Firefly RP - 'Exodus'

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The Lyre

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This RP is based off the television show Firefly, and the following film, Serenity. You don't have to know a great deal about the universe established by Whedon's show, but it is recommended you watch an episode or two, and have a wiki handy.

The RP starts at around the same time as the show itself, and depending on its success will progress past it, into the time of the film.

This RP is invite only - I already have the minimum number of players, and I chose them based entirely on recommendation.

There are invites available. However, I've been planning this for a good long while, and I do not want it to go the way my last two RPs did - basically, I'm going to be a snob about this one. If you want in, I want to know you can write well, you can show depth and character development, and that you can be relied upon to not take 2-week breaks from the Escapist.

So, to get an invite, you'll need to send me a little something - a mini post (or a big one, if you prefer) that shows off your writing ability. If I'm unsure I'll check with the other players, see what they think.

Therefore, if you want in, think up a character for this RP, and write a post about them, regarding them, involving them, whatever you wish, as long as it is set in this universe, and involves your desired character, it is fine.

Elitist? Yes, but I am going to ensure this RP is fantastic, and to do that I need to make sure the players can post to the great standard I need.

Providing the post you PM me is good, I'll send you a character sheet, and you're in.

Only the name, appearance and occupation of the characters are being posted here - they all have lengthy backgrounds, but to encourage player interaction, I've not included them. So, if you want depth out of this RP, play nice and get chummy. I was even nice enough to correct all your spelling mistakes -_-

Name; Bartelby Iggknight

Appearance; He wears a black coat over a white shirt, hidden under which is yellow body armor. The armor is thinner and lighter than regulation Alliance armor and he only wears the part that covers the chest. The coat was quite possibly an Independant's brown coat at some point; today it is old, dark, frayed and musky. These two things are among the incredibly few items he values in life.

Physically, he's 5/9 with black hair, a thin beard and a light build. He has very piercing eyes.

Occupation; Pilot. He's exceptional at evasive or defensive flying but tends to lose focus if nothing exciting is happening. He has been known to seek out trouble while flying without the permission or knowledge of the crew mates (flying into restricted areas, moving to intercept an asteroid storm, anything that will keep things interesting). However, for all his misadventures he has yet to lose a ship. A testament to his abilities.

Name: Enriko Shanks

Appearance: Slightly above average height, around 5'11'', slicked back dark brown hair. Baggy grey canvas pants, well worn brown boots, dark blue singlet top covered by a rich looking black bomber jacket-funnily enough made from real leather. Sports a goatee.

Occupation: Professional smuggler and forger, occasional trader, thief and negotiator. Maintains contacts spread through several systems and worlds and is almost never short of offers for work or buyers for goods. Is very good at legitimizing contraband with fraudulent documents and false Identicards. Has been searched by Alliance patrols on many occasions but his paperwork and smooth talk has always saved him.

This is incomplete - I have done what I can, Mshcher, but I need G's clothing and their strengths and weaknesses, at least.

Name: 'Ganesha'

Appearence: Ganesha's sex, age, real name, and place of origin have never been confirmed. At a little over 5 feet tall and 100 lbs, with no discernible masculine or feminine characteristics, it is impossible to determine these things visually. There are also strands of gray in Ganesha's chin-length black hair, which suggests that "she" may be older than "he" appears.

G frequently appears bored or sleepy, but the movements of her hands are nervous and her speech is quite fast. She prefers to sleep in the Ship's engine room.

Occupation: Ganesha is the ship's mechanic, and a damn fine one. G has an innate understanding of mechanics, electronics - if there's a problem with the ship, chances are he can fix it.

She also holds the rank of First Mate aboard the Malo, giving her the right to give out orders to the rest of the crew. He takes very little advantage of this, however, generally only ordering people to "move", "shut up", or "fuck off".

Ganesha is the only crew member to be on the ship before the start of the RP.

Name: Adam Crippen

Appearence; Tousled reddish-brown hair and blue-eyed. 30 years of age, just under 6 feet tall and slim, Crippen is hardly an imposing figure. He often wears black combat boots and trousers, and a dark grey t-shirt, always with a side arm and a knife strapped on. His accent is pure upper class Dyton.

Occupation; As a hired gun, Crippen is a little unsure of this motley crew, not knowing any of them, and being naturally suspicious. He is, however, always loyal to an employer, while he's being paid.

Name; Laurence Abel

Appearance; physically, he is of a broad, fairly athletic build. Despite his service in the Unification War, his face is unscarred, and unblemished save for a few freckles. Untidy and unkempt, dark brown hair falls just short above pale brown eyes. He appears to be in his late 20s, but is most likely past his mid-30s.

When content, appears very laid back, to the point where he seems unfocused, but is capable, however, of appearing authoritative when the situation demands it.

His accent is hard to distinguish - at times it takes on the common cowboy twang, at others it seems to take on a refined, well-spoken accent that is vaguely English, most likely due to the mixed culture present in most areas of the 'Verse.

His clothes contrast, at best - the symbol of his service in the war, his brown trench coat, has seen better days, with sewn up tears, patched holes, even a few singes towards the ends. Under this, however, his clothes are clean, pristine, and smart; a plain, buttoned white shirt tucked into equally well-kept jeans. This appearance could generously be called 'noticeable'.

Occupation; Captain of the 'Malo Persecutus' - Abel has been the proud owner of Malo for over 7 years, and has accumulated a lot of experience out in the Black, touring the Rim planets many, many times. There isn't a lot he hasn't seen, and most things he hasn't, he's heard through talk and rumours. He can be relied upon to have knowledge from most walks of life, and this alone makes him an excellent Captain. Known by name to a fair few folk, Abel is an avid socialite and has established many contacts out on the Rim. He prefers work without complications - specifically, legal jobs, but there's very little of that outside the Core, and after many a salvaging run, neither Abel nor his ship are welcome that far in.

First off, here's a good Map [http://www.fireflywiki.org/img/serenity-cutaway.jpg] of the ship.

She's been named the Malo Persecutus - no, it isn't supposed to sound good, and it was chosen for its meaning to the Captain. Even then, I've deliberately mashed it together poorly (it's two verbs), and the words have different meanings for different languages. Basically, if you're trying to be clever and translate it, good luck.

Malo is your standard 03-K64-Firefly, she's got no weaponry, nothing too fancy, but she flies well, she flies fast, and there's the usual numerous hiding spots for stolen cargo etc.

None of you, except Ganesha, have been on Malo for more than a day, but the Captain's had her flying with a full crew for many years now...obviously he doesn't now, as Malo's landed with only two people on board, and Abel's looking for crew.

Whilst I don't want you to post yet, think of how you were recruited- whether Abel recruited you, or you convinced him, etc.

I'll have an intro up either late tonight or tomorrow, in order to see if I get any requests for invites (I'm not holding my breath), so if you're worrying about writing in the Captain, don't worry, I'll have plenty of examples of how he speaks in that intro. It's fairly stereotypical, anyway.

Basically, if it is physically possible for your character to do it, it goes. You describe your own effects in combat, but keep it sensible - the mercs will be taking out more people than the captain, pilot and mechanic for example.

If you are unsure, PM me.

Only exception is if your actions harm or even try to kill other members of the crew - again, PM me if you plan to do this, so that I can either give you the go ahead, or explain why this will A) Get you owned, or B) Ruin the RP.

There'll be an intro tonight, perhaps tomorrow first thing, depending on if anyone else is interested in joining.

As I said, not holding my breath too much, what with my snobby application system.
 

The Lyre

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I'm sure you feel very clever posting that Jam - welcome to the Escapist, where on a Wednesday night, the site dies with all the Yahtzee views, glitches abound, but you could have PMed me, instead of putting it in the RP itself, not even in a spoiler tag.

Captain Laurence Abel of the Malo Persecutus looked out the helm of his ship, giving him a wide view of the landscape. At least, it would have done, had that landscape not been a wall.

Malo was, providing a few pieces of duct-tape held together, about to lift off out of the Eavesdown Docks of Persephone. The series 3 Firefly transport ships always had a few quirks to work out, but they always took off in the end - providing the mechanic was half-awake - and Malo was no different. The secondary engines on either side of the ship lifted it vertically off the platform, replacing the view of the wall, with a view of the large slums.

"I think I may have preferred the wall..." Abel muttered as he turned, away from the view to his new pilot.

'Bartelby Iggknight...well don't that just run off the tongue. Boy needs himself a nickname.' he thought to himself as he studied the man, one out of three new crew members.

'Not bad lookin', got himself a good face, but I'm gonna have to call him Bart, or Knight...or just pilot, maybe.'

Captain Abel shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat - a coat that had been with him for over a decade now - and considered Bartleby's coat with a little distaste. To Abel it looked as if it might have once been similar to his, but his wasn't the telling brown of an Independent, most likely dyed black after the war. Many a man got rich off of just dying those coats, and Abel felt the whole thing was more than a little sordid, just colouring over the history.

Still, Abel was not one to judge, at least, not for too long, and when he addressed the pilot, his tone was a friendly one.

"If you could set a course for Heinlein - big gass giant on the edges of the rim - that'd be shiny, a lotta moons orbit that, plenty of settlements offerin' work."

He was about to continue, when the sky they were currently breaking through seemed to tilt awkwarly - not a particularly good sign. Bartelby seemed to compensate, as it righted itself, and responded to the Captain.

"Might want the mechanic to see to that, one of the secondary engines isn't doing its share...could be a week going all the way to the Rim."

'Something's always gotta break.'

"I'll get G on it, and trust me when I say Malo'll do it in half that, if you push her far enough."

He left the Bridge, and stepped out in the Front Hall. Below here the two hired mercs, Shanks and Crippen, were doing whatever it is their type do when they aren't needed. He pushed open the half-ladder, half-door of their adjacent dorms, and called down;

"When you two are done handling your guns, you could always make yourselves...I don't know, useful? Shanks, you might fancy keepin' the pilot company, and Crippen, I'm sure Ganesha could use some help around the ship, something probably needs luggin' somewhere else, providing you're not against manual labour."

He pulled shut the ladders, and made his way through the Dining Room - home to all your protein needs - into and out of the Back Room, and poked his head through the door of the Engine Room.

Under the engine, a small, thin figure could be made out, tinkering with God-knows what.

"G? The secondary-"

"-I know! I'm on it!"

"...the...the pil-"

"Tell him to put up with it!"

"I...no?"

"Duct-tape can only do so much, I'll get it done!"

'What's wrong with me, am I not commanding? I can't get someone over a foot shorter than me to do what I ask!

"...Tah ma duh! If one more piece of fei-oo falls off my girl, I'm holding you responsible!

This was why Abel only poked his head into the room - so that he could detract it after he the message got through.

'Best mechanic around would just have to have one hell of a temper...I suppose they're all like it.'


We're pretty much in space - no getting off now.

Most of your ulterior objectives can start now, if you like, but I'd rather they didn't for now.

I'm sending out some PMs to you - obviously there isn't a lot going on, but if you could introduce yourself as a character, get your personality and attitude clear to the rest of the group, that'd be great.

Only other thing it has to have is a recollection - doesn't have to be a flashback - of your recruitment today, as I outlined up above in The Ship section.

Basically, depth, maybe a bit of dialogue between each other, and that recollection is all you need. Anything else you want to add in is a bonus.

Have fun!

Oh, and whatever you do, don't screw up.

Feel free to tell me how awesome/shit the intro is.
 

mshcherbatskaya

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This or that, this or that, everybody has to know what you are, where you're from, what you did, whose side are you on, whose side were you on, steamed dumplings or fried dumplings, what's better?

My answers, in order:

None of your business.
None of your business.
None of your business.
Fuck off before I hit you with a wrench.
Fried.

No, Ganesha is not my real name. No, I will not tell you my real name. Why am I hiding my name? Do I have a criminal record? OK. My turn to ask a question--why are you screaming like that? Oh, that's right, because I hit you with the wrench. You want to try asking another question? On the off-chance that I do have a criminal record, it will probably be filled with Assault with a Blunt Object charges.

But my all time favorite question is the one I get asked every gorram time we get a new batch of muscles on board:

"Hey, so d'you have a, huhuhuhuh"--there's always that stupid laugh somewhere in the question--"so d'you have a dick or whut?"

"Yeah, I got a dick, bigger'n yours. In a box. Under my bunk. Belonged to the last gun-humper who asked me that. Now, fuck off before I get me a pair of balls to go with it."

I'm the mechanic. Captain'll tell you I'm First Mate. It's a lie. Don't listen to a gorram thing he says about me, it's all lies. Unless he says I'm the best mechanic ever was. That's truth, right there.

So that's it, that's all I got to say on the subject of Me. Any questions?

No?

Good. You're smart. I like you.

Now fuck off.
 

Khedive Rex

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Bartelby stared blankly at the sky of Persephone. The deep blue hue offset by the gently sweeping clouds was vast, majestic, and noble. It spoke of hope and peaceful dreams of a better tomorrow. It was beautiful.

To Bartelby?s dismay however, it remaind beautiful every time he looked at it. Nothing was happening! It was ? boring. How much beautiful can a person stand? We get it already.

Lifting off provided some minimal amusement that quickly surrendered to more mundane repetition. The sudden redirection of the ship had been notable. And the captain?s brusque attitude had been simply hilarious. But those weren?t lasting. All that was left now was the majestic blue sky flowing over the ship.

?Fucking. Pretentious. Sky.? He said to the empty room at large.

He felt his mind wandering. He remembered the fight. Four drunken men stumbling out of a bar supporting each other?s weight with poorly aimed fists and angry grunts.

It was classic.

Bartelby had seen this particular melee play out before, but never quite like this. It was typically 2v2 not 3v1 and it was particularly surprising to watch the sole combatant outfight the three burly teammates. He had, of course, been bloodied but he was the clear undisputed victor nonetheless.

Bartelby had approached him immediately after the last punch was thrown and started asking complex philosophical questions. Normal people were so very fun to torment. The look on his face had been ? priceless.

Later on it came out he owned a ship and needed a pilot and Bartelby just happened to be who Bartelby was. He hadn?t really thought about it. The man before him, Laurence Abel, was simply too much fun to turn down.

So now he was here. Bored.

Bartelby looked around the cabin. Typical Firefly class vessel. Nothing really exciting about the ship itself. There was some duct-tape on the ground near him though. That had potential.

He picked up the roll and wrapped one edge around the steering device. He held the roll and stood up, letting it spool out as he walked away. The ship shook again with renewed force. Bartelby pulled the roll, steering the ship slightly to the left.

There was a word for this. Manual auto-pilot.

Anyway, Bartelby didn?t need to spend his full time just watching that stupid blue sky, just waiting patiently for the ship to shake oddly. He could be exploring the cabin. He could be sitting in the captain?s seat. He could be rummaging through the papers around the captain?s seat. He could be opening the captain?s log as he strolled back to the pilot?s chair, carelessly respooling the duct-tape.

Things had gone pretty much according to plan.

Bartelby re-adjusted the ship slightly and started into the captain?s log. It was primarily a tedious accounting of the Malo?s location in space at various times in the past. Dissapointing.

?God dammit, is something interesting going to happen or do I have to crash this ship?? he sighed exasperated.

It was a possibility. He considered it. Fortunately for the crew the cabin door opened at that moment and one of the new recruits walked in.

There was still some hope.

I just noticed that this is my 666th post. I hereby embue this post with the powers of ...

EEEEEVVVVVIIIIIILLLLLL!!!!!

Until I post again in which case it will be 667. Which I suppose is really just evil + 1 but still. Not nearly as epic.
 

Xhumed

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Crippen was, in fact, cleaning one of his guns, when the Captain called down to him. he had already stowed away his gear, which consisted mostly of various weapons and books. Leaving the parts on the soft leather he was cleaning them on, he clambered quietly up the ladder, and made his way to the rear of the ship.

I'll bet the mechanic needs help, he grumbled to himself. This piece of gǒu shǐ seems about ready to fall apart at the seams. It's a miracle it got off the ground.

He bemoaned the circumstances that had made taking this job necessary. Dodging the feds and that mobster hún dàn, Slavik, meant he had to keep moving. His money from the last job he pulled was running out, and he needed to be off this rock quickly and quietly.
The Malo was his ticket off-world.
He had introduced himself to the Captain as a "trouble-shooter." Abel had caught his meaning, right enough. That he had hired him meant he needed a gun-hand, so it followed that somewhere down the line he expected some trouble would need shooting. That suited Crippen well enough- it was what he was good at.

Captain had been an Independent it seemed, which meant Crippen's own war record had been helpful in securing the job. Luckily he hadn't pressed him too much about what he'd done in the war.

Primarily, he'd been a scout. What he'd also been was an instrument of psychological warfare. His job had been to creep into Alliance encampments and destroy morale by any means necessary. Usually that meant slitting someone's throat while they slept, poisoning rations and water, sabotaging equipment, setting explosives.
It was terrific fun.
When eventually the Independents had surrendered, the soldiers who had captured him hadn't known who he was or what he was- otherwise he'd have met an unfortunate accident in his cell.

Since his release, he'd been a smuggler and thief, with some success, until the xiōng xiǎn captain of the ship had decided to turn the crew over to the Feds for the bounty. Crippen had killed him, and the crew had fled for sometime before splitting up to evade capture.
And, so he had ended up on Persephone.
He done make-work here and there- assassinations for rival gang-bosses, some Enforcing, nothing exciting. It was small-change stuff.

Now something bigger had fallen in his lap, and none too soon- one of his contacts, another ex-pat from Dyton, Badger, had tipped him off some people had been making enquiries as to his whereabouts. Badger has assured him he hadn't told them anything, but Crippen trusted the little weasel about as far as he could throw him. He'd packed his gear and lugged it down to the docks, renting a small room there under another name. The next day he'd boarded the flying junk heap.

Nearing the engine room, Crippen heard frantic clanging and banging. Entering, he approached the strange mechanic, who hadn't noticed him, and asked, loudly,
"Captain said to see if you required any assistance. Anything you'd like me to do?" Under his breath, he added, "Other than fucking off?"
 

mshcherbatskaya

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666 is the Number of The Beast. 667 is the Neighbor of the Beast.

I swear, people think this engine made me deaf. I'm not. You gotta have perfect hearing if you wanna hear an engine talking. Sometimes, though, you just hear gun-humpers thinking they're being all witty and cute. An' people wonder why I like engines better.

"Nah, I don't want you to fuck off yet, I want you to take them bolt covers off that shielding panel."

So he looks round but a'course, he doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about, and muscle like this Crippen fella, if he can't shoot it, sell it, or hump it, he don't see it no matter how you point. So I figured a way to describe stuff so they know what I'm talking about.

"See that row of things up there, look like little titties?"

"Oh, these?"

"Yeah." See? Told ya.

"Twist'em. You know how to twist a titty, right? Spend enough time in the District, shoulda learned by now. Unless you're slow. You slow?"

An' he makes this face like maybe he thinks I'm funny and maybe he thinks I'm a mean little shit, and he's right, both counts.

"I wouldn't have guessed you knew anything about 'titties'," he says. "I don't believe I've ever seen you in the District."

"Nope, no District. It's strictly Companions for me." I say this and he laughs like I'm bein' cute, like I'm makin' a joke, but he's wrong both counts.

Now, please, be sensible--don't even think of asking me about that. I got way to much to do without having the bother of disposing of your corpse.

So anyways, he gets the bolts off and gets the shield cover off and it turns out he knows his ass from his airlock, but his hands are too big to go where they need to go. That's why girls make the best mechanics, small hands, careful-like. And I swear by Earth-that-was if you ask does that mean I'm a girl, then I'm going to have to start thinking of what to do with you after I corpsify you. So? OK then. You catch on quick. Now kindly vacate the premises of my engine room, please. What--you look a little disappointed. Aw, don't worry, I'll cuss you next time. Promise.

=====================================

Dear Shiva,

I got your book. The cover was so fine, and what with the gold edges, the captain thought it was a Bible, asked me if I was studying to be a Shepherd. I told him I was studying to make his commode work backwards. The book's still a joke with him though. He ain't seen me writing in it.

You are right. This is much nicer than just sending notes back and forth. I will write in it to you as often as I find a time and a subject. The trip to Heinlein is pretty boring unless the pilot is a drunk or a crazy man. Or a drunk crazy man, like the last one. After we have finished the job, I will ask the captain for some leave time (and he better give it to me or I
will reverse the flow on his commode) and come see you on Whileaway. Then we can visit and swap our books and keep on writing in them. Did you like the one I sent? It isn't nearly so fine as this one, but it's a real ship's log-book, so unless you got a Rim-runner in your clientele, you won't mistake it for a gift from one of your admirers. 'Cuz I don't admire you one bit, you know that? I just like you, is all.

--G.
 

The Lyre

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Great posts so far!

Except...ya know, the titties...thing. That was a little creepy (Also, out of character, I don't believe Crippen is the District type)

But great posts so far, guys, off to a good start.

As we're out in space, doing nothing of too much importance, there is no post limit - providing your posts are worthwhile and something other than filler, then I'm happy for you to have a fair few posts before we get near Heinlein.

I would like one from Shanks though, before you start posting again - once he's gotten in his intro of sorts, you're welcome to prat about the ship.

Just don't crash her.

Something I forgot to mention;

As you describe your own effects in combat, I felt it fair that you choose what weapons you own and brought on board.

However, keep it realistic - I've only got one sidearm myself. What it largely depends on is your background/training and skills; I would expect Crippen to be armed much more heavily than Ganesha, for example.
 

mshcherbatskaya

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I don't suppose it occurred to anyone that Crippen was teasing G. back about that whole District thing? That maybe G. likes to unsettle people with his talk, and Crippen was giving as good as he got? It's not sex talk, people, it's just G. being G. No need to get all het up about it.
 

Brett Alex

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Jul 22, 2008
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Shanks walked onto the bridge, seeing the pilot with the unpronounceable name occupying the main chair, he plonked himself into the secondary one and kicked his feet up on the console. The man looked, well, statuesque. Not in the 'Noble Hero of the Alliance Stepping Forward' sense but in the 'Standing still all day and getting crapped on wasn't my career choice' sense.
Keep the pilot company.. oh how the mighty have fallen. Shanks introspective sarcasm went unheeded by the pilot.
Reckon he likes stuff? Probably not, actually, looks like he hates stuff. Lots of stuff I imagine. What to talk about then...

"So, you, er, like stuff?" The words burst from Shanks' mouth, forced out to fill the deafening awkward silence that had descened between the two.
Damn.

The statue man looked up from what appeared to be the captain's log lying in his lap and laughed shortly.

"Stuff can occasionally be of interest, yes. More importantly, why are you here and where would you rather be?" He ended the sentence, his face on the very edge of forming a smile. Maybe he doesn't need a commemorative plaque underneath him after all.

"Me?" Shanks gestured towards himself with feigned shock, then leans forward and quickly glances left and right, whispering conspiratorially "You know don't you? How did you find out?"
No point in wasting a good trip on ordinary conversation.

Now the man positivley beamed. "They told me just the other day and I think you know who I mean." He leaned a little closer and whispered with seriousness on the verge of parody,
"Right?"

"They talk to you too?" With mock terror Shanks fell to his knees, staring at the roof, searching for answers "Are they everywhere? Is nowhere safe from them? Everywhere, and yet no one sees them! Why?!"

Holding the pose for a few seconds with artistic grace, Shanks turns his head back to the pilot, grinning.

"After seeing that, would you believe I got denied entrance to the Players Academy? Some things just ain't right y'know?"

The man's smile didn't waver an inch "I would. The acting was terrible. Nonethelss you're a funny sort of fellow and I have litterally nothing to do."
He gestured broadly to the sky in general with a little more malice than was entirely expected, "So, where do you come from?"

"Born an' raised Persephone. Always good to get back home," he looks at the navigational display with a sigh, "... and leave 'gain so quick. 'Course I can't complain, didn't 'spect to find work so quick..." he trailed off but kicked his heels back up onto the console and finished with his usual jovial attitude, "Your turn,"

"I was raised on an Alliance planet. Actually served as a key spy for the Alliance during the war. Left pretty young though so I don't really feel like I'm from much of anywhere." the man had said the words casually but the look on his face spoke to his true intentions. He was surpressing a mirthfull grin and his eyebrows were raised slightly.

He was baiting Shanks.
Two can play this game.
"Is that so..? Shanks asked with sincere curiosity, eyeing the man up and down again in a new light.
"Was that 'fore or after you dyed you coat to hide your past shame?" it had the sense of an innocent query.

Bartelby shrugged. "Not my coat origionally and I wasn't there when it was dyed. If I were to guess ... probably after." he said nodding his head slightly. Damn he's good, not one of them bitter die-hard Independents. One more shot

"Oh so you was a spy and a pacifist? Thats gotta win some kind 'ward don' it?"
Gorramit, still nothing. He's gonna be a tough nut to crack. Shanks took a liking to the man, trying to get past his tough shell was a challenge he looked forward to.

He settled down, "Nah its a'right. I understands not all folks wanna tell where they's from."

Looking back down the hall, he asked "Say though.. could you tell me one thing. This captain, you know him? He's a good sort right?"

"Well, he keeps a boring log." the pilot said brandishing the book as proof. "But personally he seems entertaining. Thats a good enough sort for me. If you're asking about his moral background though ... I'm honestly not sure. He seems to have a bland enough philosophical outlook, but on the other hand he does run a Firefly class vessel. One of the best for smuggling."

The man looked Shanks over slightly. "And he did hire us. Probably not a good sign about the stability of his mind."

Enjoying this game far too much, Shanks feigned offense.
"Speak for yourself, fine sir," he said brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder, "but I am only a few more legitimate jobs away from bein' a 'spectable gen'lmen."

Bartelby laughed from genuine joy. "HAHAHA! Oh, HAHA! You are a funny man."

He shook his head with a wide smile. after a moment he calmed himself down and looked Shanks straight in the eyes with a peircing unblinking stare.

"What was your name again? Actually, let me guess. Were you the ... Crippen one? Oh hardly matters I suppose."

When he'd picked up the job from a local bulletin, Shanks had assumed it would be liking working alone, but more crowded and with slightly less chance of being stabbed in the back. This seemed much better though. He had only spoken the Abel once and had been hired straight away. A quick take off seemed to suit them both.

Still dunno bout the Captain though, still wearing his browncoat and all. Aw hell, I'll have a chat with him later and get his measure.

"Actually, I'm the Shanks one, but you can call me Enriko, most daring thief finest forger an' best known heart-breaker this side of the 'verse." he managed and elaborate bow while sitting. And added:

"Won a modesty 'ward as well,"
 

The Lyre

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Okay, brilliant first round, seems we're all developing some nice characters here...and I can't believe you guys actually did the whole PM thing...

...but here's the complaint; there's some concern about what looks as if it will become trench-coating.

Rex and Shanks; whilst I find the post pretty darn funny, your goals should not really be to see who can unnerve who - the joking around is great, but there are fears that this ship will become home to a daily pissing contest, i.e. who can be the biggest badass.

It isn't majorly apparent yet, but I can see us all becoming rather similar, in an attempt to out-grizzle each other.

So, I'm giving us one more round for discussion and bringing religiousity to the fuzzy wuzzies, just so we all have a chance to talk to who we wish to talk to - I'm happy for discussion with anyone, just PM me and we'll set something up.

Assume a day has passed, and therefore we're a day closer to the Rim.

Captain Abel once again poked his head into the Engine Room. He couldn't see his mechanic, but from the string of expletives that followed a piece of the engine sparking, he could be pretty sure Ganesha was in there somewhere.

"...G?"

A wrench flew past, clearly aimed for the general direction of his face.

"What'd I tell you?! You keep throwing those, I'm gonna...well, somethin' bad'll happen!"

It's like keeping a damn animal in here...well, an animal that has advanced knowledge of the workings of my ship, but still, she threw a wrench at me!

"What do you want, 'sir'?"

"Something's sparking in the cargo bay - we big, clumsy folk can't get to it, but it looks like a load of wires has fried 'emselves...and the controls on the bay doors are goin' all...funny. I don't much like the prospect of those doors openin' on their own, in the middle of space."

"The doors have fail-safes, there's no rush."

"...on what ship are the wires supposed to be able to fry themselves?"

"...I'll get on it."

"Damn right you will, startin' to wonder whose ship this really is."

"..."

"She's mine."

"...if you say so, Captain."

Abel sighed, put his hands in his pockets, and went back to the Dining Room. He heard the patter of Ganesha's little feet in the Back Hall as he made his way down to the Cargo Bay.

The last sit-down meal had been more civilised than expected - G even ignored a comment of surprise, regarding the fact that she didn't eat huddled under the table...at least, Abel thought it had been ignored, but it seemed as if a couple of the crew might have taken a wrench to the shins with the way they walked out.

But all in all, he felt he had a good crew - they hadn't shot each other yet, and no one was following Ganesha's example when it came to following orders.

Things may turn out all right.
 

Xhumed

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Feng zi, Crippen chuckled to himself. He liked the diminutive mechanic. Normally he would have bristled at being condescended to, but he had to admit, his knowledge of engines was woeful. No doubt the abrasive manner was hiding something, but he was in no rush to find out. All in good time. Clearly, he was regarded as just another brain-dead hired muscle. Well no reason anyone should think otherwise, I suppose. Still, winning Ganesha over would be difficult. Probably nothing short of taking a bullet he mused.

Still, it was pretty funny how Bartelby and Shanks had limped out of the dining area. it was the high point of an otherwise boring meal. The food had been so bland he'd found himself wishing for a Fruity-Oaty bar, and he hated the damned things. Reminded him of being back in the service.

Returning to his berth, Crippen finished cleaning his pistol, then went over to his private library.
Most of the books had been acquired in an extra-legal manner. They had previously belonged to a wealthy merchant, a collector of antiquities from Earth-that-was.

Crippen loved books, so much better than cold, inert data pads. Books had a life of their own. The flimsy pages had been coated in a film of plastic to prevent degradation. Crippen ran his hand over them like someone might stroke a cat. He ran his finger along their spines till he came to his favourite- an 18th birthday present from his mother. She had always encouraged his more... artistic endeavours- acting lessons, poetry readings, fencing.
It was a book of poetry she had given him.
He had much preferred it to his father's present- the rift between them had started not long before then.

Plucking it from the shelf, Crippen settled onto his bunk, opened the book to a poem, and began to read:

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
....
 

mshcherbatskaya

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Shiva,

I had supper with the rest of the crew tonight and ate what they were having and now I am paying for it. I will get to spend the next day or so with one end or the other over the commode, until my guts forgive me for eating stuff I should have known better. It's funny that one of the few things that doesn't make me sick is a survival ration bar. Lucky, though, since they can be had on any colony, and I don't have to pay for the doctor's gloop instead, which I know is better for me but don't taste any better and is expensive as hell out here. Expensive as hell anywhere, really. I don't know why, but when my guts get in a knot, if feels good to just lay right on top of the engine, lay on it face-down like a baby on her mama's belly. The warm and the vibration ease me some, and the hum helps me sleep.

I wonder how you are doing. Keeping the doctors occupied? I hope not. One of the last messages I sent you before I got your book came back automatic saying you was in the hospital. Was it another treatment or did you break something again? I don't know which to hope for. Breaking yourself is bad, but I remember how them treatments used to rack you up something awful. I wish I was there with you (if only to get some gloop in me so I didn't feel so low) but mostly to watch you flirt with the nurses, especially that one blond fellow who blushed so hard the whites of his eyes would turn pink, and piss off the doctors. If you see Dr. Pasco, I hope you find something sharp and stick him with it.

I confess I am feeling terribly low right now. We got all new crew, just me and the captain left, and I hate new people. It's awkward and lonesome and it makes me contrary. Not what anyone would notice, as I maintain a high level of general cantankerousness as a matter of policy. Captain stays out of my way, though, and one of the new fellow seems like he might even have a couple of brain cells to rub together. Don't he talk posh though. Sounds like Dr. Pasco. Makes me want to stick him with something sharp, or give him a good zap.

As it is, the ship is liable to zap him for me. The whole wiring harness needs to be gone over piece by piece. You may not realize how much work that is, but imagine you had to check every seam on every piece of clothes you got, and then maybe you will have an idea of what I got before me. I'm going to have to start wearing shoes, so that some bit of sparking wire can't have its way with me. I can't feel the engine vibration nearly so well through my shoes but I will feel a great deal more than the vibration if I step on a short circuit and defibrillate myself when I'm not fibrillated to begin with.

Well, I must go now. Between the wiring and the commode, I expect I will keep busy tonight. I hope you are well.

Love,
G.
 

Khedive Rex

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It was night. Not that you could tell in space.

People had this silly desire to treat the vast emptiness of the universe just like the warm cradles of their home planets. So they glued on ridiculous concepts like "day" and "night" and "gravity"; Bartelby sighed a little. The universe had so much potential! And people squander all of it.

"Well ... except her."

Bartelby looked around the artificially darkened cabin for something to do. Anything.

The captain's log was already read, the former pilot's smuggling hole was already discovered, the alcohol inside the smuggling hole was already drunk; what was left?

Bartelby ran a few scans of open space, hoping desperately to find an asteroid belt somewhere in the area. But fate tossed him one better in the form of four dots of light chasing each other across the screen.

"A space ... battle! Ooohhhh," he breathed out, his voice trilling with expectation "that'll calm me down [hic] for a few hours. Long dishtansh off-course ... but it's worth it."

Bartelby threw his hesitations aside and gripped the steering device with both hands. "One real sharp turn." He thought. "Just to get in the right mindset". Bartelby throttled the ship 100 degrees starboard in a single motion that threw his body violently against the console and woke the entire crew!

... So why wasn't anything happening? The ship kept a constant pace, not turning at all. Everything was ... peaceful.

Bartelby tried again. The second failure inspired doubt in him. Something was very wrong here. He had the NavSat run a diagnostic of the propulsion sytems. Minutes rocketed by like falling bricks. A broken ship, in the middle of empty space, moving at inconvievable speeds, without any method of steering.

This could be really bad.

The message shone on the screen. "Possible system error. Grav Dampener not detected."

"Everyone wake up! You all awake? Good. This is your pilot speaking: Bartelby Iggknight. I invite you to join me at the bridge of the ship with all haste. Though, please do cloth yourselves before coming, we have some time."

Bartelby got up from his seat and began to pace the cabin. No grav dampener meant no steering besides what he could get by flaring the secondary engines. He could maybe tilt the ship ... a little. Enough to land or maybe dock with another ship. But the secondary engines wouldn't last forever and they run on air so it would be a bad idea to rely on them. He'd sent out an SOS after reading the NavSat message so someone might come to help. But there was no knowing how soon and in the mean time they were still rocketing at full speed toward Heinlein. They were all completely at the mercy of the tides. Stranded in space.

"God dammit!" Bartelby thought. "There's nothing I can do."

"I'm going to miss that space battle."

Alright, I'm supposed to tell you that this post announces an extension to the current round and everyone is encouraged to post. That's doubly true of you mshcher as you're probably our only hope. No pressure or anything; it's just that all our lives depend on you...
 

Brett Alex

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Shanks usually didn't have trouble sleeping. When he'd gone off-world it had felt strange for a few months, mainly because he was so far away from everything he'd know. His job had absorbed him though, and its perks. Later on, going solo he had experienced similar feelings, but waking up on a different planet every couple of days quickly remedied any travel sickness or confusion upon waking.

The Malo however, had, as the Captain had accurately described, had certain, quirks. They often involved something rattling. They often seemed to be fixed by duct tape. Both the mechanic and the Captain had an obsession with the stuff.

And so, in lieu of sleep, Shanks lay on top of his blankets, working his data-slate to produce a 'credible' and up to date manifest of the Malo Persecutus.

"Everyone wake up! You all awake? Good. This is your pilot speaking: Bartelby Iggknight. I invite you to join me at the bridge of the ship with all haste. Though, please do cloth yourselves before coming, we have some time."

Bartelby's voice rang out into the equivalent of the night Shanks was avoiding sleeping in. Keen to see what the possibly crazy pilot was up to, Shanks left his jacket off and hurled himself up the ladder into the front hall. He though he heard sounds of movement from within the other merc's cabin, but then again that could have been a quirk induced rattle.

Stepping onto the bridge, Shanks noticed the pilots chair was empty and the pilot himself was standing next to it, working a console, only turning round after Shanks began talking.
"Bartles, didn't realise you wanted my charmin' comp'ny so much, but there was no need to wake the whole ship was there?" The urgency he had spoken with on the intercom had disappeared,

"Well you know me, Riko. Why have a party with only two people?" He took a few steps closer. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something important. Do you want to share a shuttle with me? It'll be fun, I promise."

Smelling the alcohol on the pilots breath, Shanks looked around for any obvious damage on the bridge. He couldn't quite place it, Iggknight still seemed casual enough, but he was getting a feeling that there was indeed, something profoundly wrong with the ship. Had the man got carried away in a drunken binge and done something dangerous for fun? The prospect was quite worrying, but at the same time infinitely humorous.

Somethings wrong, but no he doesn't look guilty. Do you think he can look guilty?
"What, what happn'd that'd warrant the need for 'n escape in a shuttle?" with an afterthought he added, "and I'm 'shamed you need to ask,"

Bartelby swiveled in place and theatrically gestured over his shoulder, in the general direction of the engine room.

"That happened. Under a peice of panel back there, probably held down by duct tape, theres a little device called a Grav Dampener. It's the thing that let's me steer multiple tons of unweildy metal at speeds high enough to melt rocks. And it's broken. Which means we are trapped in a metal tube propelled forward by plasma explosions at the complete mercy of gravitational tides."

Yeah.. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as something profoundly wrong.

"Oh... well when you put it that way it doesn't sound half as bad," his voice dripped with sarcasm as he slumped down into the co-pilots chair a motion that was fast becoming familiar. "So theres not much we can do then?"

Bartelby sat too. "Three options really. See if the mechanic can fix. Bail out in escape pods. Wait for another ship to respond to our SOS." He seemed deeply distrubed for a moment. "Well, there's more options than that admittedly. You could blow up the ship for example, but those are the three helpful ones."

"Y'know, I'm gonna go ahead, take a wild guess and say the Cap'n ain't gonna be in favour of blowing up the Malo..." he paused as if in thought, stroking his goatee, "stuck without steerin' eh..." an idea suddenly struck him and he jerked upright,

"Feel like checkers then?"

Bartelby looked impressed, maybe he was sharing Shanks' optimistic coping method, maybe he had a run in with the faulty wiring and fried the sense out of himself or maybe he was just genuinely insane. All were equally possible.

"Enriko, I do believe you can read minds. It's really an astounding talent. You should go into show-biz."
 

Xhumed

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Crippen rolled his eyes at the pilot's announcement. Oh, zhe zhen shi ge kuai le de jin zhan. Wonder what has broken now? Maybe we've run out of duct tape. Or maybe the pilot has found a really interesting piece of pocket fluff he wants to show us. Hwoon dahn.

He wrestled with the relative merits of staying in bed and going back to sleep, or getting up and finding out what the bloody hell was going on. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a while, and could use the rest.

Eventually, sighing, he swung his legs off his bunk and stood up. He was wearing a pair of navy blue pyjama bottoms and a black t-shirt. Grabbing a pair of socks, he thrust his feet into them and ascended the ladder to the main corridor.

Sticking his head out, he could see Shanks and Iggknight in the cockpit engaged in conversation. Probably another bout of insanity one-upmanship. Berks. Looking around, there was no sign of the rest of the crew yet. Crippen quietly pulled himself up into the corridor and padded softly towards the bridge.
 

mshcherbatskaya

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Come here and have a look at this. See this piece of wiring here? See how it's burnt out? Well, let me tell you, all that carbon scoring ain't right. Sure fuses burn out, burn out all the time. That's what they are for, to burn out so nothing else does. Now look over here. See this wire here that's all burnt up? You know why it's all burnt up? Because someone, someone, not something burnt out the fuse.

Someone been messin' with the ship.

This is the third one of these I seen, an' all of them to do with the engine. You take a look at the speed we're makin'? Ain't no Firefly does that natural. Someone blew a bunch of plasma out the back and ignited it, like stickin' a rocket up your ass and firin' it off. And the grav-dampener...

Ships go wrong all the time. The pilot's control, not just the Malo, but the controls on any ship, go haywire all the time. Dashboard demon gets in there and all of a sudden the all the indicators are nothing but crazy-talk. Doors stick, engines kick out, pieces of plating fly off all the time, and if you knew how often a life support system shits itself, you'd set down on the nearest rock and never leave.

But the grav-dampener? That doesn't fail. Just doesn't. The engine'd catch fire and the airlocks'd vent us all into space, but the grav-dampener. Does. Not. Fail. Ever. Plus, I just went over it before we last took a job. There is not a gorram thing wrong with it but someone made it wrong.

You keep your mouth shut about this, hear me? The captain'll just have a fit and I don't want whoever is doing this to know I know what he is about. I'm going to find the bastard what done this and I will beat him til his own mama won't know him. Then I'll throw him out the airlock.

In the meantime, I hope whatever is in front of us gets the hell out the way, because we are heading toward it fast and we can't turn a lick.
 

The Lyre

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The Captain took his time getting to the Bridge. He first went to the Engine Room, primarily to get the full story on what was wrong with his boat, and also to make sure G was actually going to be friendly and come with him to the Bridge.

With the little reluctant mechanic in tow, the Captain and G stepped up into the Bridge, to find Crippen, Shanks and Iggknight already discussing the problem. Rudimentary information was shared, to make sure everyone was on the same page - the horrible, foreboding page that spelled doom.

The Captain was uncharacteristically quiet; whether he was fearful of his own death, or ashamed to have potentially doomed four other people was unclear, but he politely asked the Pilot to stand up in a hushed tone, and sat in his chair.

He spent five minutes at the NavSat, apparently looking at a navigation chart, and when Iggknight tried to tell him it would be irrelevant, with their abnormal, erratic speeds, he impatiently raised his hand to make him silent.

Out of the four other crew members, only Ganesha may have had an idea what the Captain was doing when he took a small piece of chalk out of his coat. The Captain was not a practical man - his hands were clumsy, even shaky at times. Nor was he a brilliant pilot - he lacked the reflexes and the timing to be an exceptional one. What he lacked in the physical, however, he made up for in his mind. If Abel had not been fairly lazy after his childhood, he may have done something with this brain - but, alas, it was reserved for situations like this, when it was demanded.

Captain Abel spent at least another five minutes writing on the floor of the Bridge. It was clearly a physics equation - but the size of the numbers, the huge jumps in figures made it near impossible to follow.

The Captain stopped writing on the floor and rose, addressing the crew as he did. Strangely, he had lost the cowboy twang - his accent was a well-spoken one, and his dialect was more refined, perhaps the serious situation affecting his speech;

"Even if G fixes the engine, gets her running at normal speed consistently, it won't matter. We have passed Heinlein - which is good, because it means we didn't hit any of those moons. However, it also means that, even at normal speeds, we will pass outside the Rim within a day."

The Captain paused to let this sink in;

"I'm sure you all know what that means - no Cortex, no means of sending Waves, and any we send now won't get to those moons for at least 6 hours, and another 6 hours back here. By then it'll be too late. We're running too hot for another ship to catch up, even if they did get our S.O.S.

We will be out of the very edges of civilization, into empty, dead space - nothing, no going back.

I really don't know what to tell you...unless one of you can fix a blown up Grav Dampener, we'll be passing outside of explored space, into desolate, unknown territory. We have life support, and our fuel will run out eventually - maybe after a few days someone will find us, but it ain't likely. We've got air and food to last us weeks, but I'm more worried about our state of mind - just...keep hopeful, don't let any kind of despair sink in."

Abel turned to each crew member as he addressed them;

"G: I want you doing what you do best - forget the cargo bay wires, just try to slow us down any way you know how.

Bart: I still need you up here - NavSat may work a miracle on itself, but what I really need is to know where we are and when; I'll need you to announce on the comm when we're out of the Rim. For now, send as many damn Waves as you can to those moons we passed.

Shanks, Crippen: I'm real sorry, more menial work. I need an inventory of our food, and I need you to do your damn best at working on those wires - Ganesha will run it by you quickly, but you've got plenty of time to get those doors working; if someone comes for us, I'd like them to be able to get in."

As the crew left, and the pilot sat down, Abel looked out, into the black.

Things may still turn out all right...maybe.

After this round, there'll be a change in pace, a lot more freedom, and a lot more of good old doooooom. Just bear with me, I needed to set the scene and for you to establish your characters.
 

mshcherbatskaya

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So what did you think of Professor Abel, huh? Be a lot more impressed if he didn't run around looking for his holster while he was wearing it but once in a while he uses he head for more than holding his ears apart.

Slow it down? I don't know what he imagines I can do, but we are well and truly humped. In fact, we are so humped, it's gone all the way up our ass, out the top of our head, and come around our backside for another go.

I thought about just plain venting the fuel, but there's too much risk it will ignite on the burn we got going already, and we already got one bright, shiny rooster-tail going, don't need another one. There's only one other thing I can think of, but it's so damn stupid, I can't even figure why I'm thinking of it. Yeah? OK, well, here it is.

Main engine is in the back, that's the big, glowy butt on the "firefly" right? But then there's two smaller engines on the wings, used for general getting around, and for take off and landing. Now, I can crank those wings all the way around so the engines face front, rather than back, if you see what I'm getting at. But those little howdy-do engines ain't nothing compared to the big glow-butt shoving us along now. But the main engine isn't the only one can be overcharged with plasma.

It's just the only engine'll survive it. That's if we don't shear the wings off first. Big engine pushing forward on the body, little engines pushing back on the wings--you know that ain't gonna end well. I mean, there's no means to regulate any of that, ain't controls wired to tell you when your pushin' too hard. It'd just be the pilot flying by the feel of the stick and me in the back yellin' at him what's breaking and what's gonna break if he don't ease off.

...

Yeah.

So.

Either we blow up or we sail off into the back and freeze and starve, and I ain't sitting around listenin' to the gun-humpers die long, slow, boring deaths.

I'll go tell the captain.