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Futuristic Starpath: Burning Sails [IC] [CLOSED]

Sub Genres
  1. Action
  2. Adventure
  3. AU


The Demon Fanatic





It is the year 2426, and the Golden Age of Piracy is fast approaching its end in the new century. The various factions and empires of the galaxy begin to clamp down on illegal activity inside the Renegade Quadrant. Piracy and criminal activity are actively being rooted out and destroyed with military force, or by the actions of mercenaries and bounty hunters. That isn't stopping the likes of Blackwell's Reavers, of course. Or so its leader, Valencia 'Valkyrie' Blackwell, thought. After years of playing a cat and mouse game with the authorities of the galaxy, Valkyrie finally meets her end at the hands of a former Upyri Marine named Anora Cortus. Abandoning her duties in the Upyri Federation, Anora has become a sort of vigilante, determined to exterminate any pirates or outlaws that dare to cross her path in the Renegade Quadrant. And Valkyrie becomes her newest victim.

Her mother slain, and the Guillotine (the Reavers' capital ship and mobile base) heavily damaged, Lauren Blackwell purchases the Mordred and begins searching for a crew to help her rebuild the broken Blackwell's Reavers and hunt down Anora.

Starpath: Burning Sails is the third RP set in the Starpath universe, created by an individual known as Doomevil on the Facepunch forums starting with Journey Across the Galaxy (though then it was simply called Spaceship Crew RP.) Set in the 24th century, specifically the year 2382, it followed a crew of special individuals as they delivered a package known as 'the Oracle' to a man named Harken Saw. This simple delivery job eventually turns into a galactic incident that changes the galaxy forever. Part 2 of Starpath, known as Scoundrels of the Interstellar Highway, was created and run by K0mori as an expansion and continuation of the Starpath universe. It is set in the year 2385, and follows the travels of the Terika-Belladonna Company (a mercenary group lead by one of the members of the group from the first RP known as Yanim Terika) out to make a difference in the galaxy in the aftermath of the Oracle incident. They get into their own galaxy changing event, in which three 'archives' are found which would eventually be used to awaken a long dormant planetary AI known as Starvis.

Now, Burning Sails picks things up in the year 2426, forty-one years after the previous RP. It follows the travels of Blackwell's Reavers, as they carve a bloody path through the Renegade Quadrant in the waning years of the Golden Age of Piracy in the quest for vengeance.

If you wish to read through the first two RPs, don't hesitate to ask!

This RP is currently a closed RP, but might potentially open for new players later. Keep an eye on it!

As GM, I control various NPCs in the story, but some may be controlled by players. All events will be under my direction. Feel free to throw ideas at your fellow players. I want you guys to have fun!

1. Please, be nice.
2. No power or metagaming. You have a lot of freedom and slack, but ultimately rolls determine if things happen.
3. Out of Character (OOC) chat should be in double parentheses, ((so it will look like this when you post OOC)).
4. If you go inactive or drop, your character(s) will be under my control (and may potentially die.) If you let me know you're going to be inactive for a while and can pick back up later, I'll look after your character till you return.
5. This is primarily a PvE game, but PvP can still potentially happen if its agreed upon by both parties and run by me.
6. As GM, I'm god. New rules can be implemented on the fly.

Link to Facepunch RP discord: https://discord.gg/TGpuRrh (Highly recommended that you join this if you join the rp or are otherwise interested in this rp. All OOC discussion and news on the rp occurs here!)
Link to the Starpath Wikia: Starpath


(If a player drops out, their character will be controlled by me and listed here as dropped.)

Aesha Drach
Albert Kowalski
Daniel Milosovic
Derrick Ahluva-Bradley
Jackson GrosBeak
Kalashi Vor'Pangn
Kanying Shuren
Karina Thiel
Lauren Blackwell
Lvishka Dravko
Nathalie Walker
Olivia Kovak
Petar Vulkov
Renate Veil
Roku Saito
Shelby du Pont
Shun Shimizu
Sister Yuurei - Dropped
Vance Astro
Vincent Galloway
Vixaya Vor’Spirran
Yolandi Dekker
Zadra Masir

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The Demon Fanatic
Prologue - Lighting the Fire

Shadespear Terminal. A haven for pirates, criminals, outlaws...really anyone with a warrant out for their arrest somewhere in the galaxy. The second most popular spot next to Rook's Wharf, but much farther south in the RQ. It used to be an Upyri Federation colony, but an old Hellion captain by the name of Shadespear helped change that. It floated silently above Gostoth, the planet itself a ball of storms and ship debris from the battle that the Federation lost so dearly.

Ships came and went, loaded with either cargo or crew. Shadespear was often used for a sort of trading outpost, as its location was perfect for the various crews and factions that operated in the area. All types of people showed up here, ranging from those of the big named groups down to those smaller crews just starting out on their journey to riches and glory. Lately, though, the later group was starting to grow smaller and smaller. The galaxy was changing. The Upyri, Elysium Commonwealth, Sol, the Ayr, even the kanads and newly formed Achaemenid Kingdom were starting to move in. Grabbing up territory and resources. Clashing with those already inside the Renegade Quadrant. There was also threats from the inside. Privateers. Pirates employed by the various larger factions of the galaxy to turn on their own, in exchange for pardons and money.

Piracy in the Renegade Quadrant was slowly starting to die, the glory days long gone. And everyone knew it. Still, most fought against the change. Determined not to give up or turn on their own. To push on to the end. Blackwell's Reavers was one of these groups, lead by the notorious Valencia 'Valkyrie' Blackwell. Once a bit of a rogue, bouncing between groups and crews, she finally started her own faction in 2385 with Upyri criminal (and psychopath) Jester as her first officer. Years past, and the Reavers grew in size and notoriety. They became a titan in the Renegade Quadrant, seemingly unstoppable.

That is until a former Upyri Federation Marine, Anora Cortus, and her crew collided with them.

Anora had been hunting pirates in the Renegade Quadrant since 2385, starting with small time groups. Now, several decades later, she's achieved a pretty big following. Using her massive fleet of warships, she ambushed the Reavers at an opportune moment, and managed to virtually annihilate them. The Guillotine, the Reavers' capital ship and mobile base, was heavily damaged by bombardments from the Paragon, Anora's own capital ship. It was promptly boarded once the fighting had died down, and eventually Anora and Valkyrie came to blows. Valkyrie wouldn't go down without a fight, and wouldn't dare abandon one of her greatest creations. This bought the survivors of the battle enough time to escape. Lauren Blackwell, Valkyrie's daughter born of an affair with another pirate captain, escaped from the ship. With her, Reavers engineer Zadra Masir and her drone Loudmouth.

Valkyrie would meet her end aboard the Guillotine at the hands of Anora Cortus in one-on-one combat. After the battle, Anora would abandon the Guillotine and Valkyrie's corpse, departing to regroup and search for other targets to eliminate. Lauren and the others would be found by Slade Beckwith, a close friend of Valkyrie and leader of the Red Phantoms pirate group, and Slade would return to the Guillotine to retrieve Valkyrie's body while the Guillotine itself would be hauled back to be repaired.

Now here on Shadespear Station, a month and a day after the death and burial of the legendary leader of Blackwell's Reavers, Lauren searches for a proper crew. Determined to rebuild the Reavers, and seek vengeance for her mother's death.

- - - - - - - - - - -

February 7th, 2426
Shadespear Station, Renegade Quadrant
Morgan's Chalice

Morgan's Chalice was one of the few relatively cleanly run bars aboard the station. The booze was good and plentiful, and cheap too. It was the Reavers' prefered dive whenever they were docked with the floating colony. Now, it was quiet. There were maybe two people at the bar itself, with one or two at the tables in the center. The old booths were empty, save for two. One in particular was where the Reavers' chief engineer was sitting, talking to the leader of the Red Phantoms. The other was where the new leader of the Reavers was sitting in silence.

"She's been awful quiet since we got here."

"Wouldn't you be after all that has happened?"

"No, I'd have said something by now. She shouldn't just bottle it all up like she is. Its not healthy."

"Barely anything she does is healthy."

"She's been sneaking off more often since we buried Valk. I hope she hasn't started doing Red Ice again. I don't mind the drinking, but that shit will kill her eventually."

"...you think she doesn't know that? She probably doesn't care. Valk was all she had in terms of actual family after Uric left. Valk watched over her, kept her out of trouble. And now she's gone. Lauren needs us now more than ever."

"Yeah..." said Zadra Masir, looking down into the mug before her. The beer was practically untouched, as Zadra was preoccupied with keeping an eye on Lauren Blackwell. She was sitting nearby in her own booth, her legs stretched out across the seat next to her as she gazed down at the plasma saber in her lap. The saber, an old model that had belonged to Valk, bore scratches and marks from years of use. It had been in Valkyrie's possession since the 2380s, after she had killed the previous owner with it. It had changed much since then, barely containing any of the original parts.

It also bore a few splotches of dried blood here and there. Her mother's blood. Lauren hadn't bothered to clean it, and wouldn't let anyone else touch the thing to do it for her. She even held Zadra at gunpoint once, after Zadra attempted to take it to fix it up. From where Zadra was sitting now, she could see Lauren's emerald eyes locked onto the saber, never wavering. Piercing through the cyan colored bangs of her hair.

How Lauren was acting...it worried Zadra. Valkyrie was Zadra's best friend, so of course Zadra had grieved in her own way just like everyone else that had known her. She even broke off one of her alpha horns on her forehead, and left it at Valk's grave site. A symbol of great respect and honor for her race, the Garlon. The problem was Lauren wasn't stopping. She wasn't taking the time to grieve properly. She was bottling it up and letting her rage bubble inside. She wanted vengeance. They all did, but none more so than Lauren.

"...so, any recruits so far beyond the two we found at Rook's Wharf?" asked the man that was sitting across from her. Zadra looked back to him. Slade Beckwith. He wasn't wearing his helmet like usual, choosing instead to come to the bar dressed in street clothes. No armor to hide his tanned skin and the lines of age on his face, or the large scars cutting down over his left eye and the cybernetic implant that had replaced it. "No...nothing beyond some pirates offering condolences. And some jackasses that thought it'd be funny to joke about Anora killing off most of the Reavers." responded Zadra. Slade grunted a bit, scratching the side of his face. "Let me guess. Some of those Bloodrunner dickheads."

Zadra nodded, looking back down into her drink yet again. "They just don't know when to shut up. Lucky for them, they didn't bug Lauren with it. Only me. I had Drav teach them some proper manners. Think she went to the restroom." Lvishka Dravko. Drav, for short. One of the recruits that they had hired on back at Rook's Wharf. A Khergian. Tall, blue, muscular. They needed that muscle, and lucky for them Drav was quite talented with weaponry and gear. A good find, honestly. She grabbed up the pair of Bloodrunners, knocked them together, and tossed them out into the dumpster in the back. Piece of cake.

"Ahhh, good. How'd the Ayr hire turn out?" asked Slade, tilting his head. "Well, he's a smartass. But he can handle a flight stick pretty damn well. That's him over there." she responded, pointing towards the bar. Sitting at the bar was another blue being, enjoying some of that strange 'tea' that most of his kind liked. Roku Saito was his name. That, along with him being an exile and his piloting skills, was all Zadra really knew about him. He kept his reasons as to why he was in exile to himself. Frankly, she didn't care why as long as he was loyal to this crew and he could do his job right.

A moment later, Roku glanced back at the two of them and raised an eyebrow. Must have read their minds, the damned ayr. He stood from his stool and walked over to their booth with his tea. "For your information, the reason for my exile is purely personal, and not professional. That's why I choose not to talk about it," he said, insomuch as one could speak without a mouth. The Ayr were telepathic, and that, along with their nearly blank, yellowish-gold eyes, was something Zadra always found a bit unnerving about them. Roku grabbed a chair from one of the tables in the open, and sat down with them. "...And I'm probably the best pilot you'll find out here, so you guys made a damn good choice hiring me," he added, raising his eyebrows in a sort of pleased manner.

Slade smirked, as Zadra frowned. "I like his attitude." said Slade, glancing to Zadra before looking back to him. "Yeah." muttered Zadra. A few moments later, a Khergian approached them and sat in the booth next to them behind Zadra. Drav. "No luck?" she said, rather gruffly. "Nah, not yet. Just gotta wait." said Zadra, glancing back to her.

Drav grunted. "Need recruit. At moment, bare ship. No gunner but Drav. No doctor. No engineer but you. One driver. One raider. We die quick." she said, cutting a glance to Zadra and Roku. Khergians were known to be terrible when it came to foreign languages, but if you needed something akin to a one-man demolition team, they were good choices. Roku spoke up. "I'm choosing to remain optimistic. This is practically pirate central alongside Rook's Wharf. We'll find others here." he said, before inhaling some of the aroma wafting up from the cup in his hands.

"Yeah, you will. Trust me. I've never went wrong stopping here, so you won't either. Anyway, I'm gonna go talk to Lauren then head out. Good luck." said Slade, tapping the table and looking between the three of them before standing. Roku gave him a sort of faux salute, while Zadra and Drav simply waved him off. He departed, strolling across the bar past a few other patrons before arriving at the booth where Lauren was.

"Pops." she said, without looking up. It was rather blunt, as well. "I'm not that damn old." he muttered. He slid into the seat across from her, resting his elbows on the table as he clasped his hands together. "What is it?" she asked, still staring down at the saber in her lap.

"Blue...Zadra's worried about you."

"...and? She always worries about me."

"You know what I mean. You've been quiet. Sneaking off when nobody's looking, doing who knows what...How many times have you visited her grave this past month?"


"...you can't just keep everything bottled up inside forever. You're practically running off nothing but anger. You need to talk to someone. Be it me, Taur, or Zadra...please." said Slade, his remaining eye locking onto her face.

Taur Gorgon was an old friend of Valkyrie, having helped her construct the Guillotine back when the Reavers were first founded. Taur was also friends with Valkyrie's father, and had constructed with him a prototype version of the warp engine that the Guillotine's was based off of. He and Zadra, along with her drone Loudmouth, were the only surviving members of the original Reavers. The rest either died in Anora's attack, or had died or left long before that. Taur was now assisting Zhao Chang, the leader of the Ironbloods and another friend of Valk's, and her crew in repairing the Guillotine back on Sielia. Where the ship and Blackwell's Reavers were first made, and where Valk now rested in eternal slumber.

Lauren finally reacted, her eyes drifting over to look at Slade. Then, she turned to face him, clipping the saber back onto her belt. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. And I'll be even more fine once I cleave that fanged bitch in two." Slade looked into her eyes for a few moments, then down at the table before sighing. "...dammit, Lauren...fine. Once you get a few recruits, shoot me a message. I've got a mission for you. I know you want the recruits to prove themselves to you, so I've got the perfect chance for them to do it. A trial by fire." Lauren glanced over to Zadra and the others, then nodded. "Good. Better than fucking fist fights." she muttered.

Slade looked at her for a few more moments, before speaking again. "...please take care of yourself. Valk sacrificed herself so that you and the Reavers can live. Don't throw your life away. Be smart. Like she always taught you. If you need me, I'm only a call away. Same with Chang. We still care about you, even if you don't give a shit about anyone else right now." Lauren glanced to Slade, before muttering a soft "...alright." Slade faintly smiled, then stood from the booth and departed without another word.

Lauren sat there in silence for a bit, before eventually standing from the booth herself. She fixed her jacket, an old faded leather bomber with the Reavers logo emblazoned across the back, before walking over to where the others were sitting. She slipped into the booth where Zadra was sitting, resting in the spot that Slade had been sitting in a short while before. Zadra watched her for a moment, then said "...you alright, Lauren?"

"Peachy. Where are we on recruiting?" she responded, looking about before turning her gaze to Zadra. "Nobody yet." said Zadra.

"Well, we're not leaving till we get some. Even if we have to start trying to steal people from other crews...shoot Pearl a message and tell her to come join us at the bar. I think she's spent enough time alone with our favorite talking trash can." said Lauren, sitting back in the booth.

Zadra drew out her holotablet, and fired off a message to Pearl before pocketing it again.

"How can you guys stand that thing? I swear, if he keeps spewing bullshit, I might go insane." said Roku, looking between Zadra and Lauren.

Both of them smirked. "You get used to it." responded Lauren.

Drav spoke up next. "Talking can not know when to stop. Drav give him these hands." she said, holding up her hands which were now clenched into fists.

"Don't break the drone...its Zadra's and its one of the few things my mother left us." said Lauren, her voice going a bit soft as she spoke of Valk. She gently touched the saber on her belt, as things got a bit quiet.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Three months ago...
The Guillotine, Renegade Quadrant
Port Side Training Deck, Melee Room

"Nice job, Lauren. You broke it. Again." said a voice. "Hey, I was only doing what you told me to do. You said show some aggression and attack the dummy, so I did. You didn't specify that I couldn't throw the thing at it." replied Lauren, putting a hand on her hip as she wiped sweat from her forehead. "Don't be a smartass. Now I have to fix the saber again. This is what...the third time in a span of a few weeks?"

"Maybe you should just build a new sword instead of piecing that ancient one back together all the time."

"Maybe you should use your brain. Like you keep refusing to do. I'm not always gonna be here to help, you know."

"Really seems like the opposite, mom." said Lauren, cutting her mother a look.

Valk narrowed her eyes as she looked up from the broken saber in her hands. "...I care about you, Lauren. You know that. I don't want to lose you like I did Uric." she said.

Lauren turned to face her completely, tilting her head. "Mom, Dad fucking ditched us. Plain and simple. He just up and left, and you've spent fucking forever searching for any sign of him. He doesn't want to be found, mom. He doesn't give two shits about us."

"He does care about us. He always did. And I'll find him eventually. I'm sure of it." responded Valk, returning her attention to the saber.

"Right. Sure." muttered Lauren, rolling her eyes and looking back to the dummy. Her mother always taught her to focus on the dummy during practice, and imagine that it was someone she really hated. She always pictured her father, Uric Corbett. He vanished when she was thirteen years old, abandoning the both of them as well as his crew. The Stray Dogs. Without a leader, her mother offered them the chance to join the Reavers. Then, as the Reavers continued to do what they did best in the RQ, Valkyrie would scour the galaxy in search of Uric. And she still continued this wild goose chase. He was either dead or didn't want to be found. Lauren bet that he probably got in good with the Black Masks and got them to hide him. Fucking spooks in suits.

The effect it was having on her mother was pretty obvious. Her mind wandered rather often, usually to the point to where she was oblivious to what she was doing. Dark circles had formed under her eyes from long nights of scanning through reports and star charts of where Uric might have gone. She had let her hair grow out, to the point where it almost touched her shoulders. At least she still kept it that mauve color that she always liked. Her tattoos had faded a bit, instead of being touched up like usual to keep their appearance. Lauren had even seen her start crying once, while she was working on engine schematics for one of the other Reaver ships. Why her mother cared so much about a man that clearly didn't care about them, she would never understand.

Lauren sighed. "I'm gonna hit the shower." she said, turning and walking by Valk. "Fine, but we're continuing your saber practice tomorrow. Got it?" said Valk, looking back to her as she walked away.

"Yeah yeah. I got it." replied Lauren, waving a hand over her shoulder before stepping through the door of the practice room. Valkyrie sighed as the door shut, before stepping over to a nearby table to inspect the damage to the saber.

- - - - - - - - - - -

"Well, activity is picking up. Maybe we'll get some bites now." said Zadra, looking up as more patrons started to enter the bar. "Fingers crossed." said Roku, finally setting his tea cup on the table in front of him. Lauren simply sat in silence just as she had been before, dwelling on memories.
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the writer

Albert adjusted his glasses as he departed from the small shuttle craft he had hitchhiked on and stepped out for the first few steps into Shadespear Terminal. He was quite a ways away from home, but he was no stranger of going into seedy places. Life back on Terra and Luna had been coupled with countless nights of enjoying a smooth drink at a lonely table of an untrustworthy establishment. No one really bothered him, as he wasn't much to look at. A slightly out-of-shape, middle-aged man with a writer's complexion, for he was indeed that: a writer. Though, a writer who couldn't get out of the shadow of his own success ironically enough. His big hit, Cafe at the Edge of the Galaxy, had brought him wealth and fame, but it came at the cost of crippling writer's block. He couldn't bring himself to write a word on a page more often than not, and as such he had resigned himself to smoking and drinking his days away. But as fate would have it, a chance meeting with a fanatical fan managed to spark something in him once more... the spark of inspiration. He just needed to find something to write about.

So he had packed his notebook, some pens, cash for the journey, and made his way here... the most dangerous place in the galaxy. It was a completely different world than the peace and order that he was accustomed to, for all manner of criminals, vagabonds, and shady people roamed the Terminal. He swallowed his nervousness, collected his thoughts, and began to walk. He lowered his gaze and had his trillby lowered to cover his gaze from most that walked near him. He needed a drink to loosen himself up, one of these places should do. He walked into the one closest to him, called Morgan's Chalice, and entered the establishment. He noted its relative emptiness before taking a seat at the main bar.

"Whisky on the rocks please." Albert said to the bartender as he leaned forward to open his bag and took out his notebook and a pen and began writing.

Feb. 7, 2426
I made it to Shadespear Terminal. I had heard about this place before, but now that I'm here it's quite jarring. It's almost as if I stepped into a completely different reality. The underworld of Luna and Terra seem to pale in comparison to the folk that scrounge about here. So many stories these people may have... so many stories for me to tell. As I write this, I sit in a near empty bar. Perhaps the few patrons that are here have something to share from their lives.


Still in Saigon
Through the door of Morgan's Chalice, an Ayr in a ceremonial-looking garb walked in. Stopping briefly at the entrance, she located a woman with cyan hair that was sitting with her companions.
On the way over she read the mind of the woman thoroughly, and glanced over the memories of the others sitting at the table. She walked right up and stopped next to the group, looking piercingly at Lauren.
"Lauren of house Blackwell. I am sister Yuurei. I'm here to serve on your crew on behalf of the late Valkyrie." she communed to her with a dry tone.

Viper Actual

Ask me about my tourniquet fetish.
Nathalie's eyes dodged between the two figures infront of her. The one to the left, a venatorian, licked his teeth and hissed. He tilted his head and muttered something to his companion who was a old haalsian. The two of them were currently inspecting a datapad handled to them by Nathalie.

"So? What do you say?" Asked Nathalie with a calm tone.

The haalsian listened to his venatorian friend, grimaced and looked up from the datapad. "Your resume checks out but we don't need a bounty. Plus, you're wanted by Sol." He shook his head and gave Nathalie her datapad. "Business is already difficult with Cortus running about, I don't need a bunch of PsyOps operatives kidnapping my crew to stars know where."

Nathalie nodded. "I understand. Thanks for your time."

"Good luck," said the haalsian before stepping off. He pulled up his hood to mask his pointy ears while the venatorian made a sympathetic hiss before spinning around.

Nathalie sighed and returned the datapad to a small pouch on the inside of her brown cloak which was currently masking the fact that she was wearing combat gear. SSOID-made and branded. She grabbed her olive-colored rucksack from the ground, hoisted it up on her right shoulder and moved on towards the center of Shadespear terminal.

She eventually found herself passing by several bars and clubs. Not alot of folks around by the looks of it. A part of her was thankful as it would be much easier to spot the spooks hired by the SSOID to track her down. On the other hand it made things alot more difficult for her as well. Less people around equaled less potential employers.
Nathalie barely glanced at the neon sign above her head as she stepped into Morgan's Chalice. She stopped on the other side of the door to take a look at the patrons inside. An old man at the bar. If she didn't know any better she'd almost guess that he was somekind of spook or ex-agent. Maybe a millionaire on the run.

Looking over towards the booths there were more people. A small group sitting in one of the booths with an Ayr in ceremonial armor standing on the side. Now that looked interesting, hopefully a competent crew with some balls.

Nathalie walked over to one of the other booths and tossed her rucksack down onto the seat. She sat down and from her position she was able to observe everyone inside the bar. While she desperately needed to find a crew to take her in, at least untill her trail grew cold, Nathalie had no intention of making a risky move. She decided to play it safe and study the others from afar with her piercing blue eyes.


USFA ZiP .22 LR Enthusiast
With unmatched swagger did a very peculiar looking patron step inside the bar, dressed head to toe in protective surgical garb and whose gloves were stained with blood. Yet even more arrogant was the way he conducted himself to the bartender, marching up to the counter and zooming in on their face as he made his demand.

"Bartender, a bottle of your absolute strongest, if you will." he said, in a silky voice which flowed just like the liquor being served.


Keep Moving Forward
The door slammed open, revealing an individual of great size, head disproportionate and scarred. His footsteps gave noise to the patrons, yellow eyes narrowed. The monster clenched his hands into fists and marched across the room, until he saw his shoes untied.

"Uh oh." He raised an eyebrow, turning to see a Lythian around the corner. "I can't believe it Grommy, we actually made it out here to meet the Blackwell Reavers." A female said, holding a guitar case and one leather duffle bag. Her cheeky grin was that unlike any others in this RQ, in fact you could say they were literally unprepared for the horrors of what's to come.

"Hey Nara, what exactly does a Heavy Metal band usually do in their tours?" Grommy asked. Nara pointed up a finger, "Well booze first of all, hence this place. But even better, they got moshpits going on for their fans to thrash up the place." She unveiled her claws, striking the air twice. Grommy nodded on instinct, "Ooh. That could be fun fighting a lot of people around here. Sounds pretty good for a roadie like me." He jabbed his thumb to himself.


Big loaf supreme
"Tupo kopele, ostavi butilkata!" A loud voice could be heard coming from up the staircase. Followed by what sounded like rumbling, followed by cursing and someone getting slammed on the floor. This lasted for about another ten seconds before the door leading to the room upstairs was nearly torn off it's hinges when the two men crashed through it and tumbled down the stairs.

The one who fell flat on his back still gripped the bottle as the other didn't waste time to climb on top of his prone nemesis. It was very clear that this wasn't his first fight as scars covered his face, some more fresh than others. Unfortunately for the other one, the maniac didn't show interest for there to be a round two as he pulled him by the collar and started whaling on him. The first three hits were enough to knock him out and the rest just served as stress release for the other violent individual.

Feeling satisfied with the outcome of the scrap, Petar Vulkov got off the unconscious body and grabbed the bottle from it's hand.
"Moye si e..." He said triumphantly to himself as he opened it and started drinking the contents. He noticed that some of the patrons had turned to watch him and that forced him to stop. "He tried to take my drink." He explained. That's all they were going to get for all he cared. Not enough? Screw em. He stammered over to the bar. As much as he liked the cheap booze he was drinking, he would need more.


A Hot Dog
A woman enters the bar, human in origin, but not exactly human in appearance. Her skin bears seams of application, parts serial numbers, and is a synthetic shade of white. Her build and height put her well above the average human and her eyes are black with illuminated golden irises. Her hair is a clean shade of white and trimmed into a practical short boycut. She's wearing some typical street clothes, but given the slight smirk that crosses her lips once she's walked in, she's probably the troublesome sort. She saunters over to the bar, with the sort of grace one would expect of her size, sits down, and raps her knuckles smartly on the bartop.

"I'll have a whiskey, neat." Her voice was what you'd expect from someone like her, a husky and surly tone.


the writer
A Month Ago... somewhere in the Renegade Quadrant

The establishment had a haze of smoke to it as a long figure entered. A variety of men throughout the bar were playing games, drinking, or talking among themselves in groups. Most looked like ruffians, workers, small-timers in these parts, but a few wore a specific type of jacket, signifying their loyalty to the biggest gang around these parts: the Hounds of War. Black jackets with a neon lit engraving of a dog skull on the back of them made them clearly stand out. This was their turf, and the stranger was walking right into it. He himself stood out like sore thumb. Spacesuit and all clearly giving him away as an outsider. As he walked, heads began to turn and the chatter began to die down around him as he passed by several groups. One of the Hounds noticed this and quickly scurried to the others in the establishment, alerting them of the newcomer. Even with these developments, the stranger was unconcerned and in fact was pleased that his presence was known, although his stoic face did not give any hint of that. He continued to make his way to a specific point of the establishment: the jukebox. After all, what good is a show without a band playing?

As the man perused the song selection, he noticed from the glare of the glass that the Hounds were converging. Their numbers increased from just a few to more than a dozen. A few were armed with melee, two with firearms. The latter being of utmost importance to get to in an enclosed space such as this. The ones carrying clubs and other assortment of melee weaponry would be secondary on his list. Then finally the rest of the rabble. He assessed those that were closest to him and those that were the furthest, optimizing a potential route of attack.

He smirked as he finally said out loud: "Ladies and gentlemen, pardon to interrupt your evening. But this is important." he said out loud, before turning. All eyes were on him as he faced the sea of thugs. He placed his hands into his belt and asserted his position. "My name is Captain Astro, and I'm here for one man, and one man alone. The Bloodhound. If you could point me right to him, I'll be right on my merry way out of here." Of course, he didn't expect to walk out of here without a fight. It was just a country courtesy to offer a way out for them.

"You got a lot of nerve walking in here like that, pendejo." a voice scratched out from the back. A man stepped out from between the Hounds thugs, revealing himself to Vance. "You walk into my club, my turf, and call me out like that? You must have a death wish."

"No sir, I just have a mission. I don't tolerate bullies, and you've been in the bully business around here for far too long. That changes now." Vance spoke with a resounding defiance and a posterboy grin.

The thugs only laughed in response, chuckling and muttering insults at Vance among each other in mocking unison. "You must be stupid or something, because there's only one of you and a whole lot of... US."

"Oh, I'm counting on it." Vance replied as he hit the jukebox to start playing.

As the song started, Vance narrowed his eyes. "Now, who wants to go first?"


The entire establishment was a wreck by the time the fighting began to die down. Tables were smashed and men were groaning and rolling on the floor in pain from broken limbs and painful beatings. One man was even embedded into one of the walls, having been thrown so hard into it. A few thugs were still capable of fighting, and Vance continued his relentless assault. One thug stabbed at Vance with his knife, only for Vance to sidestep, grab the thug from under his arm and onto his chest, and being lifted into the air before being thrown to the ground at full force. The floor cracked as the impact landed and the thug was put out of commission.

Another thug, one of the ones that had a firearm earlier, managed to get up and aimed at Vance to shoot. However, Vance quickly rolled behind a pillar for cover, dodging two shots. From there, Vance picked up a glass bottle on the floor and threw it from another roll, hitting his mark and knocking the thug unconscious as the glass shattered onto his face.

The last remaining gangster charged at Vance and threw a punch, only for his fist to be caught by Astro's hand. He began to squeeze with his strength, causing the gangster to keel over and cry out in pain. After a couple seconds, a resounding crack echoed throughout the place as his fist was utterly crushed into powder. Vance released the man to let him wallow in his agony, and began to walk out. The ringleader, the "Bloodhound", was unconscious with a broken arm and two broken legs near the entrance of the bar and Vance gave a satisfied smirk. One of the ladies at the bar who didn't manage to leave as the fighting began was cowering behind a toppled chair as Vance passed her.

"You can call the authorities now ma'am. The bad guys are down." he said as he began to leave. The door chime rang as he exited, and the song stopped, leaving the scene in silence apart from the groans and crying of grown men.



A slaver craft gently settled on one of the landing platforms thanks to its autopilot, its doors opening afterwards for Vance to exit accompanied by a few ragged individuals who had been captured on board. "You're free now ladies and gentlemen. Make sure to call the authorities to get yourselves out of this mess." he stated to them with a grin. The slavers on board had been beaten to a pulp by the all-American man, and were still incapacitated inside.

As he walked away, he observed his surroundings to find out where exactly his was. The guidance computer on board had stated he was at some place called 'Shadespear Terminal', though he had no idea what that meant. All that mattered was to get back to Earth and back to the States. He didn't want to be listed as AWOL after all.


Sautekh Nemesor
An armor-clad boot stepped out from a shuttle that just finished docking at Shadespear Terminal, the ensemble it was attached interlaced with glowing symbols and networked pathways. There was no telling if the vaguely-male shaped figure was a mercenary in an advanced exosuit, cyborg, or a full-on synthetic from just a cursory glance. One thing was for certain, the technology that the figure was clad in was sufficiently advanced, an amalgam of different components and systems from different manufacturers and minds combined and fine-tuned over the years. It took a few more slow and curious steps as it observed its surroundings, the accommodations particularly sparse as the near-derelict structure has only seen the bare-minimum of maintenance required. The figure would eye hanging wires, malfunctioning holographic displays, and exposed machinery with long stares of puzzlement, eventually finding its way to a bar named 'Morgan's Chalice.' Whether or not this being could eat or drink was anyone's guess, but truthfully it held no concern for such things in the moment, as it was looking for work.

To any that may be able to recognize such a unique, and potentially infamous visage of the armored suit: they would see the figure as Shun Shimizu, an Ayr exile and wanted criminal for terrorist attacks against the Empire. Considering just how this placed seethed with criminals and the dishonorable, he figured that he was among good company, though he would never admit to any wrongdoing as his cause was just. The melding of machinery with the flesh was a cultural taboo for positively archaic reasons, and he sought to prove their ancestors and the Empire wrong to hold themselves back in an unforgiving galaxy. For that he was perfectly willing to be a martyr to his own cause, all to allow his kind to ascend to new heights of enlightenment. Most would not listen to him, but he was willing to bide his time until his wisdom came to light.

It would be no surprise that he looked to his fellow species then, his eyes behind the mask he wore squinting and taking in the information his visor was battering his brain with. Very little of his body was organic still, save for some of his cranium and face while other integral parts were melded into his core anatomy. There would certainly be several points of contention between these Ayr and himself, but he had nothing to fear being this far out from Empire space. Even then if they wished to confront him they would meet the same fate as those before them, as the ideals they stick by crumble so easily when presented with a truly superior mind and form. Stepping surprisingly gracefully for someone so mechanical, limbs only giving the quietest whirs to indicate their non-organic nature, Shun approaches the table the majority of the others seem to be gathered at. He stands rigid for a few moments before performing a rather traditional bow, though his head remains straight and continues to stare at those around him.

"I am Shun Shimizu, esteemed navigator come to offer my services for this venture." he spoke, the voice transmitted to their minds smooth and deep, the slightest hint of mechanical reverb to his words. Shun rises, standing straight and staying silent as he observed their initial thoughts and reactions.
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Keep Moving Forward
"Now let's just wait and see if any of the band members come in. Usually I have a knack for spotting troublemakers." Nara sat down beside several of the patrons, Grommy sitting next to her. They observed the particular bar and noticed several people nearby. To Nara it was completely different experience back home, seeing these inorganic people roaming around. Grommy gave a thumbs up at a complete stranger, "How you doing." He commented.

"I'll have some water please." Nara spoke up to the bartender while Grommy leaned closer. "I'll have some mineral water."


Pretty Good Person
Out of the smoke and dust in the hanger bay, a small starship lands at Sadespear terminal. It's shape and appearance strikes an aggressive design with weapon systems gleaming across its wrings and bow. It's hull appearing to be highly modified from its original design with the various modifications to shape. A stylized skull with daggers running aside it is painted on the sides and front of the cockpit.

The craft beckons for a few moments, it's engines winding down as the landing gear unfolds and locks onto the hangar bays floor. Soon after several moments pass, the cockpit begins to depressurize and opens up to reveal a towing yet slender figure.

The individual lets out a large cloud of scented smoke from under their respirators, followed by a long breath and a short cough. The individual detaches its harness and leave the cockpit. Proceeding towards the bar.

The figure enters the bar with a slight stagger to thier step. The body of them is deeply encased in an harden frame hilt of a darkly tinted metallic alloy. The limbs being entirely mechanical while the upper torso and head appear to be covered by a protective carbon fiber padding. The eyes of the figure could be seened faintly gleaming under the yellow tinted glass bulbs that are apart of it's peculiar looking mask.

They do a quick look over the bar and the various patrons inside, slowly nodding their head before walking over to the bar counter and making eye contact with the bartender. Giving a gesture to them with a exaggerated nod of their head as they take a seat.

"One shot of tox please, raw and unfiltered preferably." They say in a raspy, feminine voice to the bartender. Unhooking a part of their respirator for a injection of an gassed narcotic, commonly used in place of alcohol for those unable to digest such a material normally.

Viper Actual

Ask me about my tourniquet fetish.
Haxon starpped on his headset and adjusted the strap and microphone. Tex glanced at his rifle with a disgruntled expression. Daniel went over his medical bag for the fith time. Boots stepping on the metal floor attracted their attention. Gustav came marching out the cockpit. "Almost there, fellas. You ready?"
The men grunted in response. Gustav nodded. "I'll settle for that." He moved over to his seat next to Daniel and sat down before grabbing his rifle from the weapons rack at the center of the dropship.

Aside from the ambient noise of the dropship engines, the radio chatter from the cockpit and the sound of metal against metal as the contractors suited up the ship was silent. A loud buzz could be heard from the pilot's headset followed by a series of thoomp-sounds from the outside. The pilot glanced over his shoulder and momentarily pulled up his sophisticated AI-assisted piloting visor.

"Thirty seconds out. They just tried to knock us out with a missile."

Gustav secured his helmet. "What's the headcount?" He asked, his voice now slightly more robotic and artificial.

"Twenty," replied the pilot.

Daniel remained silent. His helmet HUD was kicking in at the moment. Ammunition, IFF-markers, weather alerts, radio chatter and other gadgets embedded into his armor were coming online. A miniature version of the Red Corsair emblem appeared at the bottom right of the heads-up display. He looked at Haxon who nodded. Daniel nodded in response. Both men grabbed their rifles and moved towards the rear ramp which was currently closed.

Despite having done this numerous times Daniel felt his pulse becoming faster and faster. The adrenaline was kicking in. Haxon twitched slightly as his combat adrenals kicked in as well. Footsteps behind them signaled that Tex and Gustav were right behind them. By now they could hear the clanking of small-arms fire against the armored hull. The ramp began to lower itself.

Everything that followed happened almost as smoothly as any everyday routine. Three hostiles were already dead as soon as Daniel and Haxon stepped out of the dropship. Machinegun fire on the other side of the abandoned mine meant that the second team had also touched down.

Daniel kneeled down and scouted for targets among the rocks, boulders and various pieces of mining equipments. A repurposed cargo hauler was parked not far away. It was most likely the ship used by the scavengers to get past the automated Red Corsair patrols on the ground.

Gustav yelled something, causing the four-man team to move on instinct. As they approached the contractors fanned out to cover as much ground as possible. IFF-markers on the left edge of his HUD notified Daniel that the third team was right there with them on the other side of a large drilling vehicle covered in green and black tarps. Another hostile collapsed onto the dusty ground as Tex obliterated his skull with a slug-round.

Daniel neared the corner of the drilling vehicle and with one quick motion he stepped to the side and raised his rifle.

A boy, not older than seven years, looked at Daniel with wide eyes. In his scrawny hands was a compact Kanad-made carbine. Few weapons were small and lightweight enough for a child to operate with ease. The boy's striped shirt and green chestrig were completely drenched with sweat.

Daniel narrowed his eyes. He pulled the trigger.

"Hostile down."

A hand then grabbed him by his arm.


Daniel raised his compact kinetic pistol on instinct and aimed it at the figure infront of him. A short and stocky trilothian looked at him with three wide eyes. "We're five minutes out. Captain wanted you to know," said the crewman.

Daniel looked at the trilothian. The muzzle of his gun was a mere inch away from the alien's face.


He lowered the gun and holstered it. "Thanks for the heads-up."

The trilothian nodded and walked off, leaving Daniel to himself inside the dimly lit cargo hold surrounded by metal crates and his smalla ssortment of military-styled bags. He quickly rolled up his sleeping bag and collecting the few personal items which hadn't been packed down already.

For the past months he had been jumping between crews, offering his service as a mercenary and as a combat medic. Most of the time the captains he'd been employed by were satisfied to have one more rifle and didn't care much for his other skills. Their loss.

His current employer had paid him fifty thousand upfront for both services, no questions asked. Daniel didn't ask any questions. He never did. A couple of rough smuggling oeprations later and the crew worshipped Daniel as a god. At least the twenty or so trilothians did. Their frail bodies weren't designed for combat but with Daniel watching over them alongside the captain's personal bodyguard- a disgraced krogi soldier- the few violent confrontations which erupted had been solved with zero casualties.

Now it was time to move on. Shadespear Terminal was his next situation. After that he hoped to get deeper into the Renegade Quadrant.


With his rifle strapped to his armor, bags hoisted over his shoulders and helmet dangling from his large rucksack Daniel made his way from the hangar to the heart of the station. There he found himself outside a place called Morgan's Chalice.

"I need a drink," he muttered to himself.

Daniel entered the bar, ignored as many of the other patrons as he could and went for the edge of the counter. He dropped his bags in a disorganized pile in the corner next to one of the stools and sat down. Daniel didn't order anything as others around the counter called out for the barkeep left and right. Instead he fished his lighter out of its pocket and placed it on the counter next to a pack of cigarettes which had been stored in the same pocket on his armor.

Silently and slowly he pulled out a cigarette from the packet, placed it between his lips, shielded it with his free hand out of habit and ignited it. Daniel took a long drag from the cigarette before returning the lighter and packet to their designated pouch.


Big loaf supreme
Shadespear Terminal. A new place, a new beginning. A fresh start for Vincent and whoever would hire him. The last crew he ran with didn't seem to mind him as long as he kept them patched up. Of course he knew it would be a matter of time before someone did anything too stupid and a good part of them ended up dead. He could remember the dumb bitch thinking it would be funny to shoot a militia patrol. Only reason him and 2 others made it out was because the response was merciful enough to deem them not a threat and not worth the bullets that would be used to kill them.

That was months ago. Whatever money he had saved up was starting to dry up and there was practically zero way for a preacher to make money in the Renegade quadrant, even if he were to have medical skills. It was time to get back on the saddle and find another crew that would take him and Shadespear would be the place for it.

Fishing out his cigarette pack from his pocket, he took one out and lid it under the neon signs, when something caught his attention however. A ship had landed and out came a peculiar looking man. By the sound of it he had just come out of a fight and was just walking off. The other occupants of the ship began to walk out as well and... wait, are those fucking slaves? Vincent was now curious as to what was going on. He started walking towards the strange man.

"This better not be what I think it is" He said while he looked towards the sky and then back to the back of the man "Hey, partner, slow down a second." Vincent spoke as he tried to grab his attention. Could he even hear him with that suit "Are you just going to leave them like that?"


the writer
Vance turned around to the man who spoke to him, observing him as he spoke. "Not sure I can help 'em more than I have already. Their captors are a mess, and right now I gotta focus on getting back to the States. The fight against communism doesn't rest my good friend!" Vance said with a smile. "Captain Vance Astro, U.S. Armed Forces... and you might be?"


Big loaf supreme
"Vincent Galloway...uh, priest." US armed forces? What was he talking about? "It's good that you beat up their captors and all, but you're also leaving them to fend for themselves in the most populated by pirates region in the galaxy, friend."

"Hardly a good place to be in for former slaves."


the writer
Vance looked around, now a bit concerned from this new information. "To be honest, I have no idea WHERE I am Mr. Galloway. I just know I'm far from home. As a man of the cloth, I'm sure you know the fight against the jesus-censoring reds, yes? Nonetheless... we should figure something out." Vance said as he looked around, looking for an idea. "Perhaps we can pay someone to fly 'em to safety? I got this here thingamajig that supposed to have cash in it, but I don't know how it works. One of the people on board said it had a lot on it." he said as he handed the creditchit to Vincent.


Big loaf supreme
"Heh. You're a good man, Vance" Vincent was surprised by the spur of generosity from this strange individual. No doubt he could use this money far better, but yet he was willing to part with it to aid those in need. A rare breed of person these days. "Let's check, shall we." Vincent was lucky enough to get himself an omny-tool. It was limited in what it could do with it's current authorizations, but it did enough to get him by. Money transfer was among them. The small holograms showed the amount the slavers had on it.
"Ten thousand credits. Looks like he was planning to buy and sell until you threw a spanner in the works." He showed Vance the numbers so he could see for himself. "Half of that should be enough for them to get warm clothes a meal and tickets to somewhere less dangerous. Your money, your call, partner."


USFA ZiP .22 LR Enthusiast
Signs and boards displaying some kind of text hang right above Shuren. He knew the ones in all red meant something potentially bad, but regardless, he can't understand what any of them were saying. He hugs the wall as he shudders by himself, watching everyone pass him by. It's difficult for him to not stick out due to his tall height, but he prayed quietly that nobody would approach him. Something catches his eye, however, an electrical box that's half-open and has wires hanging out. It's right outside some weird looking gathering place where some very odd looking people were walking into. His instincts kick in and he gets to work trying untangle and fix the power box. He already didn't want any attention, so he may as well look busy to deter people from him.


the writer
Albert looked up from his notebook to take a look at the colorful figures that had entered the bar after him. All of them seemed quite interesting, especially the cyborg-Ayr and the rockman with its companion. He wrote down their descriptions into his notebook as he observed them, taking note of the establishment's population currently. An great variety for him to write about as he scribbled away with his notes.


Vance took a look at the numbers displayed in the hologram and gave a slight nod. "Alright, that settles it then I s'pose. Just need to find someone willing to fly 'em outta here. Do you know anyone by any chance?" Vance asked as he looked towards the freed slaves idling about near the craft.


Professional Argentine

In the deepest corners of Shadespear Terminal was the Blood Spirits. While most bars on the station served drinks to really anyone, this particular bar was known for serving some of the more 'ruthless' pirate and mercenary types this corner of the galaxy. Three rather large human males walked into the bar, taking note that it was badly lit but still had more patrons than a good chunk of the rest of the station. Most of them kept to themselves, as the men made their way across the bar. The leader of the trio, a large and slightly overweight man with a bear and a mechanical arm, looked to his lackeys before speaking. "This assassin bloke is around here somewhere. That's what the slag told us anyways." he said, with a bassy voice. The two lackeys looked about, before one of them finally spoke up. "Why we lookin' for an assassin anyways? That Blackwell bitch is dead, and I doubt her lil' daughter will be alive much longer." The boss chuckled. "As long as that skank has her crew, she'll have a chance of rebuilding."

The other lackey chimed in. "Then...why don't we go ahead and just waste 'em?" The boss cut him a look. "Well, why don't you go then? Go try and get close to her! I think you can do it. Also, when you get back, tell me how far that giant blue bitch of a Khergian shoved her fist up your ass. Didn't you see how easy she dealt with those Bloodrunners?" The lackey cleared his throat before speaking again. "Why do we even bother, then? I doubt that Blackwell kid knows who we even are. And her mother certainly didn't give two shits about us." The other lackey chuckled. "Yeah, the Skorpions, protected by their own obscurity." he said with a joking tone. The boss grunted. "I don't fucking care what you idiots think. I want to get rid of those bitches before they even get a chance of rebuilding. Now can you two idiots move and look for this android?" The two men nodded, and proceeded to walk around the bar.

It didn't take long for them to find who they were looking for, as he was sitting in the corner, drinking what looked to be some sort of fancy mixed drink. The man looked in his mid-twenties, and had short black hair and dark eyes. His skin was abnormally pale, and he had a graceful yet disturbing look about him. The boss of the Skorpions approached the man and whispered "...are you the Black Cat?" The assassin smiled and replied "I sure am, darling, but please call me Jericho..." He finished his drink, before looking back to the man. "So...who do you want dead, and how much are you willing to pay? Family members have a fifty percent discount this week." The pirate leader cleared his throat. "I...uh...its a fellow pirate leader. Laruen Blackwel--"

Jericho interrupted the man. "Blackwell? Isn't she dead already? Killed by some vigilante or...?" The man shook his head. "No sir, that was Valencia Blackwell. I'm talking of her daughter...Blackwell's Reavers took a heavy blow when Valencia died, and I don't want them to recover. They've been a bloody thorn in the side of many other pirates like myself." Jericho eyed the leader. He was tired of these small time crews thinking that they'd be the next Blackstar or Hellions, but as long as they payed him, he didn't care what airs of grandeur they might have. "A hundred thousand for her head alone, fifty for each crewmember. No negotiations. That's my price." he said, before smiling. "Want any proof? Finger? Ear? Arm? Any other bodyparts cost extra, especially nasty ones."

The leader cringed a bit when he heard the price, but without any other options, he eventually accepted Jericho's terms. "Here's the intel I have on that skank." he said, giving the android a datachip. "As soon as I learned she was here, I made sure to look for you. Don't fail me, plastic boy." Jericho glared at the man, but maintained his smile. "Alright...you've got yourself a deal...mister...?" said Jericho, before the man cleared his throat. "Ferguson." he responded. "Meet me here tomorrow, Mr. Ferguson. I'll have completed the contract by then...and if you try to fuck me over, I'll make sure to make your miserable existance a living hell...understood? Good!" Jericho then stood and walked towards the exit, giving the bartender his due and drawing out his holopad. Lauren's face right in the middle of the screen.


genuinely awful person
One ship seemed markedly out of place in the hangar. Between all of the shuttles, retrofitted for various duties. Gunrunning, raiding, and evidently in one case, slave running, sat a ship that seemed quite a bit smaller than the rest of them. A fighter craft. Sleek, streamlined and-- well, not quite pristine. But two out of the three isn't bad. The thing was uncharacteristically modern when compared to practically everything else in the hangar- hell, probably even that sector of the quadrant. Bristling with weaponry, and baring a shark-tooth decal across its nose, and a now long-faded insignia on its tailfin. In its place, was nothing more than a simple phrase. [CHARIOT OF THE APOCALYPSE] Edgy.

The cockpit opened with a rather audible kfwshh, booted legs twirling over the rim and pulling out an armored figure. Contrasting their ship, they armor they wore might've been as top of the line as the horse they rode in on at one point, but not anymore. It all had to do with the mounds of dense polymer that they'd strapped over the armor, as well as the pouches and openly holstered pistol, making them looking more like they were a raider than a pilot. Hardly a moment later, and with a bit of tapping on their wrist, the cockpit shut behind them, and they jumped down, a dull thwnk as they landed on the floor. The armor itself was covered in insignias. The characteristic stars and stripes of the Sol Systems Navy. It'd have even been proudly worn, too. If not for the fact that most of the SSN-related insignias were scratched to hell and back, roughly filed off by what must've been a knife, or simply had been painted over. As was the case on the helmet, where its frontal plates had a thin veneer of black over them, painted into the shape of a skull. Intimidating. Looking at that, and the craft they emerged from, it wouldn't be hard to imagine just where all of that came from.

[Mmnhm. What a shithole. Seems the perfect place for me to lay low for a while, maybe find a crew... And get the fuck outta dodge as quick as I can.] The figure thought to themself, looking around the, if not quite bustling, then at least active hangar area they found themself in. They pushed past the crowd of now ex-slaves that filtered out into the great unknown of the station, and inadvertently pushing over one or two of them with the advent of such a bulky suit. There was a cursory glance towards the two who were talking just in front of the people-carrying tub. Slavers, probably? That or authorit-- pfft. Yeah, fucking right. Looking over a credit chit, with the way that those two goons are dressed? Definitely slavers. Not like they cared, though, all that the pilot wanted to do right now was get themselves to a bar, and have a couple drinks. What can they say, they get an itch for the drink when they get nervous. It takes maybe five, ten minutes of walking before a sign catches their eye.

'Morgan's Chalice'. Written in garish, illuminating neon, and with a classic-looking goblet hanging above those words. Well, as good a place as any to start. Unless it's some sort of antique cup store, which, unsurprisingly, wouldn't be that common this far out into the quadrant. Boot met door with a resounding THWNK, and that same pilot walked in, beelining their way over to the bar. Two gloved hands took hold either side of the helmet, another, quieter fwssh than the one that their craft expelled, lifting up to unmask the mysterious figure underneath. A pale woman, messy red hair mostly bundled up behind her head. Sharp blue eyes that were made only more prominent by how sunken in they seemed in her head.

"One bottle of your finest beer, 'tender." She said with a cocky grin, helmet placed none-too-gently atop the bar with a kthnk, and a small, blue credit chit produced and ready between her index and middle fingers. She hadn't even the decency to plant herself down onto a stool.

Emperor Sagan

Lord Commissar
Deep breaths, you can do this. You can be tough. Remember your etiquette lessons. Stand up straight. Clear voice. Firm but polite.

Once the passenger shuttle had landed, Shelby du Pont wasted no time gathering her backpack and suitcase from the overhead luggage and then hurrying out of the crowded ship. It was strange that so many people could be packed into such a small place, and with so little room between the seats. The shuttle didn't even have a first class section. It was a little dirty, and smelly, and all the different people and aliens were scary looking. Some almost certainly had weapons. How were those people even allowed on board? It was nothing like a Castilian domestic shuttle in-atmosphere or low orbit, though she had always flown on her family's private shuttles. She knew they packed a lot of people into the back of the normal flights, but this was ridiculous. She didn't think they could fit more than two people in per row, but they had managed six!

Shelby hurried through the mess of departing passengers, keeping her hands firmly on one strap of her backpack, and the other on her suitcase. Thieves could be anywhere. And this was apparently a haven for pirates. The crowd certainly looked to be scummy and dangerous. Many people were dressed in flight suits, filthy street clothes, and many in what looked like military-style armor. Back on Castilia, private armor and weapons were strictly forbidden, so it was a little alarming to see these people walking about freely.

Once outside of the terminal, Shelby paused near a wall to compose herself. She had been on the run for a little less than a year now but getting used to the wider galaxy was not something she was sure she would get over easily. The places which were clean and pretty, with helpful policemen at the corner, were dangerous to her with the corporates after her. Ironic, as the places she felt were the most dangerous were at the moment the safest, like this sector.

Wearing a sturdy blue sundress with an off-white cream colored sweater underneath to keep her arms, chest, and neck warm, Shelby looked more and more like a lost child as the crowd of roughnecks and pirates filtered by. The dress was of a conservative cut just past her knees, and she had white stockings on beneath. Her black leather boots were the most expensive pair from last season in the La Fantaisie net catalogue, but it was clear no one here had probably ever looked at the merchandise... let alone could even afford it. In fact, her boots alone could probably purchase one of the ships docked in the port on the station.

Oh no, I hope no one tries to steal them.... She patted at her thigh to make sure her stungun was still safely in her pocket - features she had ensured were built into her dress before she escaped Castilia. The device was stolen from a security guard before her departure months ago, and it had kept many people at bay quite easily. She even had a real pistol in her backpack with real bullets.

Now that will take care of anyone, but so far these pirates don't seem too bad. Shelby had expected to see fist fights and robberies as soon as she stepped off the shuttle, but so far everyone just looked... tired. Weary people with hardly anything to their name, or outcasts, or dangerous loners. Things were looking quieter than she expected.

There was a bar not far away - Morgan's Chalice - and she hurried over there. Maybe she could find work there, just to hide for a while. Jumping from hotel to hotel was more comfortable, but with her family and all the others looking for her, they would likely scour every legal business they could find. These down-and-outs were the safest as they were all questionably legal and hard to track.

Shelby hurried into the establishment past a weird looking technician messing with a fuse box outside. At least this place had hired help, so it couldn't be too bad. However, she hesitated when she stepped inside. Her eyes went a little wide. There were far more aliens and dangerous looking people inside... and there was already someone passed out on the floor with bruises on their face.

Pirates, Shelby, remember. This is a pirate's den clearly. Don't look weak or they will steal your clothes and money and then shoot you.

Clearing her throat and straightening her back, and brushing her long blonde hair over one ear, she hurried over to the bar and sat down, trying not to gawk at anyone nearby. She glanced through a menu board wondering what a pirate should drink. When the bartender came around, she ordered a gin and tonic with as little emotion as possible. She didn't know what the drinking laws were here... but she didn't think they had any. Her fake ID was, well, actually real but with some misinformation on it. Such as that she was eighteen, not twenty-one, so certainly illegal to be drinking on Castilia.

Once the gin arrived, she took a deep breath and took a heavy, careless gulp from it.

And her face immediately went red as she fell into a coughing fit, her eyes watering. It felt like she just drank down jet fuel and burning coals. People drink this!?

She couldn't stop coughing from the gin, and she glanced at the duo beside her, some weird rocky alien man and a cat-like lady.

"Water!?" Shelby coughed again, her voice hoarse as she pointed at one of their glasses.


A Hot Dog
The white synth woman glances amongst the slowly populating bar, her eyes taking in as many details as they can. She's takes a sip of her whiskey while she does this. The look on her face gives enough away that it's clear she's either watching for someone specific or just sizing up the other patrons to see who's a likely threat. She reaches in her worn out jacket that's been duct taped in particularly threadbare areas, she nods to herself and takes her still empty hand out of her jacket and rests it back around the whiskey glass.

When the girl who ordered the gin starts choking on it, Yolandi can't help but burst out laughing at her misfortune. Mostly because, she recalls her first time drinking and how the outcome was similar.
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