The Western Frontier: An Episodic, Schizotech Science Fiction RP. (Started, closed)

[Nukey]

Spoiler: OOC - Please Read

I have, after much thought, decided to take a somewhat riskier approach when it came to accepting players. After being unable to decided who to cut, I've opted to accept all 12 of you. However, in order to prevent anything from getting to hectic, I've got lay down some basic ground rules and posting regulations. I am, of course, quite sure than a handful of you might end up dropping out, so the number of players will thin out over time.

First, I'm limiting everyone to no more than 2 posts a day maximum, in order to keep things at a manageable pace. I might not be able to post every day, but I'm gonna to my best to keep things moving. Furthermore, if anyone happens to not post for more than a week without prior warning, I'm going to kill you off. I'll explain more things as we go along. I'm also going to start putting everyone's sheets and additional information/lore in the placeholders above and I'll let you guys know as things get added.

In everyone's first post, you are to describe arriving on Tanra Station, though other than that you've got quite a bit of freedom. Nerin, Gira and Hiener have yet to dock, so you can attempt to socialize with locals, visit merchants, get drunk...pretty much whatever you want, within reason, of course. The heightened security due to all the political activity, however, means that you're going to be in quite a bit of trouble should you try anything stupid.

Spoiler: Ignore this spoiler

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[HEADING=1]Episode One: Tanra Station[/HEADING]​

A spiraling mass of polychromatic kinetic energy, firing bolts of neon thunder and glowing wisps of red plasma, circled around the Blackheart's flagship, the WhiteStar, as it exited hyperspace, a massive stream of golden light trailing close behind it as entered the space around Tanra Station. The moment it reentered real space, it's speed dramatically slowed, the vessel that was once moving faster than light now at a slow and steady crawl. Warning lights flashed out from the WhiteStar as it reached the docking bay, signaling that it was ready to land, grinding to a halt as it awaited a response.

Nerin sat in the command room of his ship, his eyes glued to the window as he watched the docking process begin. It was a monotonous process, not to mention a time consuming one, but for reasons that eluded his coworkers, he always wished to watch it whenever given the chance. In one hand, he held a glass of inexpensive bourbon, sipping on it as he took in the view and waited for an answer from Tanra Station.

Gira stood behind him; his arms folded, and appeared quite irritated with his colleague's unprofessional behavior. He, although quite fond of all manner of liquor, disapproved of drinking before official business, which Nerin rarely had an issue with. Gira seemed tempted to scold his partner for his amateurish behavior, though decided against it because he was aware that Nerin would simply ignore any reprimand.

"Thirty minutes until landing..." Gira muttered, instead opting to go over their current plan. His words, although echoing throughout the interior of their vessel, fell on deaf ears. "Then another hour to get to the conference room in that bar we rented, fifteen minutes to get the recruits to shut up and then approximately ten minutes of speaking followed by some dumb questions to be answered. After that, well, I suppose it's just gonna be another fuckin' job, right?"

There was, of course, no answer to be heard.

---​

The interior of Tanra Station, by comparison, was nowhere near as quiet. The hum of starship engines blasted throughout the docking areas, and the constant shouting of assorted miscreants, merchants and mercenaries echoed throughout the crowded streets of the station, making it impossible for one to even hear themselves think. Adding to the chaotic atmosphere, the hired guns at the docks were acting up and although they were there to maintain the peace, were in truth more likely to start a riot than anything. A gunfight, despite the amount of security detail, seemed more than likely.

Violence, however, was a rarity on Tanra Station, as the spaceport was under the watchful eye of an entirely robotic policing force, programmed to ruthlessly hunt down and slaughter those who dared disobey the laws of the floating metropolis. In the streets, around every corner, one could expect to find a patrol of combat drones, armed with bladed limbs and electrical bludgeons, each one more than capable of subduing the common criminal with ease. On the roofs sat snipers and in the skies flew surveillance bots, with no one free from their ever-vigilant sights.

---​

All in all, it seemed like a rather typical day in Tanra Station; however, there was, of course, one thing that made today far more notable than all the rest. The people of Tanra Station, fed up with the rampant corruption that plagued their political system, had recently just voted out a number of their representatives, including their own president, and, as such, a number of rallies were being held throughout the massive colony. Up and coming politicians gave speeches, held debates and talked with the local press, with all of Tanra Station's security having been heightened in order to deal with the increased risk of terrorism.

The chief of police, Ulmin Zaar, one of the few elected officials whom had managed to keep his seat, largely in part due to his status as a hero of the people, was encouraged to run for president of the colony. His stance on crime, especially his attitude in regards to narcotics and illegal biochemical augmentation smugglers, made him quite unpopular amongst the criminal community, which of course meant that security surrounding him was comprised of primarily military personal and private contractors. He seemed, for the most part, untouchable.

Spoiler: A brief explanation of Tanra Station

Tanra Station is, basically, a giant space station built into the side of an asteroid. It's quite similar to Omega [http://static1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20090823203859/masseffect/images/c/c8/Omega_03.jpg] from Mass effect in regards to its overall design. It has about 50,000 permeant residents, although millions of people travel through the station in order to conduct business, refuel their spaceships and search for employment. Unsurprisingly, most smugglers and other criminals will have to, at some point, stop here while conducting their illegal activities.

 

[evilengine]

The overhead speakers garbled unintelligible nonsense as the freighter lurched out of hyperspace, lacking any sort of anti-gravity device dozens of small objects, cigarette butts, nuts and bolts and the occasional food wrapper drifted lazily through the air. Belted firmly down, Pepper grunted, seizing his bag which had began to float off yet again. He wedged it under his elbow, ignoring the flashing lights that signalled the approach.

It had been an uncomfortable journey to say the least, strapped for cash and running low on favours, Pepper pulled all the strings he could to secure a ride out of Deepsun, not on a passenger shuttle as he had hoped, but rather lodged in a hastily added spare seat in a cargo vessel. While beggers couldn't be choosers, had he known that he'd be crammed between a pair of four ton shipping containers for two days he'd of told them to shove it.

A workman in overalls pulled himself along, steadying himself on the handrails lining the walls. Looking over at the bounty hunter who hacked a loud cough, jamming a crooked cigarette into his mouth.

"HEY, YOU! NO SMOKING!" the workman barked, before floating out of sight. Taking little notice, Pepper clicking his thumb, producing a small flame at the tip. He puffed away, the speaker system garbling yet again as the pilot drew the vessel towards Tanra Station.

With work drying up back home, Pepper had to face that he needed to move on. Smoke trailed through the hold, the pungent odour masking the usual stench of oil and metal, as well as whatever the hell were in these containers. Through the walls he could hear numerous clanking and movement of machinery, the ship moved further on, past the shuttle bays and towards the shipping and receiving docks, far more squalid. The ship lurched again, more clunking could be heard, along with the sound of air valves, before the weightlessness began to subside. The candy wrapper by his feet falling to the ground.

"Thank Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking another long inhale of his cigarette as the same workman walked past. Unbuckling his seat belt, Pepper stretched, slinging his bag over his shoulder and squashing his hat over his unwashed hair, he moved forward, following the workman who glared at the cigarette dangling between Pepper's lips. "Much obliged," Pepper said, not looking as he squeezed past the workman in the narrow corridor, making his way through the hatch that led to the outside to the port. Dozens, if not hundreds of workmen were walking to and fro, some carrying clipboards and shouting, mostly over the noise of the constant engine roars as ship after ship took off and arrived.

Hitching his bag up a little futher, he pushed past an angry looking foreman and made his way into the crowd.

 

[NeoAC]

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now arrived at Tanra Station. Those departing for other spaceships, good luck trying to make your transfer on time. Those staying put, welcome to Tanra Station!"

As the rather indifferent voice on the overhead fell silent and passengers started to move into the aisles, the woman in the second to last row stretched her arms out, trying to regain the feeling in them after a rather long and cramped trip. Any hope for a more luxurious ride out of Criado City was dashed as the usual interchange of bankrupted tourists quickly filled the seats up to return home to their lives of drudgery. This meant that the entire trip was spent avoiding physical contact with the rather portly gentleman in the seat next to her, whose augmentation money must have been spent on enhanced sweat glands, because he smelled like ripe cheese and rotting spinach. The music that poured through her left headphone did nothing to alleviate the assault on the other four senses, so when the half-pig got up to retrieve his bags, it was a great relief to the 28-year-old.

"It was nice meeting you Slymane! Enjoy your trip back to Rexha!" she called out to him.

The man grunted a goodbye, and carried his bag up the shuttle aisle towards the exit.

Riikka sighed as the man left her. It was tough to remain amicable to him for the entire trip, but she pulled it off. It helped that he wasn't much of a talker, sticking to his variety of smuggled snack foods and magazines for the majority of the trip. But still, at least she learned to avoid Rexha unless she brought nose plugs and enough jerky to use as currency.

Now that it was her turn to leave, she grabbed her relatively small bag of belongings from under her seat. It was surprisingly easy to pack up her life into such a tiny satchel, but there it was, in her hand and soon slung over her shoulder. She departed the shuttle as the attendant kept waving passengers through, eager to clear the area to try and clean things off for the next batch. The Station terminal was gigantic, a giant dome with varying levels of entries and exits, docking bays and ramps, in a maze of technology. Thankfully the main board centered over the terminal pointed the direction of the customs center, and therefore a way out of the building.

Customs was terrible. It was a lengthy wait as people filtered through the gates after a mild quiz on personal details. Finally it was time for the blonde and bluenette to pass through. The agent at the window looked like he wanted to be anywhere else until the woman appeared in front of him waving a passport.

"Uh...name?"

"Riikka Välimaa."

"Are you coming into Tanra for business or for pleasure?"

Riikka leaned in, allowing a generous view of her cleavage as she did so. "You tell me, hun."

"Huh, O...OK, I see." The wedding band on the man's hand was weighing a ton at the moment. "Uh, anything to declare? Any foreign objects, weapons, that sort of thing?"

Riikka pulled back, putting a finger up to her lips. "Now..." she read the man's tag. "Gehren. Tell me." She gestured with a sweep over her less than fully protected body. "What would make you think I would have anything like that on me?"

"I-I don't know, ma'am. It's just standard procedure."

"Well, how about we just move right along the procedure?" Riikka leaned back in, stopping an inch from Gehren's face, but still separated by a pane of glass. It let the man gaze into her deep blue and slightly orange colored eyes. "And you let me on through with a stamp and a smile, huh? What do you say?" She was practically breathing into the screen at this point.

It was all Gehren could do to keep faithful and avoid the advances of this overtly sexual woman in front of him. Sure, his supervisors would brag about the seedy favors they had gotten in exchange for letting people in with less than credible documents, but he was different damn it! He was going to be just like Ulmin Zaar! He just had to get her out of his sight so he wouldn't be tempted anymore. Everything looked perfectly fine anyway.

Gehren brought out the stamp and slammed it down so hard he almost ripped through the page. "Welcome to Tanra Station, Ms. Välimaa." He pushed the booklet back to Riikka and she graciously accepted it, popping it back into her bag.

"Much obliged, Gehren. See you around." She gave a wink to the customs agent as she sauntered out towards the exit. Gehren breathed a heavy sigh as he leaned back in the chair for a moment. Roustil would be so proud of him. But there was no time to dwell on that. "Next!"

Riikka continued on the way out. I'm glad he didn't try anything. I would have hated to do break up such a lovely looking family. I gotta stop doing that though. I'm supposed to be a serious bounty hunter now. I can't be falling back into those old tricks. She looked around the exit for some sort of transportation that would able to get her to the bar she was supposed to be at for this meeting, but it appeared as though those who had come before her has staked all the claims to the available passenger cabs. Damn it. Well at least I'll have time for a smoke while I wait then. She rummaged in her bag for her pack of cigarettes and lit one up, taking a long drag from it as she waited for an empty ride to pull up and take her downtown.

 

[Athol]

Sil yawned as she stepped into the Arrivals area of Tanra Station's dock. She'd just wrapped up a three month stakeout job on Tanith, in the neighbouring system, and as a result her sleep pattern as still borked. A ship-side job'll be nice. She thought, not for the first time. Get back to something resembling a normal sleep cycle.

As she made her way to Customs, she quietly ping'd the local LEOs to see if she was mentioned. Their cyber-security was...adequate, but not nearly good enough to keep her out. She was certain she'd gotten away clean from the Ferid job, but she knew she was still a 'person of interest' back home, and she had no intention of ever getting dragged back there. Her search showed nothing so she cut the connection, and smiled.

Now that she was into the Stations security feeds, she moved carefully; avoiding cameras where she could, and disrupting them momentarily the few occasions where she couldn't. From the dock to the Customs desk, there were fifteen cameras...and not one of them saw her. When her turn came, she ran a quick background check on the Customs Officer she was about to deal with, and she liked what she saw.

"Name?" He asked, in a bored monotone. "I'm in a bit of a rush hon'." She replied, giving him a smile. "Is there some way we can...speed this up?" As she spoke, she handed him her papers. As he took them, a credit chit fell into his hands, and to the man's credit, he palmed it with impeccable smoothness. "I'll do my best ma'am, but we have to follow procedure." "Of course, of course." She said.

While he appeared to check her papers, she guessed he was really checking the chit, a guess that was confirmed the moment she saw his eyebrows just about launch off his face. That's probably more money than he'd make in a decade. She thought. Too bad for him it was a forgery; with a counterfeit chit, and some expert coding, Sil could make those things carry whatever balance she wanted...unfortunately for the recipient, the money 'ghosted' the second they tried to spend it. After regaining his composer, the Customs Officer hand Sil her papers, without ever having looked at them. "Well everything seems to be in order. Have a nice day, and welcome to Tanra Station." She shot him another smile, and waved as she left.

Gear in hand, she stepped out of the terminal and made her way to the taxi stand, only to find it empty. "Perfect..." She muttered. Fortunately the meeting wasn't for a while, so all there was to do was wait. Sitting down, she slipped her revolver from her bag, back into its usual position under her left arm, before retrieving a cheroot from the pack in her thigh bag. Lighting it with a mini soldering torch, she took a drag while surveying the area. The only person close by, was a rather attractive blonde with blue highlights.

 

[Yorgmiester]

Oazel thumbed his collarbone absent-mindedly as he stared at the small screen on the wall to his right. On it, Tanra Station was slowly sliding in to view, a hulking mass of lights that seemed to impose itself over the serene blackness of space. A deadpan voice announced overhead that they would be arriving in thirty minutes.

Looking down, Oazel regarded the bowl of re-moisturized fruit in his hands. He nudged the slices of banana and apricot around with his spoon. With an apathetic look, he took one more bite and then set the bowl aside and turned to face his computer monitor. On it was a blank text document. He chewed and swallowed slowly, then rolled his tongue across his teeth as he pondered. The writing had been meant as a project he could work on during the long trip, something to keep him occupied. He had never really started.

With a sigh, Oazel shut off the computer and turned to look once again at the image of Tanra Station growing larger as the ship neared its destination. It wasn't a real window, just a live video feed coming from cameras on the front of the ship. His cabin was in fact buried deep in the bowels of the cruiser alongside hundreds of other rooms, and he could hear the gentle hum of vents and machinery all around him. Diffused lights around the edges of the ceiling and warmly colored decor aimed to concoct a homely feel. The room was as dull and nice as it had been at the beginning of the voyage. His bags were stacked neatly on the foot of the bed, ready to go, much as they had been since he embarked.

Oazel ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at the floor for a few moments, resting his head in his hands. Presently he rose, and walked to the bathroom mirror. His hair was acting a little unruly due to the low gravity in the cruiser, but other than that he looked fine. Just fine. He peered at his own eyes and frowned, then bit his lower lip, studying his expression.

Just fine.

"Arrival at Tanra Station in twenty minutes." the voice droned. He looked disdainfully upwards, then grabbed his bags and headed out the door.

---​

The disembarking crowds seemed even worse than the last time he had been to Tanra Station. The customs area was congested into a hellish sardine can of galactic diversity; people of every culture and level of hygiene were crammed wall-to-wall in a series of smoke-filled hallways that funneled them towards their intended destinations. Oazel stood uncomfortably near the check-in window, twirling his hair with his fingertip. A woman ahead of him in line was taking time shoving her tits at the customs agent, somebody nearby was banging loudly on the walls, and the rather uninviting man with double telescopic eyes next to him was starting to talk gibberish. Oazel suppressed a grimace and hefted his pack higher up onto his shoulder.

Finally it was his turn to check in. "Name?" the customs agent asked. He seemed flustered, and distracted by something on his desk.

"Oazel Clattuq." Oazel replied, and then louder when the agent asked him to repeat himself.

"Are you here on business?" the agent asked, finally looking up.

"Yes."

The man eyed him up and down for a moment without much thought. Oazel looked normal. He was wearing fairly typical travel attire: grey comfort pants and a dark blue coat with a high collar, unbuttoned over a slouchy silver tunic. The only things that seemed out of the ordinary were the large curved sheath and rifle bag slung across his back.

"Passport please. I assume those are weapons?"

"Yes. A rifle and sword. I'm also carrying a revolver." Oazel handed his passport to the agent, who promptly stamped it. "Yea, just check them in at the weapons desk, ma'm." The agent replied. "Next!"

Moving on under the watchful gaze of the numerous robotic guards, Oazel picked up his NCONU from the luggage bay and eventually found his way out into the hustle and bustle of the space station proper. It was much more spacious that inside the terminal, which meant there was even more room for tacky lights, loud noises, and smoke. It really didn't feel like a space station at all; in fact, it felt more like being underground. The place was a shithole, without a doubt, and Oazel wasn't too keen on sampling any local culture at the moment. He headed for the first taxi station he could find.

There were only two people waiting there already, though he had expected more. He pulled his rifle bag over his head and set down his suitcase, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the two women were both armed as well. Taking a seat next to his things, he crossed his legs and tucked one hand under his knee, and waited.

 

[Lotus_Gait]

Patiently, Torean Pelivar sat with his elbows resting on the bright white table, hands arched. The table was bolted to the floor, as was the ladder-backed white chair he sat on. The room he occupied was white-walled and about ten foot squared, with a single metal door on the wall behind him and a large mirror that ran the length of the wall on his left. Torean had been in this room for just over an hour, he estimated. Not for the first time, he sighed in resignation. The huge commercial cruiser that he had taken passage on - Starstruck, it was called - had docked in Tanra Station over an hour ago but he was still being held in the ship's guarding cell.

Hearing the door open, Torean stiffened and schooled his eyes to keep staring forward. A man paced into his view and regarded him, a blank look on his face. The man wore a light grey suit with a black tie, his blonde hair was cut very short. Torean noted that his face and demeanor demanded - no, expected - to be obeyed. Small surprise as he wore a small pin on his tie that picked him out as a senior detective. The man sat down in the chair opposite Torean and smiled warmly.

"Mr. Pelivar," he began, "why did you punch Mr. Fratz?" Torean blinked uncertainly. From the smile this man had given him, he had expected small talk and fakeries before going straight to the point.

"He... was annoying me." Torean said placidly, simply.

The detective frowned slightly and shrugged. "So you punched him?" His tone was flat.

"He was... really annoying me." Torean nodded vigorously to emphasise his point.

The detective stayed silent for a time, studying Torean's face with deep hazel eyes. Torean didn't shift under that gaze, but his arched fingers twiddled unconsciously. Eventually the detective leaned foward, folding his arms on the table. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "So you mean to tell me, Mr. Pelivar, that you regard an irritant liable to be punched in the face?"

Placing his hands palm down on the table, Torean leaned forward until he was only a finger's length away from the detective's face. He kept his features smooth. "He was really, really annoying me." The detective leaned back in his chair with a small snort, his eyes shining with mirth. Torean settled back into his previous position, fingers arched, eyes unabashedly staring the detective down. Neither said anything for a while.

"Let me give you the details, detective." Torean said at last. "I've never been to Tanra Station before but-"

"Why are you interested in Tanra Station?" The detective cut in.

Torean flicked a hand as if to push the question aside. "Business. Now I know ever-"

"What kind of business?" Taking a deep breath, Torean laid his hands palm down on the table again.

"Personal...business." He was surprised at how calm his voice was. This detective was surely trying his patience, but Torean knew men like this; he wouldn't let go unless he was given more details. Putting on an air of pride, Torean fashioned a quick lie. "I am a trader, detective. A trader of ideas," he began gesturing grandly with his hands; a man preening his own pomposity. "The ideas of the universe and why we are here - the importance of the mind in realising our own potential as a species. I trade in the future enlightenment of our o-"

"You're a philosopher," The detective cut in simply, then added as an afterthought, "a violent philosopher." Torean froze at the words, and allowed his eyes to break the detective's for the first time. He feigned exasperation.

"As I told you detective...He. Was. Annoying. Me."

The detective spread his hands apologetically but the small smile told Torean that the man was in no way sorry. Uncertainly, he resumed his story. "Yes... Well... As I said, I've never been to Tanra Station before but I have business there." He paused and said pointedly, "personal business. But the last two days I've been accosted by Mr. Fratz no less than four times." As he continued, Torean's voice grew more heated and his actions became more animated, more agitated. "As a reporter, I know he wants to interview as many people as he can on the Ulmin Zaar situation but it's as if he doesn't have eyes, detective! He interviewed me FOUR. FUCKING. TIMES. With the same question." Torean changed his voice to a high-pitched simpering. "What are your views on Chief of Police, Ulmin Zaar, and calls for him to stand for presidency?" Torean paused to take a deep breath before pushing on with his tirade. "I answered the same thing each time; 'I don't live there. I'm just passing through, so I don't really know what's going on.' Each time, he accepted my answer with exactly the same blank expression and a muttered thanks."

"So you punched him?" The detective broke in suddenly, flatly, hazel eyes unredable.

At the repeated words, Torean froze, gaping at the detective. Eventually, he leaned close to the detective and searched the man's face in concern. "Can you actually understand what I've been saying, detective? You're not ill?" He sat back again and cupped his hands, as if begging to be understood. "He was annoying me," he said quietly, "He was bothering me. I felt like he was accosting me. That is why I punched him." He sighed and folded his arms across his chest, trying to read the detective's face, without much luck.

For a while, the detective just sat silently, scanning Torean's face as well. Eventually, he shrugged. "I'll admit, that Mr. Fratz is one of the worst reporters Tanra Station has ever seen. He's vague at best and sensationalist at worst. He doesn't care who or how many people he interviews. I wouldn't put it past the man to run a story saying that no one cares about our Chief of Police just from your one insignificent quote. Torean blinked at him uncertainly; he genuinely didn't care about the reporter one way or another, he just wanted to get out of this situation unscathed. "Luckily for you, Mr. Pelivar, Mr. Fratz isn't pressing charges, so you're free to go."

At that announcement, The detective rose, gesturing for Torean to do the same. And just like that, he was free to go. Torean suspected that the minor infraction had nothing to do with why he had been held for so long. It probably just had something to do with ensuring a stranger to Tanra Station knew that any sort of violent behaviour would not be tolerated.

As Torean allowed himself to be led out of the guarding cell by the detective, he allowed himself a little smile. It had been a long time since someone else had danced a good interrogation with him, especially with the roles reversed, but Torean found himself respecting the man striding in front of him. He would likely be formidable during more serious interrogations, but Torean wondered how he would hold up against someone as formidable as himself.

They walked down lighted corridors for a time, before stopping at the guest rooms. "One more thing, Mr. Pelivar," he said, eyeing Torean sharply. "If you get into anymore trouble, especially on Tanra Station, the consequences will be much more serious. Understood?" Hastily promising the man that he would ensure no more trouble came from him, Torean began to walk away before the detective called to him again.

"Where will you be staying?" He smiled warmly, as he had when Torean first lays eyes on him in the interrogation room. "I would very much like to sample some of these... ideas... you trade in." The detective's eyes shone brightly, a clear sign that he had no desire of any sort. Torean knew for a fact it was just so they could keep eyes on him.

Smiling widely, Torean ducked his head enthusiastically, feigning gratitude. "Oh yes, detective, that would be pleasant. My contact has booked me a room at The Supernova." It wasn't a lie, except for the fact that he'd booked the cheap hotel himself; anything but the truth just would have aroused even more suspicion and caused an even tighter watch to be made on him.

At the name of the hotel Torean was staying at, the detective's smile faded and his face became serious. "A philosopher's wage doesn't amount to much if you're staying there, Mr. Pelivar..." With a noncomittal shrug and vagueries insinuating his love of philosophy not money, Torean hurried into his room, closing the door behind him. He could almost feel the detective's eyes on his back. Grimacing at the entire situation, Torean thought about his pre-paid booking at The Supernova. He needed to find somewhere else to stay, somewhere quieter, just for one night. He had no intentions of ever seeing the detective again, and he had that meeting to attend tomorrow.

After gathering his belongings, Torean made a swift exit of the cruiser onto the crowded docks of Tanra Station. From what he could remember of the last time he was here, The Supernova was a short walk to the east of the docks. Ensuring he had all his weapons, Torean made his way to the customs check-in. After he was through, he would head west, as far from The Supernova as was possible and find a quiet hotel to relax until tomorrow.

 

[Sir Strange Of The House Lycan]

"So I never caught you're name boy, or where you're from?"
"W'a's it matter to you, smuggler?"

Ctar had been forced, due to heavy suspicions of the likelihood of suspicions placed upon the legality of his mods, to adopt a less than legal, and less than comfortable, approach onto Tanra Station. The crackdown on illegal gene-aug smugglers, Ctar had assumed, would also mean a crackdown on illegal gene-augs. Preferring the ideal of potentially being caught to definitely being caught if he were to go through the station's customs, Ctar had chosen the use of a smuggler he'd almost busted last week to get him in. The job with the Blackhearts was too promising to let go over a petty crime like smuggling, he had reasoned. The idea of his punishment being more severe if he was to be caught technically being gene-augs smuggled in was lost on him.

"Well I don't know about you, but I'd like to know a little bit about the man who I'm risking my skin and credits for." The smuggler replied, his words amicable but his tone impatient. A wave of dislike washed over Ctar. Why the hell would anyone be bothered to know someone's name if they were doing something illegal, apart from to use it as leverage with cops. Not wanting to be thrown out of the airlock, which his cramped quarters were dangerously close to on the small shipping vessel, Ctar relented.
"Ctar Ricceq, I'm from Trenga X"
"A Ricceq from a Trenga? Shit I shoulda known with you being all jacked up with those augs. You're one of Ricceq's bio-kids right?"

Ctar went silent. How could he have been such an idiot? Of course a goddamn criminal would know about Trenga. Of course he'd be able to identify him. The years between now and his last job had been too long, he'd gotten stupid, lost what he'd be told. As Ctar was struggling for an answer the smuggler laughed. Ctar half expected the bastard to make some comment about turning him in, and began to try and formulate a way to get him to finish the trip without hurting him bad enough to turn him in as soon as they arrived or with him dying WHEN they arrived, when the smuggler interrupted him.

"Y'know all the rest are dead now? How long you been away?" The Smuggler said in an amused tone, as if their deaths were supposed to be funny.
"I been away a while," Ctar replied, truthfully, "Whaddya mean all of 'em are dead?"
"Well I mean they're all dead boy, the augs mess with your brains that much?"
"How did they die you backwater moron."
"Ah, one of the bosses decided he was gonna try and bring 'Law and order to that godless place'. Bought up all the biokids, subdued the other families and then put 'em down when his brasses were through."

Ctar was surprised he didn't keep them for muscle for his newly instated government. He wondered for a moment if Trenga could thrive under anything other than a supreme dictatorship. That place was home to some of the worst poison and filth he'd ever met, a dubious honour. Ctar wasn't sure if he was upset that his siblings were dead, or happy they didn't have to deal with being alive anymore. They didn't feel the hunger anymore, Ctar bet. Unfortunately, Ctar himself did feel it. It kicked and clawed in his belly like a rabid fox was under his robe. He'd need to find somewhere to eat as soon as they docked, or he might not be able to control himself. He wondered how filling the smuggler could be for a second, a dark and loathsome thought he repressed immediately. Ctar wasn't on for eating people who weren't trying to kill him, most of the time.

As they docked, he heard the smuggler step out and talk to the trade officer. As he talked, Ctar squeezed himself tightly into a secret compartment under the ships cockpit. It was uncomfortable, but it just about fit him. As began steps overhead, underpaid officers doing a mediocre job of searching the place, Ctar became acutely aware of the uncomfortably moist nature of his skin. His condition was starting to act up again. The growing was supposed to have stopped, but none of the ill effects of his forced and unpleasant growth spurts had. Cold machinery and steel pressed against him, and damn near froze the sweat on his skin. Soon the footsteps overhead had stopped, until the sound of a boot hitting metal came twice over his head.

Ctar emerged blinking into the cabin of the ship, blinded by the light from the station. He looked to the smuggler, still smiling like an idiot. He was offered a hand, but refused it, instead pushing himself up from the hatch. As he turned to leave, the smuggler tried to put a hand on his shoulder. Due to height differences, he instead settled for tapping his waist. Turning, Ctar saw the man looking sheepishly at the bottom of Ctar's robe.
"You're gonna stick out like a sore thumb in the station man, d'you want something to cover up yer...?" The smuggler asked, gesturing around Ctar's exposed legs. For the first time the typical fear of talking to Ctar entered his voice. Perhaps he was aware now of his superfluity to Ctar. Ctar nodded.
"If you believe you have something, I would like it." Ctar replied, taking care not to seem threatening. No more fuel needed to be added to the fear fire.

A pair of trousers, cut open at the inner legs and forefront were passed. Buckles and belts were attached throughout, assumedly to allow adjustment of the measurements easily. Ctar looked down at the man, confused as to where he may have attained such ridiculous yet practical attire. As if reading his mind, the smuggler explained.
"I smuggled a younger kid kind of like you offworld once when I was working at Trenga. He left these behind, said he didn't need them where he was going. I never asked him why he wanted to go to a savage planet, but he seemed happy enough to be there".
Ctar recognised why a kid like himself might want to go to a savage world; for the most part, you should be strong enough to survive, and nobody can get mad at you for eating the first living thing you find. It seemed like the ideal solution to him. Pity he had chosen the current path already, and had felt comfort and companionship to warming too leave it behind.

He stepped off the ship, after adjusting the trousers to his measurements, and went off walking, attempting to find his way to the other recruits and the place he was to meet his new employers, as well as something to sate the beast in his belly.

 

[booksv2]

Sitting in a slightly rickety chair in a large bar Juruzli set down the large tankard he had just finished draining, looking over at the smaller man standing next to him who had just spoken up. This other man head height even with Airm sitting his hands down at his sides and curled in tight firsts, the expression on his face trying to be firm and angry but short flash's of uncertainty and fear slide across his face. Leaning back in the chair a little and looking at the man Airm puts his arm over the back of the chair.

"So, you want me to pay you 100 credits because i come from Brimronek. All because some years ago your brother was fool enough to try coming to my planet and selling drugs and died as a result of his own fool choices?"
Closing his pointer finger on his right hand the soft crackle of electricity could be hear just under the level of conversation as his knuckles light up as tazer's. Looking flatly at the man and raising his tankard at the bar-bot to get a refill as the man in front of him goes a surprising color of red and pulls back his fist in a punching action. Shaking his head slowly Airm reach's out and brush's his hand against the mad mans other arm, making him jerk hard before falling to the ground still twitching. Reaching down he lifts the man and sets him in the chair opposite as his tankard is refilled. Taking the tankard and lifting it to take a deep drink of it he stands as he finish's half of it, setting the rest in front of the still slightly twitching man and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Next time, think before you try taking on someone from Brimronek. We don't normally let others get away."
Walking out of the bar and swiping his credit chip at the door to pay for the drinks he had had. Stepping outside and looking around, Airm turns left and takes a piece of neo-paper from his pocket. Reading the things on it he locates the bar the Blackhearts had rented for their recruitment, Shaking his head slightly at the distance to the bar he turns down the main street and starts walking along in the general direction to get there. Stepping to the side of a police-bot squad as they roll down the street in the opposite direction. Looking after them and rubbing the flat parts of his cybernetic hands together.

They are still a shock, squads of robots doing the jobs of police and enforcers. I wonder if this is normal on all worlds.
Going back down the street Airm slows in front of a cybernetic shop to look over the arms they have hanging in the window, flexing his fingers and speeding back up. Ignoring the rest of the shops as he walks he stretch's his back and remembers the cramped room he had gotten on the transport to this place. Hopping the Blackhearts living quarters are larger and more roomy than the transports was he steps into a small hotel like place, into a small room and grabbing his pack and throwing it over his shoulder as it clanks and rattles. Walking back out and swiping his credit disk again to pay for the one night he had been there he winced at the shrinking number on the face of the disk. Putting it back in the slot on his arm Airm settles the pack on his shoulder better before walking down a side street in the direction of the bar he was heading towards.

Stepping inside the doors and to the side he looks it over and wonders how many here are here for the recruitment, and how many just using it as a bar. Walking along the edge to one of the larger booths Airm sits down and sets his pack more inside as he settles down. Opening the in-table display and scrolling through it he orders the special and a large draft of beer, paying for it now instead of later before closing it and turning again to keep an eye on the door and the other patrons of this bar. Wondering how long its going to be before they arrived and how soon they all would be able to start their new jobs, needing the credits himself and also bored with how the life seemed to be in this station.

 

[ThreeWords]

Laertes stepped off the ship and breathed deeply, smelling for the first time proper, clean air. Not the permanent smokiness of his home level in a Hive on Tarios, not the barely revitalised air that had been drained off all possible life on his ten-day trip in the hold of a cargo ship, but real, clean, pure air of a place he could finally make a life for himself. It smelled like freedom.

Laertes stopped then, annoyed with himself. People who told themselves such cliches were fools, he thought, and foolish optimism had nearly cost him his way off Tarios. If he was going to survive he'd need to be sharped than that, more ready.

He breezed through customs; travelling in from a busy planet, no weapons to declare, and only a bag of tools for luggage. One question had him thinking though; he was definitely here on business, but he realised that he had no idea what he was going to do. Wandering out, he went over the list of things he could do, and every option made him sick; he'd fought to escape, and the first thing he'd do with his freedom was sell himself into a new system?

He was busy bemoaning the failures of capitalism and the free market when he spotted the sign, advertising for bounty-hunting recruits. Now that, he thought, sounds like a job I could do. A job for one who likes to really earn a wage, fighting crime and making the Western Front into a 'Better Place'. He smirked at the thought of such hilariously simplistic ideologies, but he couldn't help himself; the job actually sounded interesting.

It didn't take much wandering to find a shop where he purchased revolver; something nice and solid that he hoped would pack enough of a punch. Of course, he had no intention of actually doing any fighting, but jobs like this certainly needed someone with a little nerve to keep their battered ships intact, and nowhere else could he find such an entertaining backdrop for his work.

He picked up his step, eager to find the conference room where the recruiters were setting up shop, and walking round a corner ran into what he at first thought was a wall, and instead turned out to be an outrageously large man. Looking up at a head that seemed nearly two feet above his own, Laertes did what he always did when he was nervous: talk shit.

"Where the fuck did you find an extra two feet, you great lump?" he demanded, both cursing and applauding his own sorry luck.

Spoiler: OOC

This means you, Lycan.

 

[Knife-28]

The near black starscape of real space snapped into existence, replacing the swirling vortex of hyperspace outside the Awinya?s cockpit. Aizto Ertzean however remained soundly asleep, resting in the pilot's seat of the small ship and filling the vessel with the sound of his light snoring. The radio on the blinking control panel in front of his resting form crackled on, the voice booming out of it shaking Aizto from the embrace of sleep.

"Ok Egrets, we're coming up on Tanra Station. Hope you had a pleasant trip.'

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Aizto began flicking switches and turning dials with well-rehearsed familiarity. With a slight thunk the smaller vessel detached from the ferry ship, the larger ship looming into view as Aizto spun the Awinya and broke away from the cloud of other ships repeating a similar procedure, lifting off the ferry vessel like flies off a dead body. Plotting a way through the other vessels around the station, the Awinya made its way towards Tanra Station. Communications and docking codes were passed between the ship and the station and before long the Awinya was docked in a small hanger hewn into the solid rock of the asteroid that made up the top section of Tanra Station.

Stepping out into the hanger Aizto rolled his shoulders, eager to escape the cramped confines of his ship. Years spent traversing the frontier in it meant that he knew every bolt, every rivet, every single nook and cranny in the vessel, and it was always good to have a fresh change of scenery. Managing to navigate the maze of people and technology that was the terminal for this section of the station, Aizto stepped into Customs, unsurprised by the lengthy line. After a monstrous length of time waiting, the line finally disgorged Aizto infront of the Customs booth, staffed by a bored looking woman.

"G'day." Aizto said to the woman as he slid his papers through the gap under the window.

"Name." She replied, not even bothering to look up from the documents in front of her.

"Aizto Ertzean."

"Reason for you visit to Tanra Mr Ertzean?"

"Business, Ms...Shadyla." He said, reading nametag sewn onto the woman's uniform.

"Anything to declare?"

"Just a few weapons, for my personal protection of course."

"Alright, check them in at the desk just down the way." She said, stamping his passport and sliding back under the glass. "NEXT!"

After another (thankfully shorter) length of time spent waiting in line, Aizto stepped out onto the station proper and took a look around, taking in the local atmosphere. Retrieving his sunglasses from one of the many pockets in his jacket, he slipped them on and bought up directions to the bar he was supposed to meet at. Satisfied he had it memorized, he flagged down a taxi and relayed the directions it it's robotic driver. Leaning back and relaxing on the soft, if somewhat worn material of the cab's backseat, Aizto pulled the brim of his hat down and closed his eyes. Tanra was a big place after all, and the ride allowed for him to catch a little more shuteye.

 

[CloggedDonkey]

Of the many things Salish Nufor was, patient was not one of them. Despite being able to afford a slightly more palatable form of travel in a luxury transport, it was still far too much for him too get past security and not be stuck in the hull of a cargo ship for the ride over, hopefully not in a container marked for shipping to another station immediately. It was a Catch 22 ? spend a week in a container the size of the worst apartments, but get no wait to get into the city, or get a nice room, nice booze, and occasionally fine women, but a two hour wait in customs.

So, Salish picked the more luxurious route, hoping that the two hours, normally the longest of the month, would pass quickly. They, as always, did not. A dozen forms to fill out, having to repeat "A semi-automatic assault rifle, a pistol, two swords, two stun batons, and a stun gun, yes I have the permits" a half dozen times, then having to have every permit scanned, scanned again, and then checked over by someone else and scanned a third time before going on to the next set of tests. The fake passport helped some, means he didn't have to hire someone to black him out of the criminal records of the station for a few hours, but it barely sped up the process.

Finally, two and a half hours after arrival, he stepped from the customs office and into the streets of Tanra Station. He inhaled the recycled air deeply, stretching out his limbs and shuffling his duffel bag, containing all of his equipment and a fair few personal items, further up his shoulder. Soap, deodorant, toothbrush and paste, everything needed for a business trip were nestled in between the rifle and swords. Behind him he trailed a rolling suitcase, filled with clothes, both formal and casual, and his armor, painted a dim purple and orange for whenever his next mission was.

Checking his PDA implant, easily one of the best purchases he's made in the last twenty years, or at least he thought, he saw that he had no contacts, informants, or other previously met, tagged, and tracked persons on the station, or at least not who went through customs. It would make getting information easier, but at least he knew that no one would come calling for debts any time soon.

He started his slow, plodding walk to a hotel, a moderate, four star affair towards the slightly nicer part of the station. Nothing nice enough to bring attention, but something that was assured to have a minimum of druggies and cockroaches. The only real thing he had to worry about was that he'd be mugged before he got to the hotel, but that was solved easily. Most muggers were far more concerned with taking money than a life, so a sufficient show of force, such as a larger gun or the ability to disarm them, was really all it took. Both were things Salish possessed, but it would still make the day worse than just having to deal with customs.


After a few minutes of thankfully uneventful walking, he stood before the hotel, the Tanra Royale, and let out a sigh of relief. A few armed, though not obvious guards outside the doors would keep the riffraff away, the room booked on the fourth floor would make most of the normal disputes and troubles of living in a hotel until something interesting happens stay far below him while still making it a quick trip down the stairs if he had to make tracks, and it meant he would only hear the elevator once in a while instead of all the time.

A few more minutes of walking, talking, and showing of passports later, and Salish was in his room, a sparsely, if tastefully decorated room, the walls a cream color with a floral pattern going down it in columns. The bed was queen sized, good if he decided to have company stay the night (something unlikely, he hadn't had that type of company in over a year and saw no reason to have it again), and the television, while old, was quite large and got seven hundred different channels. He would be using exactly one of them, the local twenty-four hour news station.

With another sigh, Salish dropped his suitcase and duffel bag by the side of the bed, then fell back onto it. He had traveled in comfort, so it wasn't a relief to be on something soft, but there was some kind of appeal of resting on a hotel bed for the first time, like you should be tired and this bed, while old, used, and not particularly comfortable, would make you well rested. He settled onto the bed more, kicking his boots onto the ground and searching for the remote, turning on the television quickly once he had it. He settled in, waiting for some new order or task to come in from his employers.

 

[Sir Strange Of The House Lycan]

Something long and thin bumped into Ctar's side. Ctar thought nothing of it until a voice filled with misplaced vitriol darted out from behind him after he had stopped. Ctar turned around and looked down at the man in front of him. He was some sort of aug-freak Ctar would of wagered from the abnormal augment he had in place of one of his hands.
"Where did you find an extra two feet you great lump?" the little man had said in a tone of misplaced authority and assumedly misplaced confidence. Considering his current position (That is, a potential criminal secretly on board a station filled with polbots), Ctar was trying to find a way to either control his temper or repay this man without drawing attention. After an awkward stare-down lasting half a minute or so, Ctar slowly removed his rebreather and drew back his hood. He did his best to loom, to add to the effect.

"Why're you asking, lil' man? You asking where you can find something to fit in yer gulliver? Because when I last checked my illegal bio-augs list, giving someone a brain was a no go." Ctar said calmly, with what he believed to be an edge of severity. He feared for a moment his response had been too long, a a comeback that might actually get him shot for it's ineffectual nature. He attempted to rectify this by making it slightly more physical, patting the man heavily on the side, into the wall, then turning to make his way to the conference, pulling up his hood and rebreather while he did so.

Augs like that weren't common among civvies, Ctar only realised as he was walking away. The potential that a man like that was potentially be one of his comrades in their hunting cadre irritated him more than it should have. The fellow, to Ctar, seemed like someone with something to prove and no reason to fight besides. Ctar had always seen bounty hunting as something noble, doing what the police couldn't, taking a dangerous lifestyle of good over a safe one of mediocre morality. Only as he walked through the station now, thinking of the other people around him, did he consider that any of them, no matter their morality, could became a bounty hunter if they cared to, spurred on more by the reward than by the thrill. Ctar's morality had never developed far beyond black and white and archetypes, such a realisation came to him in a manner melancholic. He did not turn back to see the man, afraid to see that they were going in the same direction.

 

[ThreeWords]

Lifted off his feet slightly, Laertes felt the air pushed out of him as he hit the wall. This man was as big as he was strong, and it was all Laertes had to grin nervously.

The big guy laboriously uncovered his head to reveal a face twisted far beyond normal expectations; this looked like experimental-grade weird shit, and Laertes suddenly felt a pang of worry; a remark about his abnormal size might have been a step to far with this messed up giant. They stared at one another for a long moment, and Laertes' skin began to crawl like it always did before a beating started.

"Why're you asking, lil' man? You asking where you can find something to fit in yer gulliver? Because when I last checked my illegal bio-augs list, giving someone a brain was a no go." The big guy sounded irritated but calm, yet one huge hand descending on Laertes shoulder made it clear that a line was being drawn. Then he was turning away, heading off.

Laertes was relieved to see the man go, but it occurred to him that he had just witnessed a prime recruit for a mercenary crew, indeed, he might be one of the recruiters. Whoever he was, it'd would probably be a good idea to get to know him. Laertes didn't relish the thinking of how hard those fists would hit, but he who dares, wins...

"Hey, big man!" he called, trying to catch up with the retreating giant and doing his best to sound friendly, "Don't be like that. You're a merc, here for Blackheart, aren't you, like me? We future comrades should stick together..."

 

[EnigmaticSevens]

A Fool came to the Kingdom of Children and he did ply them with a myriad tricks and crafty acts. This land was an odd sort, but beautiful in its way, born of a parent's affections and indulgence. The floors were soft, thick with rugs and cushions of a dozen different sorts, each stained and washed a thousand times until they became a loving patchwork of faded earth tones. The walls were coated in a black polymer, all the better to bear the many ever changing murals the room's residents would inflict upon them in the bright colors they adored so much. A warm, gentle light streamed in through a couple windows, the electronics within the frames doing their best to mimic the glow of a yellow sun. A small kingdom, but one rigorously guarded and much loved, it was the children's place and theirs alone.

"Now, which hand holds the sweet?"

Two very similar sets of brows furrowed in intense concentration. Amylah knew that this was a very important question, perhaps the greatest question she had ever been asked (and she'd been asked many important questions in her long and learned life of five years), and therefore it was imperative that she answer correctly and that she answer before Dego, her stupidest little brother and current competitor in the quest for candy. There were five of them in total, Amylah and her siblings, all sitting in a circle around the Funny Preacher and awaiting their turn at the trick game. The funny man had made the piece of candy dance in his hand, made it disappear and reappear with his funny man magic, and all Amylah had to do to get it was figure out which hand it now rested in. Easy! Well... maybe not easy. Tish was giggling from behind the Preacher's back, like she knew the right answer, but Tish was stupid sometimes to, probably just laughing cuz she had gas or something. The twins, Usul and Shan were wriggling and fidgeting like their pants were on fire, like they knew something, but every time she tried to get their attention, the Preacher just smiled and leaned a little bit until he blocked them.

"Ahhh, come come now! Such a smart girl need not cheat," the rebuke was a soft thing, and the smile it rode made it all the softer. The Funny Preacher's voice was filled with a sort of warm fuzziness that Amylah liked most of all, it was a voice made for telling stories and lullabies," Go ahead and choose, or perhaps ask little Dego for advice? Perhaps two clever children can solve what one cannot?"

"Don't hafta, I know it! Dego can't help no way, he's justa baby."

Dego stuck out his tongue and made a little huff, but he we far too busy idolizing the Preacher to be concerned with grumpy big sisters for too long. Amylah fretted over her decision a moment longer before tapping the Preacher's left hand. He opened the clenched fist and revealed... nothing. Dego whooped and rejoiced in his triumph, tapped the man's right hand to claim his prize, and found it empty as well. Both children gaped at this newest manifestation of their funny preacher's magic, horrible as it might have been. The man merely chuckled, "Hmmm, I think the sweet must've run off to be eaten up by some children who are nicer to their brothers and sisters, eh?"

The toddler, Dego, hung his little head in shame, but Amylah remained defiant, scrunching up her face a moment before smiling with a wicked sort of glee. She knew the answer to this problem. The funny preacher was a grown-up like papa, but he was nowhere near as big, and this trick felled even the biggest! With a fist in the air and a fire in her eyes, Amylah sounded her battle cry and call to arms all rolled into one, "Tickle attack! Tak the presher!"

A chorus of high-pitched roars joined Amylah as her siblings piled on top of the preacher to a man. Dego at least, took a moment to pat the preacher's head and assure him that though he was now trapped beneath a pile of little bodies, they would only tickle him until he cried, not until he peed, a gesture of great magnanimity in the toddler's mind.

The children had set about their work in earnest by the time a large shadow loomed over the scene of their play, soon followed by a rich peal of deep, rumbling laughter," Ho, Preacher, how have you come to find yourself in such dire straits? Only two hours on Tanra Station and already you've been accosted by these foul villains?"

"Villains? No, I fear my punishment is just. I dared pull a magic trick on these fine and blessed warriors, and now they correct me for my errors. I'd say the lesson is well learned," Preacher Three pulled himself upright with one fluid motion, children sliding and rolling off of him in giggling heaps, like water off the back of some great beast. They didn't mourn their sudden defeat, the appearance of one of their fathers nearly as great a cause for joy as the acquisition of their preacher playmate. Three nodded to the large figure and gestured to a nearby cushion. The man bowed and took a seat.

"And what lesson would you offer my rowdy garden of children, the offspring of my ayam, honored Preacher?"

"A simple one: No trick, nor trial, nor tribulation, shall make a separation twixt the righteous and the sweet things of God," As Three spoke, his hands seemed to pluck a piece of candy from behind the ear of every child, five little miracles for each of them to enjoy," Brother need never struggle against brother, for such sweet things as they that flow from God, are infinite."

"Ansher ha'wat! A fine lesson! But you have traveled far, Preacher, let us arrange a place of rest and succor for you," The large man smiled widely, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Three returned that smile, and permitted himself a small chuckle. This one knew the cant well, not born in the Caliphate, he showed his age too readily, but certainly only a few generations removed. Three could read much in the voice and manner of such a one, and this man had provided all of the appropriate signs.

"Wulahan da razul'sha anyabati sur la-wat. The rest and succor of the faithful messenger is to do the will of the one that sent him. That shall be enough for me," The timbre and tone of Three's voice remained the same and for the most part, so did the man's, though the precise observer might have noticed the slight note of tension in each of the man's words that followed, a hint at the strict focus and concentration he must now employ to keep up with an individual of the Preacher's genetic caliber. The signs had been exchanged and Three had confirmed them. Their conversation would now take place in two tongues, the one spoken, and the other a silent thing of natural gestures and controlled micro expressions, a tradition the Caliphate had impressed upon its clergy for thousands of years and one that had kept their secrets air tight.

"

Spoiler: Ahh, but please let me blame my rudeness on the weariness of travel. Here I am, a guest in your house, and yet I've given no introduction, though you mark me well. I am Preacher Three, shi`wa na a ayam, blessings upon you and your family. You are Usef, yes, Imam of the Faithful of Tanra Station?

-implied confidence- Have the instructions given you by Preacher Twenty One been carried out? I hope my additions were not too burdensome.

"

"

Spoiler: Yes on both counts, Preacher. I am Usef Ibyn Rassed, and it is my pleasure to serve the Faithful of this place. I see my ayam wasted no time putting you to work babysitting the little ones.

-with great sureness- To the letter, your Eminence. -comforting assurance- Your orders have only made the eventual execution all the more elegant. We have watchers scattered all along your path from here to your rendezvous point, and even more at the docking station.

"

"

Spoiler: No apologies necessary, friend. I know my arrival has caused far more fuss than necessary. I asked one of your wives how I could be of service. She told me Gerem, your brother-husband had been called away from watching over the children. I could think of no better activity than to serve the function of the man I displaced. I must say, it's been a pleasure, the children of your ayam are a delight!

-patiently receptive- What can I expect should I give the signal, given the mechanized nature of the authorities here?

"

"

Spoiler: Ha! Now there`s a report I`d love to hear more often! Really Preacher, you are too kind. I wish only that you'd allow us to show you proper hospitality. Will you not stay a little longer?

-fully confident- Once you give the signal, we'll be able to trigger detonation within five seconds. The stations defenses will register the blast within nanoseconds and engage standard procedures. According to our understanding, all robotic enforcement units will be given tenth level priority command to secure the sight and begin investigation. So long as you aren't actively engaged in direct combat with them, they should disengage from your location without hesitation. The criminal elements will take longer to respond, it'll take a few minutes for them to register the threat, but once they do, they'll call in their boys as well. When the station engages defense procedures, it'll also activate our worm, should disable security sensors in the docking bays for at least an hour and give you that long a window to leave the station relatively unmolested.

"

"

Spoiler: I know you would treat me well, Usef, but I must decline. My responsibility lies elsewhere. In this you must share the fate of Tanra Station, a host to guests ever departing nearly as quickly as they appear.

-loving concern- Impressive, but can any of these things be traced back to you or a member of your congregation?

"

"

Spoiler: I understand, my friend, it is simply difficult to let one such as yourself leave so soon. It`s been a few weeks since we saw Preacher Twenty One last, and she is not set to return to us for at least a month more. It is an ache within our breasts. While the two of you are not interchangeable, a Preacher's presence brings great comfort to the flock.

-wry amusement- Even we of the backwaters so far from the Caliphate remember our training, your Eminence. We maintain four degrees of separation at all possible junctures, and no one has been bought if we could break them instead. If events fall in such a way that you do not give the signal, we will simply revert to our original time table. The fallout from this will cause a de facto war between several of the larger criminal elements on the station, and set Ulmin Zaar on the warpath. This is a delicate time for the Faithful of Tanra Station, we have a population large enough to see some of our representatives voted into power, though we wont aim for the presidency. Best to have the major players distracted while we work.

"

"

Spoiler: We do what we are able to, Usef, each of us. But We are few and You are a multitude. Yet have no fear, with you as their Imam, the Faithful of this land will know naught but prosperity. Allah`ri Shahai. God blesses the Faithful.

-great satisfaction- Only a fool would doubt your skill and cunning. You have done well, loyal Son.

"

The man, Usef, sighed slightly, the tension in his voice and features ebbing away as the last few words fell from the Preacher's lips, calling for an end to the double speak. Within the moment, another man entered the room, younger and fairer complected than Usef, but as warmly and wildly embraced by the children, "Ahhh, and here is Gerem, returned from his errand. Your servitude is at an end, dear Preacher! While we still mourn the parting that must come, we would not keep you from your holy work longer than necessary. I have called a driver, a good man of the Faith, he can take you to wherever you need to travel to on the station. U'wasad allah'hin, dear Preacher, remember us in your Prayers."

---

Three directed Usef's man to drop him off a few blocks over from the bar the Blackhearts had marked as a meeting place. He preferred to walk the rest of the way, all of his meager possessions rolled up in a duffle bag and slung across his shoulder. The walk offered a moment of peace before the chaos of a new beginning, and a chance to stretch and prime muscles inconspicuously. Between the revolutionary ferment in the air, and the knowledge of his own contingency plans and countermeasures, Three could not quite shake the looming specter of violence to come. There was danger here, a seeming hurrying towards bloodshed. A pity really, Three rather favored introductions unmarred by spilled blood, but considering the company he was soon to keep, perhaps this was the norm. There were sure to be elements among these Blackhearts' retinue who sought to keep a low profile, and it was to these ones that Three gave a moment of concern, nearly pausing mid-stride.

There were many who aped the traditional Preacher's clothing, some in mockery, some in admiration, and countless others who did so at the behest of the fickle fashions of a thousand different worlds. Still, between the clothing and the eyes, the eyes that no biochemical vanity project could ever quite replicate, Three drew a certain level of attention, not all of it unwarranted. Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of the orders that bade him address these people first and foremost as a representative of the Caliphate. There was a message implicit in such maneuvering that Three didn't really care for. It all smacked of a pissing contest well above his station. Meh, no matter, there was little enough he could do about it now without risking treason, time to play pet killer.

The little man hummed softly to himself as he made his way along Tanra Station's maze of streets and alleys, never jostled, never disturbed, even though the walkways were far from empty, as though he carried a little bubble about his person. The reflex was almost unconscious, really. Every wise minnow made room for the shark....

 

[Lotus_Gait]

Covey's Rest was a squalid place even by Tanra Station's less-than-salubrious back alley hostels. Situated in a dark corner opposite a rundown toolshop that never seemed to be open, the hostel was a paint-peeling, vermin-infestated sinkhole that swallowed the kinds of people that wanted - and often needed - to lay low. For one night, it had suited Torean just fine.

Sure, the stained mattress touched the wall of the room at both ends and the lights flickered whether they were switched on or off, but Torean had stayed in worse places. Not much worse, admittedly, but worse enough. Besides, he was still conscious of the detective searching for him when it became apparent he hadn't actually booked into The Supernova on the other side of the station. By the end of today, he should be recruited into the Blackhearts' crew. With any luck, he'd be well clear of the detective and his prying questions by thiis evening.

Sat at a splintered, wobbly table, Torean spooned tepid porridge into his mouth. He eyed the serving woman - Eire Covey, the hostel owner's wife, he had learned - and gave what he hoped was a pleased smile around the disgusting mouthful of food. It was disgusting but Torean hadn't eaten in while so he forced the sticky substance down his throat. It would only produce a stern lecture from Mistress Covey, otherwise, something Torean had experienced after refusing the other of a hot bath. In the end it had just been easier to take the bath, even if the water was dirtier than he. The woman was annoyingly persuasive and Torean had been hard-pressed not to just stab her bulging gut there and then.

Emptying the bowl with a faux-satisfied sigh, Torean stood and eased his arms into the Tigrin yak coat he was never without. He grinned appreciatively at the serving woman as he slung his crossbow and quiver of bolts over each shoulder, a grin that never touched his eyes. The woman nooded and strode - waddled - into out of sight into the kitchens, where Torean could faintly hear her admonishing one of the grimy girls that cooked the food here.

Double checking that he had all his possessions, Torean headed for the door. He wasn't far from the Blackhearts' meeting place but it was past time he should have been on his way. Stepping out into the crowded streets of Tanra Station, Torean couldn't help but notice that this was the calmest he'd felt in a long time. Inside, he still seethed like a boiling keetle, but he felt in control. A good omen, that. He just hoped it could continue until his final recruitment into the Blackhearts was complete.

 

[Sir Strange Of The House Lycan]

"Hey, big man!"
Oh god there it was. The man was following, him, and he wanted more of his time. If the next words out of his mouth were another insult, Ctar had thought, he would not be in a position to remain calm. If the next words out of his mouth referred to becoming part of his cadre, Ctar wasn't sure he'd contain himself either. The appropriate response to either was far beyond Ctar; the only thing he could think to do was panic or get angry. Neither result appealed logically, but Ctar's physiology did not easily allow for containment of emotion.

"Don't be like that. You're a merc, here for Blackheart, aren't you, like me? We future comrades should stick together..."
There it was, just as he had feared. Though, the man did seem softer now. Less willing to talk shit and start fights, further into his place. Ctar liked people who reacted how he wanted, it made life much simpler. He looked back to the man and sized him up once again. He wasn't a runt, that was a start. He was carrying a pistol, which Ctar assumed meant he wouldn't be useless at the first sign of danger. Violent emotion gave way to calm hope, a smile creeped onto Ctar's mangled face. There might be potential in the guy, might be able to be a trustworthy ally, a true friend among the company. Ctar slowed down for him, though not by much as Ctar's short legged and slowed gait did not allow for quick gains, even with a headstart.
"You're signing up to be part of the cadre? What's a little bratchny like yerself got signing up with Bounty Hunters? Cutter? Respect? or are you just trying to make the universe better?"

The smaller man shrugged. Ctar had never quite grasped shrugging, non-verbal communication never had been his forte. His only measurable recognisation of such a thing was that showing people your face meant you were not to be trifled. Fortunately, to alleviate Ctar's potentially ill-hidden confusion, he carried on, verbally this time.
"I'm looking for a job that keeps me on the move. Some people looking for me who I need to avoid, y'know?"
Ah, so he was a runner, like Ctar had started out. That was better than someone in it for the money at least, and much better than someone solely in it for ego swelling. Ctar, after all, had started out a runner, morality only coming into the occasion later on. At least he hadn't turn to criminality in his fugitive state. Ctar's hope, though dimmed by the seeming lack of moral drive, remained. It didn't pay to hate men in your cadre.

"I had started out similarly, droogie, though it ended up becoming more of a thing of virtue the longer I did it"
"That's not so bad, I guess. I just want to make a living while staying alive. Got any tips?"
There was a question. Eight years was it now he had been a bounty hunter? perhaps ten? What had allowed him longevity despite himself to survive to this point. Well for one, complete hatred of gangers, for another a fantastic medic. Those weren't really things he could choose and adopt. Perhaps it was best to mention the paranoia? That might help.
"Consider others to be your cadre mine canaries; You see a member of your cadre get shot in the belly, wear a flak jacket next time, see you cadre get gasses? wear a rebreather? see your cadre get burned to death? stay away from anything that could potentially burn you. If someone in your cadre dies, chances are you have the same chance of the same thing happening to you. Adapt, change, and fear. That'd be my advice".
His companion became silent as they approached the rendezvous point.

Spoiler: OOC

3W gave me the reactions and dialogue, I'm not controlling his character

 

[ThreeWords]

Spoiler: OOC

I confirm that I coordinated with Sir Strange of the House Lycan.

I shall add a post of the above events from Laertes point of view into this placeholder, once it's written. Expect it into a few hours.

Posted!

The big man slowed slightly as Laertes caught up, and squinted down at him. He might have looked thoughtful, but it was hard to read that strange, twisted face. Laertes could understand why he kept it hidden. A moment later, the giant's voice rumbled in answer.

"You're signing up to be part of the cadre? What's a little bratchny like yerself got signing up with Bounty Hunters? Cutter? Respect? or are you just trying to make the universe better?"

Again, that bizarre language. Laertes had no idea what some of the words were supposed to mean, but he guessed that it was space slang, and likely to be used a lot in the crew he was signing for. He'd better get used to it, he decided, and resolved to keep his ears open for more. It'd be important to keep this giant on god terms, as well, and Laertes felt that a little honesty would help; after all, this poor bastard probably knew what it was like to be hunted.

He shrugged, and said, "I'm looking for a job that keeps me on the move. Some people looking for me who I need to avoid, y'know?"

The giant nodded, seemed pleased by this, "I had started out similarly, droogie, though it ended up becoming more of a thing of virtue the longer I did it"

"That's not so bad, I guess." Eager to keep him talking, Laertes tried to find some subject to talk about. He had no idea what this guy knew, so he opted for a safe bet. "I just want to make a living while staying alive. Got any tips?"

The giant was silent for a moment, and Laertes began to wonder if he'd pressed the wrong button. This guy sure was hard to read. Then the rumble again: "Consider others to be your cadre mine canaries; You see a member of your cadre get shot in the belly, wear a flak jacket next time, see you cadre get gasses? wear a rebreather? see your cadre get burned to death? stay away from anything that could potentially burn you. If someone in your cadre dies, chances are you have the same chance of the same thing happening to you. Adapt, change, and fear. That'd be my advice".

Laertes nodded, silenced by the realisation of exactly what he'd signed up for. He knew the popular image of bounty hunting, but it had only just occurred to him that his ideas were probably wildly unrealistic, and the truth was likely much worse. He was quiet as they arrived at the bar.

 

[Athol]

Several robo-cabs touched down at once, and Sil nabbed into the closest one. Tossing her bad onto the seat beside her, a terminal and keyboard slid out of the bulkhead in front of her. "Bloody hell." She muttered, as it snapped to life. "I didn't think anyone still used Archway G4s." They'd been verging on obsolete when she'd been a girl...now they were relics.

HELLO AND WELCOME TO TANRA STATION

PLEASE INSERT CREDIT CHIP

As soon as she stuck in her chip, another counterfeit like the bribe she'd payed earlier, the screen changed.

PLEASE ENTER DESTINATION

She raised her hands to the keyboard, and went to work. Fingers flying, she attacked the outdated software, spoofing it into granting her full admin access after about 30 seconds. Now in full control, she sent the cab on its way to the address that she'd received with the job offer, before taking back her fake chip.

The fight lasted only a few minutes, before the cab landed right outside the bar. Gathering up her things, Sil stepped from the cab, typing in a couple of commands as she left. As soon as the door closed, it took off to carry out her final command; fly to the other side of the station, land in a low traffic area, and reformat all onboard systems. There would be no trace that she?d ever set foot in that vehicle.

Once inside, she found herself a quiet-ish spot to sit, ordered a beer and an appy, and waited for right the time.

 

[Lost In The Void]

Loss scanned his passport through the computerized reader and the gate opened for his entrance onto the station. The crowds of people were staggering at first; while he had seen these kind of people before, it had been a while since he had visited such a station. Muscling through the crowd with his bag, he attempted to flag a cab down. Bumming a cheaply made cigarette and a light off of a nearby stranger, he lit the smoke, inhaling the nicotine laced stick deeply. Smoking was one of the vices he had yet to kick.

Deciding ultimately, that a cabby wasn't going to stop for someone with his type of attire on, he made towards a nearby pub to find something to eat at the very least. Stepping off the street and into a particularly dingy looking place, Loss made for the bar and sat down at the nearest free stool. He had always preferred pubs like this, to the fine restaurants and expensive casinos that so many of his comrades had often frequented. These between a rock and a hard place types might have their fair share of thieves, pickpockets and even a murderer or two, but they were all small fries, dime bag criminals, Loss called 'em; he had heard that term in some book he had read and took a liking to it. What it ultimately meant, was that if a man was gonna cut your throat, it wasn't going to be over anything personal, he was just looking to make a bucks, same as any other poor bastard on the station. Of course, with the kind of security this station seemed to have, that didn't seem likely in the first place.

A waitress soon spotted him and approached the end of the bar to take his order, ordering a small beer and a little bit of the cheapest food they had on menu, he paid her his credits and left a little for the tip. He didn't necessarily like the practice, but it was better than bad spit in a good beer.

 

[Knife-28]

While it took quite a while for the cab to cross the station, for Aizto the ride felt like it barely took a few moments, thanks to the muddling that sleep does to your sense of time. While his body crossed Tanra Station at the behest of the cab's programing, his mind was far away in the vivid dreamscape of his own creation. The harsh electronic tone of the cab's onboard computer system roused Aizto from his second nap today and he took a moment to collect himself before stepping out of the cab and onto the street.

Catching a flash of blond and blue passing through the doors ahead of him, Aizto entered the bar and studied the room for anything interesting. The sound of raised voices near the bar indicated that the tense argument between the patrons there would most likely spill over into a violence before long, towards the back of the bar Aizto saw what looked like an immense mountain of muscle that spoke of extensive use of biochem augs and tucked away in the corner Aizto spotted the owner of the striking hair he had seen as he left the taxi.

Moving as far away from the arguing men at the bar as possible, Aizto sat and waved over the barkeep.

"I'll have some Birubi Whiskey, on the rocks." He told the man, who left and shortly returned with his drink. Giving a simple; "Cheers," to the barkeep's wordless service, Aizto swiveled around to watch the bar as he took measured drinks from his glass.