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[sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3A3AFuNZco]♫ Mood Music ♫[/url][/sub][/center]
[right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | Tram[/b][/b][/color]
January 16th, 2677[hr][/right]

[center][i]The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.[/i] [/center]

[indent][indent][indent]Alan chuckled to himself reading the heady and verbose language on his datapad. He’d struggled to read Kerouac for years now, but at least he was finally making some headway. He remembered finding this particular holo-novel somewhere odd in the Southwest. Not all cities and settlements shared the same data, and some holo-novels (and even rarer, actual books) had been lost over the hundreds of years and the new corporate wars that were going on. 

How many actual novels had he compiled now? Three hundred? Four hundred? His datapad’s memory was vast, and when he had the credits he tended to purchase as many novels as he could. He’d been teased for a long time about it; wasting money on a holo-novel when he could spend a few more credits on a vid. He’d spent many nights on the road with caravans trying to drown out the sound of adult holo-vids while he devoured chapter after chapter of Tennyson or Hemmingway. There was just something about the words and the image he could create in his own head that made holo-novels so enticing. He went back to the next passage and- 

The eruption of music caused him to jolt up in his seat on the tram, and suddenly his senses kicked back into overdrive. The smell of dank piss, other bodies pushing against him, and now the jolt of music caused him to quickly shut off the holo-novel and take in his environment. And then came another racket: a female voice; with an accent, he just couldn’t place.[color=gray][i] She’s a foreigner, with an accent like that. And that kind of slang. Which means she’s got to be a pilot. But why the hell is someone from out of the states here?[/i][/color] His attention switched to the murmuring twins, with their accents. Foreign pilots. What the hell kind of outfit was this Commander Graham putting together up here?  

As the tobacco began to permeate throughout the tram, he grimaced but did not cough or lobby a complaint; he’d spent so many years in smokey and dingy places the smell of tobacco was a calming sensation in a way. He couldn’t stand the damn smell, but he’d been forced to get used to it, much like many things in his life. He tried to think about his situation in Alaska now, and what he could make of it. First off was the place: Smith’s Rest was independent. None of the big corporations had made a play for the area, and the main issue seemed raiders and the standard animal problems. Usually, that would call for your local NC pilots; settlement pilots driving scraped together NCs, helping protect the place. But here were pilots from all over, and the smoking woman had some years on her. 

[color=gray][i]A veteran.[/i][/color] Vets cost money. But beyond the pilots here was the commander himself: a DV vet who had made a name for himself in the past. Alan had talked to a few contacts in the Vegas area and had been a corporate boy until 3 years ago. It surprised Alan that he’d never crossed paths with the man, but the divide was a large area and he was personally happy he’d never met anyone that had climbed the corporate military ladder. But here he was, about to have to meet him. 

It was the idea that a military commander leading a settlement’s barracks that unsettled Alan. He was used to the communal nature of so many settlements; everyone pitches in for the greater good. Military meant hierarchy, orders, training and never disobeying orders, regardless of how sick they made you. That last part worried him; he wasn’t a raider or a slaver. He wasn’t afraid of killing raiders for cash, but he wasn’t prepared to get involved in some kind of war. 

And who else on the tram could be a pilot? He scanned the tram, squinting his eyes at some of the passengers. [color=gray][i]Too old. Too frail. No neural connector-oh no.[/i][/color] The bright red shock of red pouring from a cap and the petite frame was indistinguishable; hell, he could probably pick her silhouette out in a crowd if it came to it. How long had it been since he'd walked out on her after that last mission outside Denver? He bit his lip and anguished over it all. She wasn't looking his way, but he had no idea if she hadn't noticed him or if she was giving him the cold shoulder. After all, she had the worst damn attitude of anyone he'd ever met. 

The jolt of the tram brought him back from his thoughts, and he knew what was about to happen: It was about time to meet the new employer. 
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