Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Little Bill
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Like most things Martian, bars and restaurants of the red planet were ostensibly Japanese. High end bars all had at least one piano player, and the staff usually included a dozen kimono-clad hostesses whose job it was to entertain guests. Being that these guests were either salarymen or made men of the yakuza, this mostly meant pouring drinks, lighting cigarettes, and engaging in small talk without interrupting customers or mentioning politics. Decorative aquariums were commonplace, especially considering the status displayed by keeping fish alive on a desert planet, while dishes were usually well-prepared seafood as well -- Oysters, sushi, and so on.

Postcards of Martian taverns showed backlit glass bars lined with bottles of whiskey or sake, which were traditionally only differentiated only by label; The cheapest spirits lined the bottom of the shelves and were adorned with plain, solid color labels, whereas the most expensive top-shelf bottles would proudly display silver, golden, or holographic labels. After purchasing a bottle, guests would sign their label and it would be put on display above the bar, to show the world their status as a man capable of spending thousands of dollars on the same whiskey put into the white-labeled bottles at the bottom shelf.

The Shaggy Yak Pool Hall was not such an establishment. Then again, it was not on any postcards.

The bar had all the trappings and accouterments of a dive bar, despite the well-kept neon sign outside. Christmas lights of varying levels of operation were strung above the bar by staples, and in lieu of an akachōchin, a cardboard cut out depiction of one had been ziptied to an old grate covering one of the windows. In retrospect, perhaps the bar didn't seem too great from the outside either. The wall opposite the bar had only two booths attached to it, with a faded picture of the bar's titular mascot sprawled across the brickwork. In the bar's dim lights, the faded yak resembled an ancient cave painting, as if some early Martian caveman had gathered some blackish mud and tried to depict a mighty auroch he had slain.

Though Martian, and even visibly Japanese at that, The Shaggy Yak Pool Hall lacked any semblance of the luxury and culture Mars was known for. Upon further inspection, one would find that the establishment lacked any real pool tables. The back of the bar had four holo-pool tables set up, though this was hardly the same game. Holo-pool implemented purchasable powered cues, mini golf-esque obstacles, cue ball powerups, and most of all, a difficulty that could be rigged by the house. Hundreds of years ago, the grandfathers of the men inebriated or lonely enough to play such a stacked game were more likely seated at computerized countertop slot machines. Thousands of years ago, their grandfathers were likely sitting on rocks breaking soft rocks with harder rocks for fun, while cleverer cavemen painted the shaggy yaks they had killed on cave walls.

It was a loser bar, in short. Not even the kind of place where one would pick up dangerous drugs or saucy prostitutes. The type of hole in the wall inhabited by divorced men with poorly dyed hair, legless veterans of long-forgotten wars, and strung-out junkies. At this precise moment, the barstools were occupied by an obese freight pilot, a crew of bounty hunters who had failed their last mission, and the loser of the last holo-pool game who had begun to drown his sorrows in the bar's cheapest available cocktail. Regular dregs of society.

The crew of the Absolute Magnitude had been in the pool hall for all of thirty minutes, having respectively ordered a piĂąa colada, two neat whiskeys, Spar-Letta soda, bottle of water, and a hot milk, the last of these being rejected by the bartender as a legitimate request. For a group of six, as the bartender had mentioned twice now, they were not particularly big spenders. Normally bounty hunters at bars were looking to drink kegs at a time in celebration, though this crew in particular seemed rather somber.

The reason for this was their most recent failure. Sure, the crew failed all the time, but this was an especially infuriating failure -- The crew had staked out and captured a conspirator of Martian terrorists hoping to bring eighteenth-century Japanese nationalism to the red planet. True to his movement, green fugitive Yoshiharu Hosoi performed an honorable suicide, death poem and all, during transport in the ship's airlock. Having successfully robbed the government of information and the Absolute Magnitude of a bounty, the only thing left to do had been to eject him into space and continue their trip to Mars for fuel and drinks.

"I'll be right back." The largest member of the crew said, turning to the grimy jukebox across the room.
Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Goldeagle1221
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Jeremiah stared blankly at the brown drink in front of him. The recognizable throat burning smell of cheap whiskey rose from the fake crystal glass as well as every exhale that fogged it. His body slumped and refused to move when the largest of the rag-tag crew he found himself seated with excused himself from the stools accompanying the bar in favor of a jukebox, God help them all.

In total Jeremiah portrayed a broken man whose bounty had just slipped through his fingers just as he formed a first around it, and truth be told he was upset, but not as upset as he wanted to be. He couldn’t help but find a fuzzy itch pop up now and again across his psyche or a tickle under his skin. While the massive high of the drugs swimming through his veins had passed a few hours ago, they still managed to warm his tender body with heated pulses. He held a tight grasp on his lucidity and he clearly recognized the agony of the situation but even then he couldn’t help betray a whimsical smirk, one easily mistaken for optimism rather than remnants of controlled substances.

Taking another sip from his cup the liquor skidded down his throat with a certain acidity that kept his attention away from the smudged lip stain on the other side of the glass, one he recognized as neither his own or clean. The alcohol quickly blazed around his empty stomach and he felt the cheap booze mingle with his high, causing him to suddenly squirm in his seat; a mild reaction. Had this whiskey been chasing a new capsule of the drug he knew as ‘Joy’ down his throat, he knew all too well the results would be violently unpleasant for those around him, but that would hardly be the whiskey’s fault.

He let his light green eyes scan his fellow bounty hunters. He had been working with them for longer than he wanted to count, and he knew every one of them as much as a fallen leaf knew a pond: not much. It was better that way, he smiled warmly at his glass, a sense of euphoria washing over his head, there was a certain bliss to ignorance, and a peace to quiet.

Thud!

Unfortunately bliss and peace never lasted. Jeremiah looked down and frowned at his plastic glass as it rolled away on the floor, a tiny puddle of brown following it. He had little idea of how it ended up there, but he was sure glad the owners were cheap enough to settle for the shatter-proof plastic glasses; heroes every one of them.

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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Dioxide
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“Very, very cute…” Quayhoggr spoke in Martian, hushed and rugged, when denied his glass of hot milk. He surveyed the inventory of the bar presented to him and he noted that he had had a taste of all of them - he remembered the Saturnian Sxht'Wathur being not that bad, even, regardless on the play on words. So when he legitimately asked for the white, nutritional liquid from the mammary glands of a mammal, he thought he’d at least be respected of his choice, for the lack of choice. Yet, for the rejection, like many things he finds intriguing and compelling, he called it “cute”.

He wouldn’t have minded the decline, but Quayhoggr was not in a particularly happy mood. On one hand, it was exhausting being him, constantly looking and observing things as a reflex rather than emote or option. On the other, it’s the one bounty they captured having committed seppuku that’s got him and the entire crew down. Poole, the giant of a man, was walking over to the jukebox across the room. Not saying a word, Quayhoggr winced and tightened his eyes, not unlike a camera whose aperture narrows to sharpen its focus. Unfortunately, with the behemoth in the way, he could only see the few alien graphemes jutting out the view on the sides. Looking back to everyone, Jeremiah looking like he was mixing alcohol and his drugs - not like it wasn’t obvious that he has a drug problem, Quayhoggr having surmised upon many inspections, though he kept it to himself for now - and the others having their own form of silent solemnity, reflection, and rest, Quayhoggr just kept a still face. Let them brood. he thought.

He brooded as well. Deevee remembered staring through the glass opening of the door, the room where they had held their capture. Everyone had left to return to their quarters when he just stood there, looking at him. Admiring him. Dissecting him. He wanted to know more: the man’s IQ, his taste in literature, his choice of words, his everything. He was the perhaps the last one to watch him. In a way, he felt and latched onto that tiny bit of responsibility that he could have prevented their capture’s death. It brought back that tang of uselessness being just the team’s linguist, and nothing more.

His attention was brought back to the dark room when Jeremiah dropped his drink, the plastic glass thudding the floor, spilling the engineer’s drink.

He shuffled in his barstool to face the barman, his coat ruffling against itself, the stool producing a sharp metal sound of its weakened state. In Martian tongue, he spoke:

“Another whiskey for this man, and can I please have my hot milk?”



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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Darkspleen
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“So there I am, sitting in my patrol car, when my partner radios in ‘I think I just saw a cardboard box move.’ And I tell him to stop screwing around and look for the perp.” Lynnette said with a wide smile on her face, one that was almost mirrored by the large freighter pilot she was chatting with. “And next thing I see is a cardboard box run out of the alleyway with my partner in close pursuit!” The pilot chuckled before taking a sip of beer. When Lynnette had first approached the man she had struggled to elicit any response from him whatsoever. After a few minutes, whether because of her charm, her being a woman, or simply because he wanted someone to speak to the pilot had quickly warmed up to her. She had been hoping that he might have heard rumor of pirates or something else that could lead to the crew’s next job, but no such luck. After their last screw up they could use a straightforward job.

“Well…” She said as she rose to her feet, putting the pilot on the back, “I better return to my friends.”

“Yea. Catch you around.” The pilot raised his beer in salute.

She gave the man a second pat before turning back to her crewmates, her smile becoming slightly strained. Despite her jovial appearance, she felt especially bad about the botched job. She had made a career of catching criminals and bringing them in alive and had been damned good at it. If anyone was at fault, it was her. She knew that it was truly impossible to completely guard against a detainee committing suicide, but it was very easy to make it much harder to do. She hadn’t even stood guard, instead allowing Quayhoggr to stare at the man like some sort of creep. If anything it was that which caused their prisoner to commit suicide.

“Why don’t you put a shot or two of vodka in that milk?” She suggested when the man occupying her thoughts ordered a drink for himself and Jeremiah. “I’ll even pay.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. In all honestly she just wanted to see what the man was like with a little alcohol in his system. She settled into the seat next to Jeremiah, giving him a friendly pat on the back.

“Maybe you should make this your last glass, eh?” She asked the engineer. He seemed a bit… off. She decided not to think about it with a mental shrug. It was probably just the sum of his drinks and the group’s screw up eating away at him. “I’d love it if you were cognizant enough to play some poker later so I can take your money.”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Briza
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E i m i N o x

Eimi's wrist made a small twitch; bent fingers aligned with the movement; and the stump of gray ash on the end of her cigarette shed into the chipped and worn tray next to her Spar-Letta soda. Both arms rested on the aged countertop. The sleeves of her blazer were pulled, baring thin, faintly colored forearms, and her eyes focused (surprisingly) not on her newly obtained Holo-Link S3 but instead on the cracks and dents of the bar’s countertop. Eimi was mixed on the current situation. She found it both, kind of funny and kind of sad. However, she was having a more than slightly hard time trying to understand what the situation even was.

On the outside of her contemplation, the atmosphere — taking place in The Shaggy Yak Pool Hall was just, yet again, another worn out place, and by the quick puerile glances she had given her crew-mates just moments earlier, they were all just, yet again, another bunch of worn out faces. She was having a hard time actualizing the problem even if her expressionless face seemed just as catty and pensive as usual. It was easier to hide in her head when no one knew the difference from one expression to the next. Although, her lack of interest in her gadget was a little peculiar -- if anyone drowning in his own sorrow cared enough to notice.

Her eyes shifted over to Poole. His large mass moved from his place and took heavy steps down the Hall. The scraping of stool feet against a hard floor was audible from his strength and size. He better pick something good, she joked to herself, eyes quietly narrowing at his back. She really couldn't have cared less what he picked. She was a ‘musicunt’ as her super intellectual and well-versed generation would say. Although, Mars never settled well with her, and the music might as well be just as nauseating. She had her reasons, ironic as it was. Who even fucking cared? The worst thing that could come of this was she would have to sit and listen to it.

Turning her attention away from Poole, she scanned the dark, depressed screen of her Holo-Link. Her free-hand moved and plucked it from the counter top as her thumb tipped the touch screen. The Holo-Link lightened, and the holographic projection smoothed into her view. She had been playing one of those Martian Children Strategy Games (MCSGs); and her opponent was seemingly good; but he had not made a move in a while even though, he was running low on time and had that adolescent energy for stupid boyish taunts. She was starting to think she might win by forfeit. Loser.

She thumbed a few scrolls through the device, and pricked several commands and rays before resting the Holo-Link on the counter-top, again. The slim cigarette was brought meekly to her lips and warm breaths fogged her mouth. Her knuckle turned, and her elbow bent, relaxing her head on the back of her hand. The smoke slowly curled in the thick air of the Hall, but despite such a hollow, condensed atmosphere, her mind was running in circles. She was going nowhere, though, and in this precise point in time, she kind of envied Hosoi.

And with a look that went right through everything she closed her eyes, to hear Poole’s selection and the tail end of some senseless cop story by Lynnette. She felt like she had nothing in common with these people, and yet, they were so familiar at the same time. It was a bit frustrating, but really, should she have expected anything else in such a mad world? Her brows furrowed a bit. That loser better not forfeit.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Little Bill
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"Jesus christ you're big. Mike, come look at this guy."

Poole did not turn. He winced for a moment, considering the flippant use of the big J's name, but the man's drunken tone didn't sound like enough importance to address for a proper conversation. After all, he had just paid the jukebox all of the remaining post-soda coins in his pocket. This jukebox, like many others on Mars, was connected to the planet's wireless internet, and the daunting challenge of picking a song out of every song had only just now dawned on Poole. At times like this, he would usually revert to an old classic. Something meaningful, and yet, not something somebody else in the bar would pay to skip. Something uplifting for the crew, even.

"Play 'Spirit in the Sky'."

"YOU HAVE SELECTED, SPIRIT IN THE SKY, RECORDED BY NORMAN GREENBAUM, 1969. CONFIRM SELECTION?"

"Confirm."

"NOW PLAYING."

Nodding to the song's low, steady riff, Poole turned back to return to his crew and soda. Or, so he had expected to. Instead, he was met by the voice that had addressed him, and whoever Mike was. He wasn't sure which was which. Both were men in their twenties, one with long hair and a red leather jacket, and the other with a dark blue mohawk and white denim vest. Both had a considerable number of piercings and tattoos, each of worsening levels of infection. The one in the red jacket had "STABYA" spelled down the zipper of his jacket in letterman jackets, whereas his vest-wearing partner had "ALL COPS CAN DIE" tattooed in faded blue letters on his hairline. In Poole's experience, men who decorated themselves with outright lettering instead of symbolism were usually dumb enough to mean the things they conveyed. Take himself, for instance. Neither gave Poole the look he knew people gave when they wanted to fight someone, though all things considered, there were better-looking duos to be approached by. The long-haired youth seemed excited, whereas the one with the mohawk only gave him a steely gaze. He was probably Mike.

"Goddamn, you must bench half a ton, eh?" said the skinnier, long-haired punk. In the corner of his mouth, he chewed a light-up toothpick, glowing from top to bottom with dim red lights not unlike a deli sign.

"Why do they keep making more things light up?", Poole absent-mindedly thought to himself.

"That I do. Try not to take his name in vain, brother." Poole said with a faint smile, walking past the two. Compliments made him uncomfortable, but moreso than compliments, the kid in the mohawk was making him uncomfortable. His friend just seemed like a frat boy trying to befriend a scary tattooed guy and look cool, but Mike was not. Mike was looking at him with an odd squint, as if Poole had one of those impossible triangle optical illusions tattooed on his face. Not enough to start a fight over, but certainly enough to make him wary. Kids and their phones were no friend to an old guy like Poole.

"Hahaha, cool man, I like that. My name's Zay." The long-haired punk chuckled, extending a hand to Poole.

"Nice to meet you, Zay." Poole shook his hand by the wrist with a loose grip, where a concealed knife would have been. South Mars and North Titan where the only two spots in the solar system to put him on edge, and as it stood, they were in the middle of South-Flippin'-Mars. Poole began to bob to the music he had put on once more, beginning to turn away.

"That's Mike over there." Zay said, slightly raising his voice over the music. He pointed to his friend, who remained perplexedly looking at Poole. Never a good sign. Poole gave Mike a nod, and continued walking to the crew. He regretted not taking a seat, opting to hover and pace when they arrived. Now, all he could do was lean on the bar and not make eye contact. Besides, it seemed like something happened with Jeremiah. That boy was always on his keister in the dirt, and today was no exception.

"Sir, do you see my glasses?" The bartender had asked the ship's linguist through a thick accent, holding up a horizontally-ribbed highball glass. "My glasses all are this shape, yes? You drink milk, the milk gets in the glass, and it becomes cheese, sir. I cannot clean it. You buy a real drink or you and the funky bunch get out of my Shaggy Yak. Your giant not even order anything."

"And you are?" Poole heard behind him, Zay having appeared out of the sparse crowd. Poole remained silent, watching the scene unfold, bobbing his head as if the music had drowned Zay out. He tapped him on the back twice.

"I didn't get your name."

"Poole."

Zay nodded, calling the bartender over with two fingers. "Let me get a beer for my new friend Poole, barkeep."

Poole shook his head, forcing a smile. "I don't drink."

Before Zay could respond, Mike approached him from the crowd, offering up his first bit of input to the conversation. His voice was low and hushed, with the gravel of a man who had been smoking for twice as long as Poole had been alive.

"You know anybody named Al?"

Poole looked at Mike with a confused glint in his eye, processing all of his options as quickly as he could.

"The ape?" Mike continued, with less of a question in his tone and more of an affirmative reminder.

"Meet me in the bathroom." Poole said quietly. Zay and Mike looked to one another with a shrug, and began making their way to the restroom. Poole sighed, turning back to the scene that had unfolded at the bar. Jeremiah was making his way back to the waking world, and Lynette seemed to have pacified the barkeep somewhat.

"Lemme get one of those sodas, bartender." Poole grumbled, turning to Xaara.

"I'll be right back, I gotta take a leak. I think we should leave soon."

With that, he stood up and pushed his stool in, patting the large shipping pilot on the back as he did so with a thin smile. As always, something was very wrong, and there was nary a thing he could say to the crew about it without fielding a survey of questions. Gone were the good old days of people not asking about a man's past. Whether or not he liked it, Poole was not alive in the age of pirates, gunslingers, bootleggers, or bikers. Poole was alive in the age of registries, facial recognition, and databanks that could turn every stone from a person's life.

The bathroom was about as filthy as Poole expected it to be, with two lockless stalls halfway closed, a heavily-graffiti'd mirror, and an aroma that seemed to say "Every square inch of this room has had urine on it." The floor was a maze of cracks and stains, whereas even the ceiling was lined with many thick, leaky pipes. Zay sat on the ledge of a grated-over window, while Mike leaned on the sole sink. Both looked pretty pleased with themselves. Both were holding blades. Poole suddenly understood the "STABYA" jacket.

"You're quite a name in these parts, but I can see why you changed it." Mike said, lifting himself from the sink.

"What do you want?" Poole asked, staring down his opponent. Fear was the mind-killer that won battles, not knives. Only the fear of them that makes the unarmed strike half-heartedly.

"I know the feds already got your bounty, but the rat-cheese Jozo wo-"

This was as far as Mike got before being kicked in the face. Already having sized up his odds, by the time he understood Mike's intentions at "rat-cheese", Poole leapt up and grabbed one of the thicker pipes as if to do a chin-up, kicking Mike square in the jaw with both heels like a kangaroo, sending him crashing backwards into Zay.

Zay, who was more prepared to extort hush-money from an ex-criminal than actually fight that ex-criminal, dropped his knife, pushing the unconscious body of his partner in crime to the side. "Please, Al -- Poole, whatever, please, man."

His pleas were met with a swift palm to the face, sending his neck flopping backwards and the back of his head onto the wall. Knocked out just as quickly as his friend. Or killed. Poole wasn't one to ponder on things like that. Before Poole could deliver a clever one-liner, he frisked the two of them, procuring two old-fashioned flip phones and snapping them, tossing the remaining plastic chunks at the stall next to him. Instead of the sound of phone-bits hitting tile, he heard an audible "Ow". His head snapped to the side.

There were two balding salarymen in the stall next to him, one in a state of undress, and the other in a state of being on his knees with a dude's willy in his hand. Poole wasn't sure what to do in situations like this, and so a beat of silent eye contact passed before he could say anything.

"I won't tell if you guys don't tell."

"Hai."

Poole gave the pair a curt nod, and left the bathroom, fighting the urge to make a beeline for the exit. Instead, he casually made his way back to the bar, even singing along to the "I've got a friend in Jesus" chorus of the song he had selected, mumbling most of the words that came after that.

"Hey guys, I'm gonna head back to the ship. This place is a little too shaggy for me, and we've got time and money to make up. By the time you're back I should have something cooking on the bounty-comm." He placed a few coins on the bar, taking his can of soda with a nod to the bartender and making his way to the front door.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Goldeagle1221
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P--------------------------------⌽--------------------------------O


There was a soft patter as the bartender placed a new drink in front of Jeremiah. Looking up briefly Jeremiah gave a thankful smile, and huddled around the drink. His eyes drowned in the cheap booze before him, his stomach told him he was done drinking and his head started to burn with the desire for something else.

He stared at his dark reflection and smiled, he couldn’t be rude. Sitting up he lifted the drink to his lips and slammed it into his waiting mouth. The instant the burn creeped up his tongue he knew he made a mistake. His body refused to swallow and he was stuck with a mouthful of the whiskey, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunks hiding a winter’s prize.

Quickly he scanned his crew members, Lynette was chatting at him but all he heard were gurgles behind his own ears. His head jumped through all the ways he could handle this when Poole suddenly barged from the bathroom, said something, and pushed his way out of the establishment. The exit door swung wide and Jeremiah took it as a sign. Leaping from his stool he disregarded the sharp “Hey, you have to pay!” as he sprinted full speed out of the bar.

The blast of heat from the powerful sun slapped him across the face as he exited, shooting right by the thuggish bouncer. He sharply turned the corner into the shade of the conjoining alley and as soon as he did, the contents of his stomach spewed from his mouth, lukewarm whiskey first. He heaved, his face burned with strain, and a second wave dribbled out.

He clamped his eyes shut, not able to see through blurry tears as a third bout rocketed from his throat, burning his esophagus on the way out. Breathing heavy he slowly opened his eyes, tears dripping from the corners. He smiled, it was over.

Jeremiah’s eyes focused as he stood leaning towards the wall, and he noticed two terrified eyes staring back up at him.

“Oh…” Jeremiah stood up straight, “my B-”

Suddenly a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He didn’t quite recognize the grappler’s face as the burly man shook Jeremiah around by the collar, but the voice sounded extremely familiar.

“You little shit!” the angry man yelled, “I’m sick of little pukes like you thinking you can just drink and dash like this is some community well.”

“Woah!” Jeremiah finally managed to speak, the whole world spinning still, “I would never-”

“You just did!”

“Did what?”

The bouncer pushed Jeremiah into the wall, an angry scowl on his face as well as faded tattoo’s on his neck. If Jeremiah had to guess, he wasn’t hired for his professionalism.

The thug put a stiff hand on Jeremiah’s chest, holding him against the wall with an arm like a tree trunk, “listen buddy.”

“Odd choice of words.”

“Listen freak.”

“Much better.”

“Hand over the credits.”

Jeremiah made a face, “front right pocket, and don’t try anything or I will be charging you some credits”

The bouncer snorted as he rammed a beefy hand into Jeremiah’s pocket, pulling out nothing but a piece of lint and a very conspicuous 9mm bullet.

Looking up at Jeremiah, the man seemed extremely unimpressed.

“I must’ve left it in my other pants, or you know, the bar.”

A fist zoomed towards Jeremiah’s face, the engineer managing to wiggle away in time for the hammer like hand of the Bouncer to crack against the rough brick exterior of the building with a painful howl. Quickly Jeremiah hooked his foot behind the Bouncer’s ankle and swept his feet from under him. The bullet went flying in the air as the large man tumbled into a pool of vomit as well as the smelly stranger who for some reason hadn’t left.

Jeremiah snatched the 9mm out of the air and turned to leave as he heard the unmistakable crunch of the big man’s jaw hitting the pavement, but as he did his eyes widened like saucers. Four equally large brutes were walking into the alley, all wearing the same black shirt as the one lying in the bile, and each wearing a very very annoyed face.

S--------------------------------⌽--------------------------------T

!
Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by mickilennial
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mickilennial is trying to survive

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X a a r a




The Shaggy Yak Pool Hall, Somewhere on Mars


Xaara’s thoughts about the Shaggy Yak Pool Hall were expectedly critical. The Martian establishment was what Poole had described as a “dive bar” and for some reason, the group decided it was a place they wanted to spend their much needed off hours at. The blue-haired woman wasn’t a person to drown her sorrows away after a string of failures, though that did describe her predicament, but rather move on and prepare the ship for the next job in the solar system. But Xaara had been once described as “some sort of a teetotaler” so what applied to her didn’t exactly apply to the rest of her crew. But her disdain of the Shaggy Yak Pool Hall was not uniquely the byproduct of an anti-alcoholic bias; between the putrid stink of poor upkeep, the disposition of the occupants, and the ancient audio system that constantly stuttered there was a lot to dislike about the establishment. But she had little choice after being convinced to do so by one of the other members of their bounty hunting collective; which was rather uncharacteristic of the female pilot considering she typically stayed on her ship and did the rounds on it until it was in order and everyone was ready to book it off-planet.

As she took another cautious drink of the water she asked for she kept her eyes and ears open. Knowing that dive bars led to trouble was a condition of her profession and she wasn’t exactly new to it. Trouble could rear its ugly head at any moment and anytime -- and it usually did.

Why did we even come here?

The thought made its way into Xaara’s mind as she saw Jeremiah losing himself at the bottom of a bottle for the umpteenth time. The rest of the group save for Poole and Lynnette had affectedly decided to do things that could’ve been done in the safety and privacy of the Absolute Magnitude. She didn’t understand the appeal of interacting in such a place. In fact, she likely had words to whoever decided to visit the pool hall in the first place. But for the moment she pushed her thoughts and grievances aside, thinking it better to deal with it until someone got bored of the smell of cheap narcotics and poor hygiene. She could stomach it for the time being.

It wasn’t long until that exact precedent was given to her. After an amount of lengthy conversations Poole had returned to where Xaara had decided to seat herself and made a nonchalant comment about going to the bathroom to relieve himself. It was her window due to the fact how he said it. “We should leave soon.” was not something Poole usually said when he thought they should move on a normal day. It was something he said when trouble had reared its head and he was going to deal with it; it meant that it was probably about time they readied themselves to leave whichever planet or space station they were currently in.

“Yes.” She replied, acknowledging Poole’s attempt to be somewhat discreet, as she had heard the comment before many times. As she screwed the bottle cap on to her water she looked at the rest of the team, whom she would’ve given a nod before preparing to leave the pool hall.

“I’ll be returning to the ship. Don’t forget where the correct docking bay is.”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Dioxide
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Dioxide Foreign-Local in Hong Kong

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The crew was lively but not alive, filled with temporary, short-lived plans with no current, demanding aspirations. Two of the team left for the ship, and the three others were suit to follow. Three, because Deevee was still solving a mystery - one far more important returning to the safe confines of the Absolute Magnitude. One that prompted the need for Quayhoggr to launch himself from his seat, drive himself up and atop one of the pool tables, interrupting a game between two burly, unkindly men, immediately cuing in several phrases of "what the fuck".

He had to move. He had to sort through the ocean of knowledge he had in his mind like it was tangible, as if it were truly a library in front of him in the open air and he had to shuffle through the stacked books everywhere to see if it was there.

Quayhoggr, in a Mars-accented English, spoke under his breath.

"Has it been done before?"

He pondered, panicking, as he narrowly dodged the vice-like grip of one of the players. Deevee then delivered a laugh so deep and maniacal from the bowels of his diaphragm, fighting the air and seeking anyone with good audition to pay attention. If it were an online text, it would be "mwuahahahahahha". Strange that Deevee would even think of that.

Suddenly, a burst of French, directed at the bartender: “Life is great. Cheese makes it better.” He jumped over to the next pool table, a way's away but narrowly landing on it without busting his ass.

"Gouda, Camembert, Monterey Jack, Brin D'Amour, Oxford Blue! Then we have Port Wine Derby Cheese! Cahill's Irish Porter Cheddar Cheese! Walnut Liquor Timanoix Cheese! Cheese has come and will come in many fantastic flavours, textures, and even colours!"

Deevee grabbed a pool cue from the metal brackets, belly-side of the pool table. "You," he pointed the end at the bartender and proclaimed his next few words with the gravity of a summons, "shall herald a new beginning, a new frontier, a new synthesis of Southern Martian cheese so eclectically delicious it will make you a fortune! Mix your inventory and pour the milk into your cups!"

At this point, bouncers were on their way to relieve the mad man of his 15 minutes of fame, but Deevee was not done delivering his speech. Whilst talking, he began swatting his pool cue around.

"For cheese is a solid block that had united the tongues of nations to strengthen trade, political ties, historical bonds, cultural amalgamations! You will make this cheese, and we will return for us to sample them!"

His cue had stopped swinging, caught in the hands of one of the bouncers, and the bouncer yanked the cue from Deevee's hand, bringing the cheese connoisseur down with it, slamming down to the wooden, stained-with-whatever floors of the bar.

Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Briza
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E i m i N o x

While Poole was deciding which song to choose, a small blink on Eimi’s Holo-Link S3 flickered a few times, complete with an inaudible rumble on the countertop that tickled her skin through her clothing. Eimi picked up her head and slid her elbow from the counter. Her eyes morosely moved to look at the screen. Loser Boy decided to make a move, a small, half smile gently tugged her lips, Excellent. She quickly plopped the butt of her cigarette between her smug lips, as her dead eyes somehow managed to lighten with unmerciful excitement.

Several buttons and commands were automatically adjusted by her fingertips, “Your pixel army can't save you, now, boy,” she quietly rumored to herself. The cigarette hanging from her lips moved with her speech, and she leaned back in her chair. She was lost in the coma of New Age Technology, intoxicated not on some cheap liquor (God, cigarettes and alcohol just didn't mix well with her, anymore), but on the deep sweeping motions of her digital exercise. Holographic fantasy tanks with too many weapons and artillery options to not be seen as gaudy moved along a fine coordinate grid.

Sometimes, Eimi really enjoyed herself, like, right now, as she completely dismissed any interaction Poole was having in front of the Jukebox -- by using temporary digital stimulation to escape reality as she congratulated herself for having predicted and strategized correctly. The little jerk, who probably still lived home with Mommy-dearest, was about to get annihilated. This was too easy, her smug grin completed itself as her playful eyes narrowed.

The music and lyrics to Spirit in the Sky echoed somewhere in the background of her mind, which should have sighed with annoyance at Poole’s classically, predictably old choice. It wasn't that bad, but his Born-Again Christian attitude could get really tiring, after awhile, and only rarely was it amusing. It was clear, Poole had been through some shit, but everyone on The Absolute Magnitude had. So, what was the point? With his age, he should know better, out of all people, God is dead. Just like Wesley…

Just like Wes.

Her head tilted sideways, and her short, dark hair dipped in a guilty design onto her covered shoulder. A small pout protruded the dying cigarette further from her mouth. She pulled it out nervously and snugged it inside the ashtray. The neck crinkled into its snuffed ashes as her fingers twisted prominently. Her forefinger then pressed one of the bright green buttons, turn-based operations filtered through the signals. He was going to lose. She had the kill switch for him. He might have stood a chance if he hadn’t taken such a long break between turns. Maybe he had probably been eating dinner with his family like a good boy. It didn't matter, she was about to shut him down. Unfortunately, snark aside, the exposition of him wasn't feeling as pleasurable, now, Wes having somehow managed to make his memories known in her conscious, again. She kind of wished he had been a harder opponent.

Eimi leaned forward in her seat, a subtle attempt for comfort on her part, “Say, ‘Good by-,’” her head quickly turned around as commotion clattered through The Hall. Deevee was--? Her Holo-Link was instinctively put to sleep with the side press of her thumb. The projection blinked and faded, blindfolded into the pocket of her dark pants. Her fingers swept several strands of hair caught on her cheek from the humid ambience, and the untouched Spar-Letta soda didn't even catch her eye as she slid from the tall legged chair, swooping her brown, leather backpack around her. Loser Boy’s gunna have to wait.

She had to go mess with a different set of losers. However, they were probably more so adults, even if they didn't always act like it. (She had no idea who Deevee was, right now.) Her boots skidded through the slick, dusty floor and rounded through the exit. And, somewhere, upon passing through The Hall, Eimi's sticky fingers picked up on the grimy scent of money in a wallet, now nonchalantly swiped and resting next to the Holo-Link. Familiarity aside, free money was free money.

Her palm caught hold of the frame and swung her body towards the action. Her gun was already out by the time her body came to a hault, triggered and ready to fire. Jeremiah's fist was grinding its way into the bouncer's face. What an idiot. By the looks of the crime, it was only Jeremiah who needed saving, maybe. There was very little if any redemption in that.

She lowered her gun as her eyes shifted about the garbage of flesh slinging. A diddle rattled in her pocket, breaking the nominal noises of a petty street fight. She knew that noise. It was the opposite tune of the jingle she had heard hours earlier when she beat her first opponent on the turn-based MCSG. A ghosted gaze hazed over Eimi’s face. The clichéness seemed all too unreal, yet here she was. It was real as can be, “You are the spitting image of a fucking loser, Jeremiah,” she mumbled to herself. And, now she was, too, if not by associating with him but because, she lost that stupid children's game. Who loses games against children who still live at home with their mothers and eat family dinners together? People like Jeremiah, probably, and again, now, her, as well.

Interrupting her brooding mental tantrum were four larger men, walking through the alley way. They seemed pretty ominous in size, like Poole but not really -- maybe more brute-ish, if that were possible. Yeah, it definitely was. They were living proof.

What the fuck… Why not? Jeremiah was indeed one of her crewmates, and she needed to release the tension somehow or another. Her gun was immediately raised, again, almost embarrassed to have been lowered originally. With her elbow bent and the other arm extended, her right foot took several advances before her lean body leapt into the air and whipped one of the men in the face with loaded metal. Her body landed, retreating several swift steps backwards before advancing again, physics and geometry at her side as she squatted her legs and tackled the man at his lower abdomen, knocking him off balance. He might have had a ‘Deer in the Headlights’ look if she wasn't bashing it maroon with her gun.

If Jeremiah wanted some sort of redemption, he would distract the other three big guys long enough for her to get this pawn knocked-out. He had a hardhead, though -- most brutes did. And, sure, she could have used bullets, but goddamn, if only making a mess didn't feel so bloody good, right now. Plus, with the wallet she nabbed, she had a decent sum to afford a good dry cleaning for her blazer. She wasn't about to give up on this opportunity, as her feet restricted the big guy's arms. As muscular as they seemed, they were exhaustively helpless against the raging teenager, “Try to beat this, Loser Boy!"
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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Darkspleen
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Lynnnette sighed as Jeremiah ran out of the bar, ignoring the bartender’s shouts about payment. “Don’t worry,” She said, “I’ll cover him.”

“At least one of you lot are decent” The bartender said with a grunt as she placed enough bills on the counter to pay or not only her’s and Jeremiah’s drinks, but a bit extra.

“Hmmm….” She frowned. “I’m not sure decent is a word I’d use to describe myself.” The bartender raised an eyebrow and seemed about to respond when Quayhoggr started off on what could only be a drug induced rant.

“Decent relatively speaking?” The bartender asked, which earned him a grunt in reply. “Do you want to fix this mess?” He gestured at Quayhoggr as a pair of bounced moved towards him.

“Nah.” Lynnette rose from her seat. “I’m not drunk enough to stick my nose into that mess.” She wasn’t drunk at all. The bartender’s parting words to her was drowned out by Quayhoggr and the bouncers as Lynnette made her exit.

“Well shit.” She muttered as she caught sight of the scene playing out before her. Of course Jeremiah had gotten into trouble with the bouncers. That she had been expecting. What she hadn’t expected to see was Eimi pommeling one of the bouncer’s into submission. It was impressive, frightening, and exasperating all at the same time. She might have been able to talk the bouncers down were it not for Eimi. She had paid the bill after all.

She let out a soft sigh as she skirted around the edge of the confrontation, seriously considering simply ignoring the scene and moving on. As much as it pained her to admit it, she sort of wanted Jeremiah to get roughed up a bit. Perhaps it’d help ensure that he would actually pay the next time they went drinking. But no, she couldn’t just walk away as Jeremiah had the crap beaten out of him.

“Bill’s been paid” She loudly stated as she stepped in behind one of the bouncers, causing him to pause momentarily. Big mistake. Lynnette kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him toppling to the ground. He had barely hit the pavement before she had hopped onto of him, using her weight to keep him pinned. Granted that wouldn’t keep him down for long; even if she wasn’t as light as she was, the bouncer definitely had the strength needed to shrug her off. Even so it would keep him down for a moment or two.

She launched a kick from atop her perch at a second bouncer, hitting him in the side. He staggered slightly before turning towards her and letting out a low growl. For a moment she thought he was going to tackle her, or try to at least, but instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife, a wide smile spreading across his face. Lynnette looked at the knife, a single eyebrow rising. “Really?” She asked, “You had to escalate this?”

“Drop it.” She said as she drew her revolver and aimed it at his chest. The color drained from his face as he realized he had made a terrible mistake. “Well?” She prompted. The bouncer dropped his knife and held his hands to the side. “Now why don’t you go back inside and we’ll both pretend this never happened, ok?” The bouncer nodded enthusiastically. “Good. How about you big guy?” She tapped the bouncer she was standing on with her foot.”

“Eat street bitch.”

“I didn’t hear a no.”

The bouncer grumbled some less that polite things before saying “Yea, fine. Just get off of me already.” Lynnette stepped off of him and out of range, making sure to keep both bouncers in eyesight as they headed back into the bar.

With that out of the way she turned back to Jeremiah and Eimi to see how they were doing. She wouldn’t help them with their own opponents, unless things were likely to turn serious.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Goldeagle1221
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Goldeagle1221 I am Spartacus!

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--------------------------------⌽--------------------------------


WHAP! WHAM!

Jeremiah stood stunned as he watched two of his crewmates turn the corner with the furious intent of lions onto gazelles. Within a blink of an eye the two of the bouncers were struck to the ground and in a few more seconds all four decided to retreat back to the bar. Jeremiah guessed from the sheer threat of Eimi and the promise of a paid tab by Lynnette, the last bouncer would have grumpily yet loyally joined his brethren in the withdrawal, if he was capable.

Jeremiah looked down at the large brute guiltily. The man was still on his stomach, his entire shoulder drenched in vomit, and a gentle trickle of red coming from his mouth, no doubt a loose tooth.

Two terrified eyes once again looked up at Jeremiah as he scanned the bile, he had nearly forgotten the man he threw up on. Jeremiah went to apologize to the man, but then stopped. The eyes belonged to a scrawny looking man probably well past sixty. He sat scrunched up against the alley wall, eyes wide and unblinking. Jeremiah moved to the side and the eyes did not follow him.

Leaning in Jeremiah noticed dried blood crusting along the corners of the old man’s mouth, pooling under the eyes, nose, and even out of the ears. A look of understanding washed over Jeremiah as he noticed the small plastic bag in the dead man’s lap, a familiar baby blue color peeking out.

“Rest easy,” Jeremiah whispered to no one in particular as he leaned over the man to take the bag. The words coming out awkward and clumsily, whiskey induced or otherwise. It sounded as if Jeremiah had a few more words to say but they never came as he felt the little blue pills through the plastic bag, his lips pursed. He offered only a few seconds of observation before shoving them into his pocket, making sure to keep his back to any potential onlookers and more importantly: Lynnette and Eimi.

Making sure his pants weren’t bulging from the new addition, he turned to face his crew, his face sober and his body slowly following. He sucked in his lower lip and nibbled on it anxiously as he approached his savours. He had no explanation for them, no real excuses, no alibi, and no real idea of what he was doing. His footsteps held the only sound, echoing off the alley until they too fell silent. The shadow of the alley was now behind him, and his friends before him.

“I hate southern Mars.”

There was a long pause.

“Ship?”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Dioxide
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Dioxide Foreign-Local in Hong Kong

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Quayhoggr picked himself up, hand on pool table as leverage with the other to adjust his trench coat, only to be shoved from behind by one of the bouncers. Nearly losing his balance, hoping to not have to meet the dirty floor again, he hurried his pace, unfortunately listening closely to the boos and insults from the people within. Though they faded in volume as he was shoved once again out through the door to the outside, the words still echoed loudly in his mind: ”...freak… go home… get lost… useless…”

Quayhoggr rubbed the shoulder on which he fell, face looking down to note that there were fallen people on the ground, prompting him to look up to see his fellow crewmates. Quickly forcing a fake smile that looked so genuine, he pulled a face and facade of nonchalant cool from being thrown out.

“Yes, ship! Onwards to the Absolute Magnitude, where adventure, knowledge, and criminal activity awaits us!” He galloped to the lowered bay doors, revealing the dirty metallic cargo bay within, way in the back the door that led to the main body of the ship. On the side of a support beam in the middle of the cargo bay was a speaker, a part of the communication systems in the Absolute Magnitude. He pressed the green button and checked in: “Quayhoggr Deevee, checking in.”

Paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating the very tight-spaced, almost prison-like hallways. While not gruesomely disgusting, it is certainly not the cleanest either. The hallway system itself was not difficult to manage, and the routes to everywhere was clear and direct, signs adorned on the walls with giant arrows - some vandalized, but still.

The path that Deevee had to take to arrive to his room was also the path that would take the crew to the pilot cabin. Thus it is the route with the most traffic, explaining the old photographs, taped newspaper cut-outs, and other miscellaneous amenities to remind the crew of their experiences, be they fortunes, tragedies, successes, or failures. Nearest to Deevee’s room was the giant, glass trophy cabinet with gravity stabilizers to prevent the trophies from moving about and breaking. Being the collector of the team, there was responsibility and pride in the role he has in maintaining the cabinet and to continue collecting for remembrance and history. Quayhoggr has spent many hours on the cabinet, him now staring at each piece, and he will continue to spend many more.

Enter his room, and Quayhoggr was blasted with the familiar smell of his very old, crusted books and sheets of paper. They are all worn out, used and studied dozens if not hundreds of times, and all lay scattered and unorganized, messy and spread out all over his work table and floor. Dirty plates and decaying food waste add to the odour of the room, perfuming into his equally filthy bedsheets. His walls reflect a different kind of messy, however, for they are drawn on with markers, paint, and chalk coupled with maps, notes, sheets of scribbled sentences - the whole wall busy with a well-organized, beautiful design that contained his research, study, discoveries. What with the rest of his crewmates being the way they are, the wall remained as an actual option for Deevee to talk to and communicate his powerful brain to.

Not that he did not want to share his thoughts with the team, he just knows - feels it deep in his gut - that they would just give him the coldest arctic shoulder and maybe even profusely reject him. The world was huge with so much to explore, yet the dejection that he has to bear feels even bigger. As he closed the door of his room, he remembered that they came to Southern Mars to rest and resuscitate, what with their failure from their most recent mission.

A light whisper to himself and the wall: “Ah, yes, of course. They hate me.”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Briza
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E i m i N o x

The lack of muscles flexing and trembling underneath Eimi’s thin body caused her to stop slamming her gun into the man’s thick skull. Her eyes narrowed and scanned the face, unconscious and beaten as small pants of lustful anger quivered from her thin lips. She had cracked part of his beefy face, and if he did not look inbred before Eimi got ahold of him, he sure did, now. A small smirk breathed from her, while she admired her work, the deformity of his damaged cartilage and swollen nostrils, clogged and battered with his own fluids.

Satisfied with the results, Eimi straightened herself — letting herself cool down — adjusted her blazer, and carefully removed herself from the situation with one foot politely placed to the right while the other foot was ballet’d gracefully in toe-step. Her body made a satirical, half-assed twirl as her balance was repositioned into a small saunter. She made a small glance over her shoulder towards Jeremiah, as he made some commentary. Apparently, Lynnette had made her own breach, entrance, and announcement. A roll of the eyes brushed past the scene and she faced forward, again, “To the ship,” she grimaced back at them.

Jeremiah’s lucky he has crew-mates, Eimi silently reprimanded, as she tucked the gun neatly into its holster. Secretly, she was unsure if beating some prepubescent boy on some children’s video game would have been more satisfying than violently smashing a grown man’s skull bloody. She’d forgive Jeremiah, this one time. He did seem a little out of it, today. Everyone did, but some things were more noticeable than others, like Lynnette’s seemingly plastic pale cleavage — it glowed in the fucking dark, like a night light. Other foibles of her crew-mates passed through her head as she headed back to the ship.

She was half-dreading it and half-relieved to get off this Godforsaken planet. There had been a small adrenaline rush of excitement to visit Mars, again. However, Eimi could not quite pinpoint the exact reason why, and if anything, she was annoyed with herself for having any recollection of the place. Granted, the only familiar faces she saw were those of The Absolute Magnitude.

With a small pause in her walk, Eimi swung her backpack around to her breast and shifted her Samsung-Galaxy ionPlayer 2 (S-GiP 2). It was an old Samsung device, but Eimi rigged it alright. She could potentially have gotten a new one, but Wes had given her this one. As much as she loved new technology, she had sentimental value for the old stuff, like Poole. He was alright. They all were (even Jeremiah), but she wasn’t about to make that known. Her finger pulled the earphones from the clunker, and placed them over her ears. If walking around with a frown like Xaara didn’t make her look like someone who didn’t want conversation with Jeremiah or Lynnette or anyone else, then the earphones sure would.

★ ★ ★


Semi-successfully making it through the ship and to her room with no comradery with her crew-mates, Eimi unlocked the door to her room. It was dark, but the light from the hallway lurked bright enough for Eimi to navigate her way through the already memorized ‘maze.’ It was not really a maze, though. She probably could have walked straight to her bed with her eyes closed. A neatly organized bookshelf with gizmos, gadgets, and yes, some books were pushed together for some techno-baroque aesthetic lined the right wall, and her single bed, neatly made, was to the left. Completing Eimi’s necessities was a desk, (seemingly) trashed with electronics but definitely not without her most-used computer and a vacant seat next to it, where she could place her laptop. It was eclectically quaint if not solemnly stale. Whatever it was, it was enough for Eimi.

Creeping her fingers along the front wall, Eimi flicked on the light. In a hopping motion, her backpack was displaced onto the cold floor, and her hand quickly made its way into her pocket to pull out the newly obtained wallet. Without taking off her boots, Eimi landed stomach first onto the bedding. Her fingers flipped open the wallet and crawled inside to see what she had found, all the while, the music in her S-GiP played a heavily hyper-warped biwa ordained tune. It was chill. But, not chill enough.

Eimi’s face fell flat as she stared at the ‘plethora’ of fake IDs of Jeremiah Strong. A hesitant thought passed through her, and then she carefully closed the piece of trash, contemplation of pocketing the money dripped from her movements. She rolled over onto her back and studied the worn creases and bruises on the material. The wallet fell from her hands and landed on her abdomen before losing balance and falling next to her on the dark bedding. She closed her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. This song sucks.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by mickilennial
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mickilennial is trying to survive

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X a a r a




The Absolute Magnitude, Martian Shipyard


“Ship is ready and primed. Are we good to go?”

Her voice was calm, but assuredly more comfortable, a fact Poole would be able to tell over communication channels. But Xaara not liking to leave the ship unless they had a target or investigation wasn’t exactly a obtuse notion, especially after spending years with the blue-haired woman. As Xaara awaited his response, she looked over the systems to make sure everything was optimal, though it wasn’t likely she missed something after being as thorough as she was. But Xaara was a creature of habit after all.

“Nooks and crannies have been checked. Ready when you are, captain.” A gravelly baritone responded.

After all, the security contract Poole was paid for specified that he would maintain the security of the crew on and off the ship, which was more than just fistfighting unarmed perps. Checking ration supplies, making sure the engines were free of gremlins, stowaways, and nesting animals, checking all the airlocks to make sure they were locked, that sort of thing. Poole was the ship's mother; attentive to details, prepared to soothe the ship's scraped wings and worn-out landing tires, and protective of its lackluster capabilities to a fault. Xaara, on the other hand was the ship's father; aware of persistent shortcomings, frequently pushing the ship's flight to its limit, and either with the the ship while at work, or spending weeks at a time away from her helm. But she was not away from her helm today.

Today, there were three options on the Bounty-Communications system, and all of them seemed like a good hour piloting the helm any way she looked at it. The first was a blue felon on the other side of Mars, with two crews smaller and closer than theirs already pursuing the bounty on foot. Too far. The second was a "lime felon" -- a green fugitive with a decent bounty on their head -- a wanted hitman hiding somewhere on the A.L.C., with no information other than his face and planet of residence. Too vague. The third was a hostage situation on Earth, with four Ganymedian tourists being held at an abandoned airbase in America. Too dangerous.

But right now, the Absolute Magnitude was too poor for excuses like those. Her course was first to the A.L.C, which was currently on the right side of orbit for Poole to be dropped off as if being left at a movie, before continuing on a straight course to Nevada. Whether or not he found that hitman, he would make some progress while the crew took care of the hostages on Earth without having to go through the four red felon checkpoints for Poole to wait in orbit. Estimated time of arrival at Nevada, if she manned the helm instead of letting the ship take a safer autopilot route to the Moon and then Earth, was a little over two hours.

“Everyone, be ready for takeoff. We're not taking another autopilot course this time.”

“Don't forget to get fuel on Earth. And give a warm hello to all the monuments, the mosquitos, and all those itchy Terrans. Ha!”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Little Bill
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Poole did not have the fanciest room aboard the Magnitude, but to be fair, Poole was not her fanciest member. There were no decorative posters or lights, no desks or chairs, nor any sort of semblance of his personality outside of his most bare needs. In a way, this too fit Poole. He was more a man of function than form, and his room functioned. It functioned so well, Poole spent days at a time holed away in his room, as if trapped in a cycle of exercising, eating, and then sleeping. Lynnette once told him that was common in ex-cons, though he hadn't been able to tell by her tone if that meant it was something he should stop. Regardless, Poole, and his room, were functional for the purposes they served, form be damned. Of the four walls Poole had, one wall was decorated with a wooden crucifix about the height one would place a painting or clock, and nowhere else. Not a crucifix in the sense of having a little Jesus hanging out on it, Poole had voiced a distaste for those seemingly every time he encountered them, but a simple lowercase T made of two thin planks. Other than his crucifix, the only "decoration" that could be found was Poole's robotic canary, which tweeted peacefully on a small pipe jutting out of the ceiling. It would fly around the room once every thirty minutes, and then return to its perch to tweet until bedtime.

He had a single bed -- a mattress and wire frame which creaked tremendously when fitting his oversized bulk -- and a mini fridge with the foods that amounted to Poole's five food groups; potato salad, egg salad, chicken salad, Spar-Letta soda, and rye bread. He wasn't a man of steak and lobster. He was a man of cold salad, and with the money he made that wasn't stored away, he made darn sure he had salad. This moment, he was not eating any kind of mayonnaise-based salad, but was wrapped up in his pre-mission prayers, or at least the excercise-infused bible study Poole had. He called them contemplations, which he claimed was like a more serious prayer. He invited the crew to join him every time he performed them, and every time, they declined. By now, it had become almost like a jingle. Want to join me for a prayer, guys? No thanks!

This was fine to Poole. In a way, he preferred the solitude. Twenty years could acclimate you to anything, including sitting in a dark room by yourself.

"Blessed is the Lord, my rock."

If he had a slow day, such as this, Poole's pre-prayer bible readings were broken into chin-up reps, with a tiny paper bible propped between his chin-up bar and the ceiling. He wondered for a moment if he had always been a man of so many scheduled pre-activity activities, or if that was another quirk he picked up in the slammer.

"Who trains my hands for battle,"

Poole did two more chin ups, grunting with exertion, giving his bird a look-over. He enjoyed Bird's presence -- It kept him from getting lonely, without having to be fed or pooping on his floor. That, and he didn't have to cage it up at night. That was always something that didn't sit right with Poole, even before incarceration.

Why do we buy flying pets to put them in cages? he thought to himself, pulling himself up another three times.

"And my fingers for war."

Poole pulled himself up twice more, keeping a steadfast watch on Bird.

"He is my loving ally, and my fortress."

He grunted once more, dropping to the floor for a moment's rest, sitting on the bed to catch his rest, before lying down and shutting his eyes. In actuality, he had memorized this passage years ago -- being one of six he enjoyed reading to prepare for missions -- and only used the Good Book as a focal point for chin-ups.

"He is my stronghold and my deliverer. My shield, in whom I take refuge." Poole quietly said to himself, closing his eyes and clasping his two hands together over his stomach. He caught his breath for another few moments, before rolling to his side and standing up with a heave. He placed two giant hands together in contrition, shutting his eyes thoughtfully in prayer. He didn't pray out loud, that was another rule of his. As he had explained to his crewmates when asked on the subject, God was kind of like Professor X.

He continued his prayer for another few moments, encompassing his request for safety and courage on his mission, better luck than his opponent on the draw, the starving kids to be fed, and so on. When he was done, he opened his eyes and hands, rolling his shoulders back in forth as if starting his day anew. He had everything he needed for the mission already; His wrist-bow, which he carried with him everywhere but the shower these days, and Jesus.

As if by clockwork, he heard the familiar buzz his communications earpiece made right before receiving transmissions. His room had no windows, and yet he knew they were at the A.L.C, and that the captain would be telling him to get to the airlock. Sort of like Professor X. It was either the healthy breakfast he had that morning, or that prayer session, but something about what was in the air had good day written all over it. To Poole, that hitman could consider himself as good as incarcerated by now.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Darkspleen
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“Damn it” Lynnette muttered under her breath for the fifth time that hour. She practically growled at the object of frustration before her before standing to stretch her back. Of course it couldn’t have been an easy fix. She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a long black smear of grease and oil in its place.

She had originally thought that the problem with her bike had been its spark plugs. A simple enough fix. An hour later she had torn half the engine apart and still couldn’t figure out what was wrong. She let out a long sigh. At least she had given it her all. Still she wasn’t about to give up. And why would she when a wealth of information could be found via the internet.

“Damn it” She said for the sixth time as she grabbed her tablet, leaving a bit of grease on its case. She would have to clean it off later. She turned the device on and began a search for her problem. Oddly enough the device was slow, painfully so. After a few minutes she turned the thing off and let out a long sigh.

“Great. What else could go wrong?” She asked the empty cargo room. Unsurprisingly there was no answer. She let out a second sigh, realizing she had three options. She could give up. Not really a long term solution so that was out. She could ask Jeremiah for help; he was the ship’s engineer after all. That didn’t seem like such a smart idea to her as he was so drunk that he probably couldn’t find anything not physically attached to him. That left option three.

“Damn it” She muttered for the seventh time as she started off towards Eimi’s room. The teen would probably mock her for messing up the device again. She couldn’t help it! Every computer she touched eventually got bogged down with viruses or random errors. It wasn’t like she was watching porn on them; no one could figure out what she was doing to cause the problems, but they always occurred. It was why there was an unofficial rule that she couldn’t use any computer that controlled the ship’s systems.

She quickened her pace as Xaara made her announcement. Lyn’s bike was secured in place, meaning it wasn’t liable to damage anything in the hold, but various parts of it weren’t. She would want to stow them somewhere soon so she didn’t lose anything important.

“Hey Eimi?” She asked after reaching the girl’s room, knocking on the door. “Can you help me with my tablet… again?”
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Goldeagle1221
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Goldeagle1221 I am Spartacus!

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There was a bright blue flash. Jeremiah’s pupils dilated briefly at the sudden blast of light as he stepped into his room. The door whooshed closed behind him, and the sound of mechanical pins locking into place whirred. The sound of his overly advanced door locking was challenged only by the spinning vibrations of the trembling engine block in the far back of the engine room. Occasionally a splash of blue would illuminate the otherwise dark room, a recoil reaction from one of the engine’s alternator coils. Of course, being the engineer he could’ve wired the parts in such a way that it didn’t discharge, but he thought it looked cooler this way, giving the engine room, his room, a sort of futuristic lava lamp of sorts.

He stepped into the center of the room. The floor was spotless, immaculate and virgin to any mess, in great contrast to the rest of the room. Projects both large and small, unfinished and complete lined the walls and expertly lined shelves held countless tools and gizmos, some blinking with lights others dark and still. Panels with exposed wires jutted out of the wall, additions Jeremiah made to the ship, and to his room. On one of the panel faces a computer screen flashed, a tiny red dot blinking at the top right corner. Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed at the indicator and his fist formed around the plastic bag in his pocket. If the walk over hadn’t sobered him, this tiny little speck did.

His thoughts were jerked away from the indicator for a moment as Xaara’s voice came over the intercom. Two hours Jeremiah thought, he looked down at his wrist and a metal contraption hugging it beeped the time up at him. He let out a breath, but he could feel it in his stomach, he had only twenty minutes before his body wanted -- needed -- more. His fingers curled around the little blue pills, the sheen of the plastic keeping them from each other.

The little red indicator blinked again, and Jeremiah’s eyes snapped back to the panel. He stepped over to the computer screen and tapped a rhythm on the otherwise blank flashing screen, unlocking a bright blue screen in its place. The engineer tapped invisible keys, each flashing orange as he found it on the blue screen. As his finger hit the final key there was a soft whirr and tink. A small communications device (much like a flip phone of yore) and port shot out of the top of the panel. The metal communicator attached to the port was old, blacked from use, and recycled spliced wires unnaturally connected it to the panel below. The port wasn’t in much better shape but held more polish than the old communicator.

Jeremiah looked down at his wrist again, the metal device on his wrist lighting up as his eyes met its four by three inch screen. He began tapping away at the screen, the device a combination of a wrist bracer and an overclocked, modified and upgraded version of an “Interstellar Space Engineer’s Omni-Tool”, a fancy tablet capable of a great many things used by the Interstellar Engineer’s Union and many militaries. There was a pop as Jeremiah entered the last tap and a tiny electronic key the size of a usb jutted out of the Omni-tool. Jeremiah slid the key out of the bracer and into the waiting port. The port beeped and sunk into the old Communicator, and then the screen came to life.

There was no image visible but a tiny replica of Thor’s hammer on the end of a necklace string laid out on a wooden nightstand, but it wasn’t the image that was important. A familiar voice could be heard off-screen.

Earth, United States, Appalachians, Coordinates… The voice began to list off numbers before finishing: See you there, buddy.

The screen went blank, and the red blinking indicator faded to black. The port snapped back out of the communicator and Jeremiah retrieved the key, sliding it back into the bracer. His mind was buzzing as the panel reset itself, the communicator disappearing back into the contraption. He played with the pills in his pockets as his mind spun.

He felt his fingertips fish a pill out of the bag. He brought it up to his mouth, yet his mind remained on the message, Could it be? He popped the pill into his mouth, See you there, buddy. He smirked, swallowing the pill, “See you there.”

There was a bright blue flash. Jeremiah fell to the floor.

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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Briza
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Briza

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E i m i N o x

Sitting with hunched shoulders in front of her computer screen, Eimi’s face glew with cold techno colors extending from the screen projection in front of her. The room would have been pitch black if the screens were not so lit, “Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.” Eimi repeated in litany under her breath with every several quick violent taps of her fingers against the low-flushed keyboard. There was no way these stupid kids were going to beat her. Then again, it wasn’t like her team was actually doing anything she said they should do. Why did she even play these bloody fucking children games? They were so, so--

A knock at her door pitched through the room followed by the sound of Lynnette’s voice, “Hold on!” she routed frustratedly. Her eyebrows narrowed as she leaned in closer to the screen, “No! Not you! I fucking swear to God you live in a bloody fucked foster home!” Damn, Lynnette. She messed up everything, as did her team, apparently. Out of all the things they would actually hear from her was her off-beaten growl to Lynnette’s petty, perpetual tablet problems. So typical. A large flash generated on the tech-screen, which was dramatically followed by bloodied red letters omnipotently taunting defeat in front of her.

Eimi leaned back in her chair, staring at the loss. The heroes of the winning team danced periodically in victory. I hate losing. Her fingertip pressed down on a small projected Light-Mouse and twirled it around several times to exit the game and knock her computer out. Its face dyed to black, and the station of events turned into just a shadow of Eimi and the silent anticipation of Glow-in-Dark-Tits on the other side of her cell door. Spinning her small stool of a chair, she sullenly lifted herself and stretched her thin body with arms motioned upwards. She walked several steps forward and blindly searched the wall for a light switch. Brightness violently transcended through the room, causing Eimi to pause in pupil pain before unfastening her door. Her hand touched the handle and peeled the door open, “What’s the password, again?” Eimi had it memorized, already. Lynnette had yet to change it, but asking never seemed like a bad idea. Her eyes gazed upward at Lynnette. Eimi was above average height, but Lynnette was still taller. The albino also had a presence of air-headed confidence about her. It was nothing to be underestimated. It was more so an irritating strength, and as much as Eimi wanted to openly deflate it, the best she could do was ignore it. At least, most of the time, anyways.

“Um… its ‘pizza’” Lynnette responded with the same password she had used since before meeting Eimi. It had always been ‘pizza’ or some combination of ‘pizza’, numbers, and symbols when forced. “Thanks for helping. I don’t know why it always does this.” She gave Eimi a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t interrupting anything was I?”

Arching an eyebrow, Eimi briefly took the tablet from Lynnette’s hands, “No different than last time, Lynn. It’s no different than last time,” Eimi remarked vaguely while her eyes gazed over the tablet, and her fingers quickly tipped the password. Nothing happened. There was grease all over it. Adjusting her sleeve by pulling it with her fingers over her palm, she wiped the grease from the screen. Her fingers re-tapped the word ‘pizza,’ “If the problem was unlocking your tablet, then you’re good to g--,” the screen slowly loaded as tab after tab began projecting onto the screen. Eimi wanted to say something like much less nice and a tad bit more annoyed, but all that she could really seem to scorn was, “Good God, lady. Do you not know what a close button is.” No, of course, not. She hardly knew how to close her jumpsuit properly.

Resting on one leg, Eimi tucked the tablet closer to her as she proceeded to close each and every tab. She might as well do it for Lynnette. For all Eimi knew, Lynnette might not be able to do that properly. However, halfway through the unnecessarily elongated ‘procedure’ Eimi paused her tapping. Her eyes moved from the tablet, scanning up Lynnette, “You know what?” Eimi raised an eyebrow, again, perching her lips together, “I think if I can explain this correctly to you, you might just be able to fix the rest of it,” she twisted the tablet around and pointed to one of the close buttons, “If you put your finger right over the button that looks like this, yeah? And press it. Like, not too much, but not too little. It will get rid of all your opened tabs, which just so happens to be the reason your tablet is running so slow. Here, you try,” Eimi handed the tablet to Lynnette.

“Would you believe me if I told you I was smart enough to earn my college degree?” Lynnette asked with a raised eyebrow as she took the tablet back and pressed the button lightly, almost daintily so. She held her breath, as if expecting the tablet to explode. It didn’t, but it did close all of her tabs. And a moment later they all reopened. “Huh… I don’t think that was supposed to happen.”

“Well then,” Eimi managed to mutter. She really just wanted to take the table and withdraw back into her living quarter without a word, but she owed Lynnette due to her incorrect assumption on the problem, “This will probably take a while. I should have it fixed in a couple or hours or whatever,” she motioned for the tablet and slid it from Lynnette’s pale grip as she took a step backwards into her cell, “I’ll let you know when I’m done.” She quipped. Her body disappeared behind the hurriedly shut door.

“Um… Thanks” Lynnette called through the door. “I owe you, seriously. Just let me know if you need help with anything.” She waited a moment before shrugging and walking away, assuming Eimi had already drowned her out with whatever it was she was calling music.

★ ★ ★


Eimi stepped from her room, quietly closing the door behind her. Lynnette’s tablet wasn’t quite fixed, but Eimi needed a break, a walk, a scenery change. Staring at such an anomaly for so long was not particularly easy on her mood at the moment. Maybe if it had been someone else like Deevee who needed help, she would not have minded so much. But, it was generally always Lynnette. She might as well have been Lynnette’s punk-ass sidekick. Fuck that. Although… No, fuck that. She was done being someone’s sidekick.

“Pardon me.” Poole said with a smile.
“Didn’t consider the size of ship hallways when I was benching guys in the pen.”
He gave a soft chuckle, and squeezed by the young girl. Eimi saw that he had a heavy-looking blue backpack on -- Poole certainly wasn’t a man for accessories, and so it dawned on her that both of their missions would take a few days. Poole reached the airlock, unhinging the large door with a hiss of pressurized air.

“Good luck and Godspeed with the business on Earth. Stay safe everybody.” The security manager called out to the crew. “See you on the Moon.” He took a step into the transfer chamber, and shut the door behind him, closing the lock with a slow, creaky turn.

“You, too, Poole,” Eimi involuntarily stared at the shut door Poole went behind for several seconds, contemplating. She could see the A.L.C Space Station from the portholes. It was like a giant chrome car axle, hovering above the moon like, well, a moon. The crewmembers usually had short times passing through the Space Station’s customs, though this was not the case for Poole. Poole didn’t get the shoes-off conveyor belt scanner treatment, he got the private room treatment. She wondered sometimes what went on in those rooms.

Probably butt stuff. It only made sense, seeking retribution so adamantly.

Speaking of rooms, it seemed Poole had left the doors to his open. For a moment, Eimi recalled the great Bird fiasco of April, where Poole’s creepy robot bird escaped his room, couldn’t find his perch, and kept flying around the ship, crashing into things and screeching. For a few moments, she wondered why that thing would be programmed to scream, though the prospect of repeating that incident was enough to get her to close the door. The unlocked, open door. To Poole’s room. His secret, private room she hadn’t actually seen. Private. Secret. Eimi paused after closing his door. There was something unsettling about Poole -- and so far, the most unsettling thing was that the most settling thing about him was his prayer rule. She frowned a bit, connecting her thoughts and decided that a smoke would be a good idea.
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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Dioxide
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Dioxide Foreign-Local in Hong Kong

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The warning to fasten up for the drive came, but Quayhoggr was already seated tightly, bracing his leg against the side of his metal table as the Absolute Magnitude lifted off. Gravity stabilizers helped to keep his stacks of books and items in place, and his hands raised and held the rest in place, a set of acts second nature in his tenure in the team of bounty hunters. Instead, like the mess of documents that shifted along the floor to the side of the bed as the ship travelled forward, his mind was devastatingly headed towards the direction of self criticism… yet again. Thought after thought, his inner self fought with his inner self, logic fighting emotion, reason struggling with instinct, sheer brilliance being trumped by a self-fulfilling, cycling stain of depression.

He read aloud a transcript of an alien language on the wall, practising and expanding his phonetic capabilities with the full intention of distracting himself from a cosmic whirlwind of dejection.

”They don’t need you.”


”Yes, they do. I have skills none of them have. They have themselves a powerful genius.”

”But one they don’t need.


He stood up, marking notes to the script on its semantics, logic entailment, and pronunciation with a piece of chalk only for it to snap. He sighed heavily, turning to his bed and slamming himself onto it, trench coat and all still on him. His hands covered his face. He didn’t need to cry, but his breaths felt impossibly loaded and weighty and his spirits tranquilized and in comatose. He heard the footsteps outside in the hallway. Poole had left for the A.L.C. - the event deduced by the reasoning of efficiency, after hearing the announcements, of course. Many footsteps followed the muscle man’s pounding stride. Not one looked to Deevee’s room.

”Of course, they wouldn’t, freak.”


Deevee has watched his teammates eat before. Of course, this set of observations earned him several arguments and looks, but it is one of his many techniques to learn how a person could be, especially when they are at one of their most relaxed moments.

Poole, eating hefty and plentifully, tries to speak with other people and even to his teammates. Considering his backstory, and his tendencies and habits, he is repentant for his origins, shameful and attempting to be humble for his mistakes and progress.

”He could destroy you without a care in the universe.”


Jeremiah eats all he can and even takes some away. He keeps to himself unless engaged with, and showers people with charming talk of conversation when he is really into it. But assuming his practice of alcohol and possibly drugs - keeping in mind his perpetual state of high and intoxication - he is very unconfident, maybe even ‘attention-seeking’ would be a proper adjective. A manic man with rusty skills despite all the training he’s had.

”You’re not good enough for him.”


Xaara is someone with no obvious eating idiosyncrasies. However, this is emblematic of someone really reclusive and detached - a personality trait that he shares with her based on the fact that both stay away from each other. Jaded, though not a great word, is still a word and is not too inappropriate.

”You’re unimportant.”


Eimi eats with a world of her own, keeping to herself as much as she could unless pulled out from her safe haven. Anxiety? Unsure of herself? Those are some descriptions one could make for her. She could be faking everything she has ever displayed outwardly in her persona. She is so much like him.

”No, you are more like her. Do not ever think you are comparable to anyone.


Lynette sticks to only one serving every meal, maintaining a semblance of her regal history through her actions though her current state of affairs seems contrary to everything her upbringing seems to make her out. This is only on the guess that she is regal, or at least of a very high-class environment. Nostalgic? Guilt-ridden seems to read off her face everytime she makes her mark as the moral compass of the group.

”She is so much better than you in every way.”


His recollection of his analyses was part of his specialized profession - one that was in high demand, with technical skills and operable talents recognized by way of opening new worlds and allowing immersion to be successful and easy. In this way, that is how he kept himself alive, knowing that the team needed him, in so many ways.

He was ready to pick himself off his bed, mood better to continue his practice, a flash of bright light spontaneously combusted within his vision, but he knew well in fact that nothing could have caused that in his room. His head only confirmed this when it was introduced with a most terrible ache. He collapsed back to his bed, and he began to see something.

***


Quayhoggr was in a room, watching himself talk to a man who was by no means in danger from physical harm, but his tremors and sweat showed that he was mortally closing in on his fate’s end. He listened to what his other self had to say:

“You see, Mr. Fja”XXa, I’m already being nice. And please, relax. I’m merely reminding you that I have connections within the police department, spoken with the security guards in this building to take it a little easy on surveillance - good friends, actually, Moooadap has twins - and I digged up significant intel from my ex-girlfriend in the Ganymedian IRS that shows me that you haven’t been taxing in a lot of your stuff - she’s hot; three sets of tits is really a handful.

Of course, I can make this nightmare of yours go all away… if you would open your safe right now and let me have everything in it.”


Mr. Fja”XXa shot up and opened it immediately, offering to put all of his savings, jewelry, and large dossiers of what could be really delicate secrets.

”Much love, and remember: behave.”

The other Quayhoggr left the room and Mr. Fja”XXa slumped back to his chair, crying in his hands. Original Quayhoggr followed his other out of the room and caught him pressing the earbud communicator, talking back to someone. Strangely enough, original Quayhoggr could hear the speakers: it was the Absolute Magnitude cast:

”Good god, Deevee you’re scary.” Eimi spoke. “Excellent job,” from Poole. “His soul looked like it left him long ago after what you did in there.” Another praise, this time from Lynette.

This Quayhoggr was liked by his teammates so much more than he was. This one even walked with swagger and confidence, so much more articulate and more gentlemanly. He had no idea what was going on. Could this have been him from before? Maybe his stress is overworking his creativity. But… even so, he was jealous with this Deevee.

Then everything faded to black.

***


Deevee came to in tears, crying tremendously as he pondered on what happened, thinking about the convoluted possibilities of what could have been, what should be, what will be, what ought to be, what can- It was too much.

If only he had someone to talk to.

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