
Member No.: 473
Joined: 17-November 07

Taking a moment to stare at Abe through the transparent aquatic emblem of her helmet, Eleanor reduced her verbal output to her normal ‘barb-quality’ exchange, ”You do realize what the two of you look like right?”

Lee lifted the corner of her mouth in a disgusted grin and motioned to the large object resting on an old wheeled cart in the middle of the otherwise completely empty aft cargo bay, ”Grab your end, Patty Hearst, so we can get this over with…we’re burning fuel.”

Eleanor Lee held fast to her ‘end’ of the cart resting between her and Abe. With the opening of the cargo bay doors, The Shangren’s atmo rushed into the Black…as did the object and the two women holding it. Neither seemed anxious or fearful in the least, a decidedly unique response when hurdling into space with a makeshift mine.

On the cart, two of The Shangren’s ship-to-ship missile warheads found themselves twisted among a loom of thin wire. An ugly yet effective timing mechanism topped the bizarre contraption and a large metal disk made up its bottom. For all intents and purposes, the object seemed powered down, with all of its LEDs dark, but written in a brilliant white paint the words ‘RESTRAINING ORDER’ seemed to convey a sense of activation.

As the doors opened wider, the rush of atmo became more intense, the gravity disappeared, and both women, cart and mine exploded into the Black. As soon as they passed into the eternal night, Abe and Eleanor kept their cargo from slipping away at an odd angle by using the weight of their own bodies. Farther and farther, they drifted away from The Shangren…a straight tail grown from the turtle-esque Jo Lynn.

Once they were clear of the ship’s own slight gravity, Eleanor spoke into her wireless comm…words meant for Abe but helpful to her as well,
”Wait for it…wait for it…NOW!”

Both women released their respective catches on the handle of the cart, and the Restraining Order, still possessing considerable momentum, roared to life in a splash of colored lights and relays and started away…toward the pursuing I.A.V. Ticonderoga.

With a jerk the women’s safety tethers halted their race into the Black but before the mine could drift away, Eleanor Lee, her voice rough but strong, joined the song of Pensive Insect, ”All the words are gonna bleed from me, And I will sing no more.”

(Abe GM'd with permission)
Lt. Douglas Marker
Posted: Nov 24 2010, 10:08 AM

He's a Liar

Group: NPC
Posts: 2
Member No.: 1,120
Joined: 15-October 10

The Black carried the Restraining Order away from Abe and Eleanor on invisible cosmic breezes, gently ushering the device toward its destiny.

Mere seconds later, the large dish magnet of the mine found something attractive in the metal of the I.A.V. Ticonderoga…and rushed toward the closing ship.


”I don’t give a rutt how fast they’re going!! Get me within firing range of that saobi so I can blast that piece of shit out from under her!”, screamed the enraged Lt. Douglas Marker.

Without warning a loud CLANG resonated throughout the tight cockpit of the whippoorwill.

All three men looked at one another in confusion, until Marker noticed a red blinking light just outside and to the right of their forward window. Getting as close as he could, the lieutenant angled his gaze and pressed his shaved head against the cold transparent plas-steel viewer.

His eyes fell on The Shangren’s Frankenstonian mine and the clearly visible ‘RESTRAINING ORDER’ painted on its ‘body’.

In utter confusion, he turned back to his men just as Pensive Insect’s song ended in their comms.

”And the stains coming from my blood, Tell me go back home”

”What the rutt is going on?” he asked to his men, to the ether, to the ‘Verse itself…to anyone with the answer, and surprisingly enough, he was given what he sought.

”I bet you’re wondering what the rutt is going on,” Eleanor Lee’s voice overlapped with the last haunting strum of Jeth Riddle.

Grabbing his headset, Marker screamed into the mic, ”Soon as I catch you, bitch, prep yourself for a grade A skull rut…”

”Shit, Doug, if your pursuit skills bare any similarity to your rutting prowess, I doubt I’d feel a thing.”

”We’ll see, bit…”

”Speaking of getting rutted in the ocular cavity,” Lee interrupted the officer, with a voice tooth-achingly saccharin, ”you’re probably wondering what just hit you.”

”Listen, I’m not play…”

”IT’S A MINE, SHIT-HEAD!”, Lee proclaimed with a glee that could have very well been genuine.

”Here’s how it works,” she enthusiastically continued, ”the closer you get to us, the quicker it goes boom, and the more distance you put between our mother signal and the mine’s receiver, the longer you get to work on a story to tell your superiors.”

”You’re bluffing,” Marker spat weakly.

”Damn…you’re good, Doug. That’s right, I am bluffing, so feel free to keep chasing us. Oh and pay no mind to the strengthening interf…ce…comi…rom…th…mine.”

Marker’s Tactical officer turned to his superior, his face a complimentary ‘white’ against his purple and grey uniform, “Sir, the object is receiving a burst transmission from the Jo-Lynn. I…I..think its arming itself.”

Furious to the point of suicide, the lieutenant very nearly ordered the pursuit to continue, but with the mine resting just outside their window as both albatross and omen, he reluctantly spoke, ”Power down, reverse course, and burn away from them, gorramit.”

Once they slowed down the interference barraging The Ticonderoga lessened and Marker once again opened his comm., ”This isn’t over, bitch. We’ll meet again.”

”Doubtful, Doug, doubtful.”

And with that, The Shangren was gone.

(General posting will begin in a few posts)
Moira Bryce
Posted: Nov 24 2010, 02:31 PM

Hired Hand

Group: Members
Posts: 41
Member No.: 1,122
Joined: 22-October 10


It was dark in the tiny trailer, and darker where it sat, camouflaged in a hollow in the darkest corner this side of the 'verse. Eternal, insatiable dark. A single small window in the main door looked out at nothing but black, where not even the cursed fog was visible. Soft creaks and groans accompanied the gale as the shelter's metal twisted, resisted, relented, returned. On the other side of the shuttered window, the gentle, rhythmic whisper of an oxygenator was lost to the clamor. Dully illuminated dials gave readings on the hostile atmosphere outside and reflected the conditions within, but it was not these dials that troubled the trailer's single living inhabitant.

Moira Bryce, clothed head to toe in layers, stared at the only other door. It seemed innocuous enough at first glance, but then, so did she. The door's construction was of heavy metal, like that of the rest of the shelter. There were dials there, too, but set directly in the door next to a large, lever handle clamped firmly into place and secured with a heavy padlock. The lock was not necessary, but it made Moira feel better.

She had tried everything. She had plugged her ears, talked herself hoarse, covered the door with a sheet, turned off every light, even blindfolded herself for a day. Her attention always returned to that door and the twenty-four bits of precious held safely behind it, carefully stacked, cased, and preserved by the storage room's frigid temperature. And by that door.

Moira shivered as imagined icicles trickled down her spine. Before this job, she had never thought she could be spooked by anything, but nearly three weeks in this trailer made the shelter feel more like a casket. She buttoned her dark grey cardigan, rewrapped the black scarf around her neck, then tugged a dark green toque onto her head before tucking the few stray curls underneath. Her grimace was slightly sickened as she pushed herself up from the narrow cot, situated as far from that door as possible. She started the ritual that had kept her sane these past weeks, and she secretly prayed it would continue to do so for as long as she had to stay in here. A job was a job.

A click preceded a bloom of light that emanated from a lamp set into the wall. As the bulb warmed, the glow strengthened and reflected off a narrow oval in the floor where the metal was worn shiny, polished by days' worth of pacing. Moira walked to the main door and checked the window's shutter, making sure it was still sealed. There shouldn't be anyone out there to see the tiny light, but there was more to this job than the cold room's stash to make her overly cautious. As always, the dials gave the same readings. Only the oxygenator in the ceiling allowed her to stay here, and only the thin atmo suit hanging beside the door would allow her outside. It wasn't really necessary anymore, but she checked the suit anyway; it was her one lifeline in this venture, and she would need it at least one more time.

Moira tread the oval's path to the other door, where she forced herself to look. There was no window, and if there had been, she would have covered it by now. She didn't need to see what was inside; she had put them there herself. The dials checked out, not even a millimeter's difference in the readings since the first day she gathered the last of the hoard, shut the doors and flooded the trailer with oxygen. Pressure was good. Temperature was a steady -150 degrees. Moira shivered again as she rested a finger on the handle and made sure the lock was securely fastened. It wasn't as if she were really cold, but inactivity and stress made the main room feel frigid, heightened by the feel of... them.

The trailer's main room was two meters by three, with another two from ceiling to floor. It hadn't seemed quite so small at first, but now it felt crowded. The cot, toilet, sink and tiny kitchenette took up most of the trailer's space at the far end. On the bit of wall between the two doors, Moira had fastened a short, horizontal bar. It was here she completed her ritual as she tugged on fingerless gloves and placed headphones over her ears. She closed her eyes and gripped the bar while facing away from the locked door.

As with so many things, it was imperative that she find and hold her center, both physically and emotionally, perhaps even spiritually, if that realm still existed. She pressed a button on the tiny player clipped to her sweater and breathed in time with the music, written so long ago, rehashed, revamped, but always the same. She set her feet, set her arms, then began the methodical plies and port de bras. In her head, she heard the voice of her old teacher calling out her instructions, set to music far different from this. In her ears she heard lyrics preserved through time like the motions she now rehearsed, moving with the cadence of the guitar riff.

"I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back"
The Shangren
Posted: Nov 26 2010, 07:31 PM

Holy Diver

Group: NPC
Posts: 27
Member No.: 564
Joined: 16-March 08

Fade to Black



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