Bork

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Post 1 Post-Mortem
- Struggle with enviromental storytelling compared to the past games I've been in.
- The flashback was supposed to be more ambiguous in how it ended but that resulted in 500 words of dialogue that was a gordian's knot in the end.
- I wanted to put the fed hiding in the background like G-man but given that it's not a third person omnipresent perspective I'm writing from, it wouldn't have made sense for Pike to notice someone was parked without a good reason.
- The second half was originally meant to take place in a stashaway apartment where Muskie had hid some boxes and such in a painting after it was robbed by crack thieves and the FN Browning was a heirloom that Pike took.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

Some Time Ago

"....She died of a fever,
And no one could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone..."

Thunder clouds haunted the morning horizon when Russell Garcia came into work at Mack and Peter's and the crows came to flock when he began to clean up at the end of his shift. He watched them through the window pick away at roving newspapers and autumn leaves while he mopped away at the linoleum flooring.The empty streets were practically inviting them and Orchard Street was a wasteland right now at this hour. Well, more than usual in Minneenona. Moss-leached hulks of Fords and Cadillacs littered the asphalt, an avalanche of parking tickets flooding their shattered windshields. As he came up to mop the front entrance, he noticed that the rims were missing, probably some desperate car jacker looking for a quick buck or two. The loneliness didn't bother him so much as the cold did. It was near winter now and a lifetime of living on Dixie farmfields didn't endear him to the tepid chill of Wisconsin. He'd prefer to be inside his apartment, sitting next to his oil lamp and taking drags of some malboros while watching his girls crawl around. Instead, he'd lost a bet last night with the boys at Callahan's and got the closing night shift.

He dumped the mophead into the pail for the last time, squeezing out the tepid gray water before grabbing both items and storing them in a squat wash cupboard behind the counter. He took another bucket of soapy water he'd already prepared and stopped to stare at his reflection. A smashed nose and black-blue eyes regarded him coldly from under the bucket before he broke it with his hand, fishing out one of the slippery sponges and crushing it dry with a wince. He then began wiping away the dried filth and excrement off a low boy door, pale yellow lye foam cascading down the chrome gray alumminum. Swirling eddies of dried fish blood and guts mixed with bone-white lye froth accumulated under his clogs.

By the time his hands looked wrinkled red, the day had taken its last breath and the night was beginning to wake, the shadows lenghtening behidn every crook and cranny in Mack and Peter's. He took a breather, wiping the sweat from his brow. He flicked on the lights, the incadescent bulbs chittering to life, washing the grime of the store away with false light. He first examined the store counter, rows upon rows of haddocks, trout and salmon staring blankly back at him, a congression of ice around them. The broken register was bolted tight onto the left corner, a keep-over from the prior tenants, and there were only quarters and cobwebs in the old drawer. Garcia stopped for a moment to look at a photo framed in mahogany taken during a group trip to the Merrimac. Pike was in the center of the photograph, bearded face smiling tight, as he cradled a Muskellenge whilst Garcia felt a grin tug his lips when he noticed Muskie, the older of the two brothers, holding Pike's head in a ferocious noogie.

He had just flipped the store sign to the opposite side and was about to lock the door when he heard a dull crush, coming from the back of the store. He signed, looking at the clock and biting his lip. Maybe, one check wouldn't hurt. Couple of minutes. Nothing more. He briefly passed his hand over his right hip to find his .38 and found it, squeezing the barrel for reassurance. Taking a deep breath, he pushed pass the counter door and parted the mouldy plastic flaps leading to the pass through. The door to the back of house room was hidden by a maze of oyster crates, as he took care to shimmy and squeeze past, careful to take each step. There were barely any lights in the cooler room: the only illumination being provided by cracked fluorescent lamps. A brass door handle glinted in the dark and his fingers were an inch away for touching before he began to hear distant murmurs behind the door.

" - killed him. You deal in hardware and you deal in bodies. My business means your business. Don't help me with this and imagine what happens if I go out of town. Yeah, this isn't your usual job but Johnny said you did once or twice for the Jamaicans. Now, I expect you to be professional about this. I get - I get that it's a late notice, you greedy little chink. You gonna keep whining about it to me or are you going to rip my teeth off with whatever cockamine price tag you come up with? You come in the morning, sort the body out for me like we discussed. Yeah, I'm sure I want it to look that way. I know it's going to cost extra and if you say anything about burning again, you can kiss getting your 44. goodbye. Got your word. Expect you to keep to it. Uh huh. Yeah. Deal's not done until you come in the morning, Chopper. See the mess first before you start talking numbers at me. We good? Alright, then. Yeah, fuck you too."

There was the click of a receiver from the other side of the door. Chopper? He didn't know any Chopper that Pike or Muskie told him about. He slowly unholstered his .38. Pike called it a 'police action' when he gave it to him a month ago for his birthday. He flipped over the cylinder to check it was loaded, the brass casing glinting in the faint light, before pushing the door open slowly. He'd never went through here before now, where the merchandise was handled. He could taste Pike's work in the air, the scent of gun oil and iron cloying on his tongue. A single bulb illuminated the room, dancing on a string thin wire like a spider. The guts of guns strewn and spread about on top-heavy steel workbenches. At the opposite end of the wall was a trenchcoated figure, head hidden by the hem of his jacket, standing over something laid on the bench in front of him. The figure shifted his gait slightly, shaking his head as if in deep thought, and Garcia's blood ran cold.

It was Muskie's face, eyes blank and skin puckered around a red crater in his forehead. He could see the bone, god, there was bone.

Garcia yelped and the trenchcoated man jumped, knocking himself against the workbench. The single bulb swung on its wire, sending the shadows sprinting and dancing. His knuckles were hard agains the grip of his pistol, heart beating, eyes blinking, trying to get a bead. The trenchcoated man was still in the throes of shock, spinning around with the silver glint of iron in his outstretched hand. He pulled and heard a pained shout - his or the stranger, couldn't tell - and the man was flung off his feet, going to the floor in a black heap of limbs. The bulb stood still. He wobbled on his feet, breathing. Strange. He felt more tired than usual. He ran his hand down his chest, stopping when he felt something sticky. Sweat, maybe, he tried to tell himself. Then, a wetness gushed out of his throat, flooding down into his lungs and caging his throat still. The jacketed man caught him before he fell. He can only focus on the light above.

A bearded face looks over him, haunted. The man's mouth moves to the beat of his fading heart and that's all he can hear. Apology, threat, it doesn't really matter now.

He manages one last word, forcing in the last dregs. He uses the memory of the cattle fields, the heat of a steel brand, that pain, to push him through.

"Daughters."

Something wet landed on his cheek, trailing down his cold skin.

His last breath came a moment after.

---

The Present Day

It must be have near three now. Pike flipped his wrist to glance at the cheap dollar-store quartz and frowned further. Scratch that, past three. The bastard was 15 minutes late. He scratched his head, swatting off woodlouses that had climbed onto his arm. He stood up from the moldy half-cut wine barrel he was sitting on and stretched his arms. The meeting spot was located at a rundown section of the Blue Hook, a block of it cordoned off to act as Minnenoona's temporary shipyard. It was more like a graveyard now from Pike's point of view, a remnant of Mineenona's glorious past or failed dream depending on your perspective. He could see sparrows dotting the cavernous wrecks of old cruisers that had been left behind twenty, thirty years ago, pus-colored day oozing through the holes. He fished for a cigarette in his jacket, just about to light it until he heard the sound of crunching dirt echoing inside the ship. The buyer found their way inside the ship and Pike looked up to regard them.

The man looked more like a grill cook at your highway greasy spoon than a part-time house cleaner. Raul 'The Cook' Pulawnski was a squat heavyset man, jowls thick with decades, with a unshaven beard and beady eyes to compliment his fine, dashing looks. He could spy the collar of his chef blouse peeking out from under the pea-green jacket, the once pure white discolored with grease and sweat. Pike had done business with him a couple of times in the past year. The man wasn't regular enough to be a regular but appeared enough that you wouldn't confuse his name with somebody elses. Raul stuck out his right palm to shake his. Pike's hand moved over to shook when he paused, noticing the fact that the upper knuckle of Raul's thumb was missing, a lumpy hill of white scar tissue where flesh once was.

"Alley job two months ago. Bitch put up more of a fight than I thought for a whore," Raul explained bashfully, wiggling the cut thumb as he did so,"So, got the goods?"

Without a word, Pike kicked away the barrel he was standing off, the rotten wood tipping over to reveal a chunky styrofoam box peeling off at the edges. Muskie would have done it with more flair, gabbed more about the weather or about his escapades but Pike didn't have time for all that shit. He lifted the box and placed it hard at Raul's feet, taking off the cover to reveal a grab-bag assortment of pistols laid face down on crimped cardboard with boxes and magazines of ammo piled to the right.

Pike had taken out his lighter, flicking the flint and letting the flame blacken a Marlboro stuck in his lips while Raul browsed the box like a kid at a candy store. The hitman made an offhand comment, taking out a small Webley and thumbing the trigger.

" Smaller selection. Where's the Smith and Wessons?"

" ATF's got interstate routes tied up, It'll go back to normal in a couple of weeks. Everything you see here is local."

" Fucking feds. Why did that commie fuck have to waste that pinko president in the first place?"

"So, anything catch your eye?" Pike asked, impatient. Raul placed down the Colt and Pike saw that glint in his eye, the familiar hungry look of lust for things that were too good for them to fully appreciate. A second of rifling later and a Belgian was in Raul's hands. The barrel

" Browning HGP. 17 round capacity. 9 millimiter. Serial number's filed off as usual. I took care of the hammer bite with a swap from a CZ. Shaves a second off the fire as well. "

" Heavy for a semi-auto."

" Comes with the magazine size. Don't need to worry about running out but you can't really tell the difference from another semi auto. You'll get maybe 3 more seconds of fire than the M1911."

" Feels like a Fleetwood. Got anything lighter?"

Raul reminded Pike of the time when he watched a pig eat out of a through at some country fair Muskie brought him to, rubbing his grubby mitts all over hardware that was worth the man's life ten times over. Pike made an effort to stare elsewhere in the distance as Raul made comments and asked questions about the hardware. He went through the motions as usual, answering questions about caliber, making reassurances about how he'd cleaned it, this and that all over again for the twentieth or thirteenth time. There was no flavor in the conversations. The stories, the badgering were a dash in color in Mineenoona but now, there was nothing.

" This one looks familiar. Like the feel of this one."

" Colt Police Action. 6 rounds. Double action. Used by cops all over the country. Grip's a little different than all the other wheel guns you're used. Hard to come by geniune hardwood here. Won't fail you."

Garcia's gaunt face flashed by for a moment and it took another drag to shut out the image. Pike shook his head and when he came to, the cigarette he had been holding had dropped to the ground , still smouldering.

" Won't fail you ever. You know how a wheel gun rolls. I've shortened the barrel too. Better for concealment if that's the nature of your next job. "

" Looks like a .38. You sure it's good enough?"

" You're acting like it's a .22. You're not planning on robbing Fort Knox with this, are you? 6 shots is plenty. You need any more firepower and you're gonna start attracting the National Guard."

"Fine, the 38. then."

" Low grain or high grain?"

"Give me a box of the low."

" That'll be about half a grand all together. Let me clean the gun before you go."

Pike took a greased rag out of his pocket, carefully rubbing the cloth through every nook and cranny. Raul coughed to catch his attention.

"Hey, Pike. Just to let you know, I feel for what's been happening to you these past months. Your brother's death and all."

"Appreciate it."

" I seen the way most of the others at the Callahan's, Uncle Chev's talk about you. Don't even have the guts -"

"It's just words," Pike shrugged, wiping the handle of the gun now.

"The hell they know about you?," Raul was now inspecting another one, a black Colt Cobra with a whorled oak handle. He'd have to clean that one later. "Ain't none of them ever had the courage to kill their own brother."

Pike paused in the middle of cleaning out the barrel with a piece of wire and replied back.

"What."

" Look, way I see it, family's just kind of a-" Raul's face scrunched up, tongue rolling in between his teeth. "- Label in this line of business, ya know? Too many soft-dick punks that act tough on the outside, okay with stabbing some pregnant whore or robbing a store but too much of a pussy to kill a brother or sister. All that bullshit about 'standards' and 'moral code. Pah. You got heart for making the hard decision."

Pike could feel the beginnings of a frown but didn't let it show. Even if he was, Raul didn't notice it, still in the middle of continuing his tirade.

" Trust me, when you get married, you'll be glad that you don't have to worry about finding your brother fucking your - "

Raul stumbled back as Pike roughly shoved the pistol and the box of ammunition into his arms.

" Here's your gun. Pleasure doing business with you."

Pike waited until Raul was a speck on the distance before he tilted his head back, closing his eyes, exhaling out. Maybe, the visit to the Soiree would do him some good after all.

---

Fall. Fourth week of November.

Had a cannibal and an old fashioned today for stakeout.

Another suicide on the town paper. Longshoremen caught the male in a net. Body stripped to the ribs by bass, maybe a pike. A 44. hooked in his tongue. This city's drowned already. Drowned by the iron, the bullet, the trigger. I know I'm not here to save the city. I'm here to hunt.

Three years of searching. Two if I hadn't wasted those months in Florida. I know he's here. He has to be here.

Nearly caught me in the park yesterday. Doesn't suspect he's being followed.

Yet.

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

The Arms Monger

^{With the shadow of fratricide of fratricide on his shoulders, a lone gun runner tangles with his newfound reputation while being hounded by a detective out for his blood.}

█████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
Peter 'Pike' O'Malley

---

---

⁍ name: Peter 'Pike' O'Malley

⁍ age: 31

⁍ sex: Male

---

⁍ business

No, I am not fucking with you. I don't mean the butcher on 44th. You know, the fishmonger on North Street. The one with the big signboard and the - How have you schmucks not heard of Mack and Peters before? Didn't Larry give you the deets? Look, you want your M14s, you get them from a guy called Pike. Knock on the door. Say it's a special order for 20 pounds of steelhead and sockeye. He'll handle the rest.

How can you trust them? Buddy, you trust me to hook you up with the job and you don't trust my partners? What do you mean vetted- for fuck's - alright, alright. Let's start at the beginning. Book of Genesis. Mack and Peters is something of a train stop in Mininoona ever since it opened 15 years ago. Place was a former oyster bar before the two of them bought it. Everyone stops by there at least once, both regular people and ,uh, people of your unique persuasion. Owners are two brothers - well, used to be owned. Goes by the name of Peter O'Malley. Regular irish guy. No prison record. Just your average neighborhood fishmonger to the cops and feds.

Now, the guy we're talking about here, Pike, only deals in high quality hardware, no cheap Saturday Night Specials or cheap backalley knockoffs here. Strict procedure, strict rules which is why you really need to ask for the damn special order, get me? He operates by the book for a good reason. Never been caught over 15 years. Not once. You only get to know the guy through connects. No open street deals, nothing. It's a fucking bother but it's the price of doing business.

Any more questions?

Oh, what happened with the other brother?

Eh, Pike killed him.

Nah, I'm not gonna elaborate. He got wasted. Yeah, kind of fucked up. Now, you guys gonna give me my cash?

Mack and Peter's sells cod and mussels to law abiding citizens by day and bullets and rifles to scoundrels and thugs by night. It's a carefully manufactured illusion that Pike and his now deceased brother, Mackenzie 'Muskie' O'Malley, have been maintaining for 15 years, using it to launder the money acquired from their black market arms dealership. Pike primarily uses the store as his primary base of operations and rarely conducts any business outside of it, preferring in-person meetings to using intermediaries or runners. Ever since Muskie died, Pike has had to hire a small trusted crew of staff composed of delivery men, butchers and store assistants to take care of logistical as well as 'assist' with his black market dealings every now and then. With his brother's death, Pike also now carries the responsibility of directly negotiating and philandering with representatives from various criminal organisations in Mininoona.

⁍ savvy

Caution, care and craft are the three underlying principles that Pike operates by. Salesmanship and a encyclopediac knowledge of firearms were both things Muskie and Pike knew but Pike distinguished himself in his ability as an professional gunsmith, thanks to his time handling gun runs for the Irish Mob. Automatic conversions, handloading, rekitting, custom modifications, you name it, Pike probably has done it at a premium price. Pike isn't some expert house painter but he can handle himself confidently in a firefight if push comes to shove.

⁍ ruin

First time I saw a gun? Don't get many clients that ask that question everyday. Normally, I'd say fuck off but well, I guess I don't have the energy for that. Well, since we're closing down now and I'm almost done oiling your Beretta, I think I'll start from the beginning. The relevant beginning. Don't feel as though you'll get every detail. Even I struggle to remember that sometimes.

You probably know my dad and my mom owned that little oyster bar out by Milwaukee. The one where the Chicagoans went to. You wouldn't have remembered it but they called it the - The Little Pearl, that's right, the one by the lake harbor. Noisy. That's how I remembered it but most bars in town were like that, full of piss drunk blue collars, divorcees and anyone who wanted oyster shots. The basement though was a different story altogether. Yeah, that's how the Chicago Outfit was trafficking all their goods, some little quaint northeast oyster bar. Mom and Dad managed to put me and my brother through school with all that 'tax' they were raking in. My mother didn't want no life of crime for me or Muskie but Dad thought it would give us a taste of the real world. My brother took to it like fish to a water but I was the more reluctant one. Still, it didn't help that my brother came back home with a couple of hundreds every week, bragging on the dinner table about stories of the day. Those days were peaceful. Sure, I had to see my dad get beat up every so often by the odd drunk mobster who thought he could have his way but I was young and dumb. My brother gave me toys afterschool that he bought from the cornershop, my dad brought me fishing and my mom made me good chowder. The bar was shit but my family wasn't shit compared to all the other stories you hear of guys with deadbeat drunks for dads.

I gotta confess, I was afraid Muskie would leave me behind, go off on his own, but he wasn't one to leave me behind. It was a Saturday that I saw my first gun. I was twelve, then. Walking home after 5. Detention or late choir practice, I can't remember correctly. All that I was thinking around that time was homework and doing crappy 5 dollar bets on Brewers games. My brother dragged me off to some little crackhouse den to see some open trunk deal going on. Some Italian mafioso was bragging about a couple of new european guns they got in through Long Island. They were Walthers, if I remember correctly. Couple of P-38's, a PPK, hell, I even remember a Luger. Muskie started talking about how this was the next big thing, about how the feds were ostriches in the sand and that this was a business opportunity. The question was whether I would take it or wait for another one to arrive. You can guess which one I took.

Those years, man. Those damn three years. We rolled with the Irish from Chicago first given we knew most of them back from Mom and Dad's joint. The Italians came after and we learnt the finer points of subtlety from them and I picked up a few tricks of the trade from this underground gunsmith, Old Smitty. Rumour had it he worked for Remington during WW2 before he joined the Sicilian Mafia. Times were good, we were rolling in the cash and then, the music stopped. The fucking ATF, I forgot whether it was some dumbass dealer mouthing off or a fink, but the IRS and the ATF busted down the doors to my Mom and Dad's operation. I was 15 and Muskie just turned 18. He took custody of me while my parents got 30 years in jail each. I still visit them from time to time. Mom managed to get out for a brief period for Muskie's service. Dad died of prostate cancer in jail.

There was nothing in Milwaukee for us anymore so we packed all our belongings and took a trip down to Mininoona. Bought us a place up in cash at the northwest, little abandoned lot that used to be a department store. It was a tough couple of months, wading through all the scalpers who gave us crates full of ice instead of fish and learning our way around the neighborhood but we settled our feet in around '65. Muskie did most of the legwork. He had contacts I didn't know of from Milwaukee all the way to Atlanta, guys who gun runned heat all the way from Mexico, Europe and China. I did the repairs, the assembly, the sales when Muskie couldn't do them. Pretty soon, we felt fucking invincible. We had guys coming to us, the cops never suspected a thing and everything ran like clockwork.

Until Muskie started gambling and playing the lots. Yeah, that dumbfuck started buying sweepstakes and taking bets that no one else would. Yeah, the same Muskie, I know. He hid it well but eventually, he couldn't hide it from me. He started getting into these debts, big ones, and then, I had to.....

Goddammit, I've said too much.

You know what happens next. There's nothing else. Would you even believe anything I said?

Here's the facts. Muskie's six feet under right now. And I'm still here.

Ah, almost forgot to give this back to you. It'll be eighty. Have a good evening.

⁍ cred

" Dude, that business with Muskie. Horrible. Horrible. Even I - and you know who I am - wouldn't do that. "

" Please, I get better hardware from my grandma next door! One of the pieces he sold to me, a friggin' Colt, jammed in the middle of a robbery!

" Hah, what a friggin' pushover! I don't trust this guy to push my product. He's a wimp, a loser, he drove my friggin cousin's ford for nickles and pennies!"

" Used to be a better sweet-talker when he was doing runs back up north. We had a fun night together that Halloween but I don't kiss and tell."

" I don't care what anyone says. That fucker killed Muskie and I'm gonna prove it one way or the other, mark my words. "

" Drove with him once when we were making a gun run to Michigan. Wasn't much of a talker but did always went on and on about going down south, where it's warmer. Guess we all had dreams at one point. "

" Something's off about Muskie's murder, man. The two of them always got along. Guess it goes to show that even family can rat on you."

⁍ ilk

THOUGHT I WAS OUT

Someone from your criminal past—a former crime boss, a parole officer, an old associate—still has you on the books. They say you owe them big, and you're in no position to dissent. (Work with the GM to determine who this person is and your exact relationship therewith: do you help grudgingly or eagerly? Because they're levering rock-solid blackmail or because they once pulled your ass off the fire big-time? Is this—on paper, at least—a mutually beneficial business arrangement, a debt not yet conciliated, or more akin to good old-fashioned coercion?) This person has a habit of asking for a costly favor at the most inconvenient possible time. You always tell them this is the last time. But you already know they'll keep calling. And god damn you, you'll keep picking up.

---

" Hey, Pike. Just a regular reminder that you still owe me for what happened that night, you know, the night with Muskie. You're on the straight and level with that last payment but just so we're clear: don't even think of going near her house, understand?

AIN'T NOTHING LIKE A HOUND DOG

You always gotta be watching over your back in this line of work. Sometimes, a certain someone stares back at you, someone with an itch or a vendetta. It could be the widow of the husband you murdered in a wind-swept alleyway, a Pinkerton who suspects your innocent looking facade to be a front for criminal activity or a rival gang member looking to off you. They won't act against you out in the open but they'll take the opportunity to surprise you in any moment of calm.

---

" Good morning. I'm Agent Fisher of the ATF Bureau. Ma'am, I'd just like to ask you a few questions if you have the time. Oh, no worries, if you were in any real trouble, I doubt a small cig shop like this could hide much. Now, do you happen to know any one by the name of Mackenzie O'Malley? Died recently, you say? When? Mhm. Does he have any relatives? A brother....Peter O'Malley. Wife and children, you say? No, that'll be all. I have more than enough. You have a good day too."

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

Redshift Blues

Alright, well, gonna add to this post every so once in a while and edit it. Don't feel like sitting on it much longer so I can focus on responding to the next post.

---

memory_leak_section_1

memory_leak_section_1: a short redshift blues drabble

---

2174, Luna, Sol Federation Military Installation Gamma-13

" All cy-sec personnel, please be informed that all running processes on servers will be terminated in 10 minutes. Please backup all work and inform your supervisor of any potential delays...."

Prepping before a dive was a pain in the ass. Her fingers were coiled together, shivering in the cold, as the technicians lathered her hair with conduction gel, scooping palms of it through the tangles of her straw-yellow hair. The back of her scalp briefly burns as they plug a wire connecting the wall of servers behind her into her occipital lobe. Her skin itched under the sync suit. She wants to rub a part of her back where the suit bunches up with her underwear but the clamps won't let her. She hasn't had anything to eat or drink for the last 24 hours. Her head feels like molten tar. She's sure that her lifespan's been shortened by at least 3 years with the non-stop dives she was pulling.

The pressurised air lock hisses, the ten-ton molybdenum alloy door winding open to reveal a wizened old woman. Her sleeves of her Sol Fed uniform are rolled up, a clipboard held in between her knobbled fingers. Her hair is clipped short on the sides.

"Jeez, Tara. You really kicked the hornet's nest with that stunt you pulled in the Belt week ago." The old woman clicks her tongue and eyes her with a look that she can't tell is either pity or derision. " Back in my day, divers didn't need to be babied like a fucking lab rat."

"Back in your day, you were still brute forcing your way through ICE like a thug, Morn." The barb is light, playful. Morn slaps her shoulder in return and her cyber-contacts turn red for a moment, warning messages skittering across her vision. A brief thought washes it away. Her mouth opens in time for one of the technies to fit a oblong stainless steel retainer. There's a tang of iron on her tongue as Morn crouches down, a frown on her face.

"But, jokes aside, your last dive was 18 hours. You nearly approaching the defrag limit and there's no telling what - "

"For fuck's sake, Morn, the sooner I get this job over with, the better it will be everyone. Besides, docs cleared me for duty-" The corners of Morn's mouth suddenly turn down, confusing Tara and then, she feels the reason drip down her sync suit. " Fuck."

A technician hurriedly comes over and drips a stinging clear liquid from an ampoule that makes her left eye water. Before they can wipe the splatter away, she sees the red and she knows Morn dos too. Morn leans down, placing the clipboard down on a steel tray table.

" Told you once before, kid. You'll only regret it once it's too late." Morn's eyes were close enough that Tara could see her pupil, jagged bolts of white sclera cutting into the iris. "We're going to try Beethoven this time instead of Mozart. Should modulate your neurotransmission enough to make the dive longer. Just enough to find what top brass wants."

The last of the prep is done as Morn finishes her talk. A technician comes over with a dive-helm, the bug-like lenses glittering in the harsh clinical light. She fits in on, the sound of her breathing becoming more audible.

" Alright. Enough chit chat." She gave a thumbs up to Morn. " Prep me for the frag."

"Alright, enough fucking around. You heard her!," Morn shouted with command. " Let's get those servers pumping! We got a job,people, and High Command wants to see results, not a bunch of jerk offs!"

Linux Discussion Thread

Linux Discussion

It is 2025. Windows 10 EOL is here. Current desktop OS's continues to grow more bloated and bloated with LLM and AI models. Silicon Valley
appears to be recycling the same ideas every year with little disregard for whether or not they are actually innovating anything
of use for the general population. Apple continues its walled garden monopoly where you have to fork over an asston of money and
abide by Apple's byzantine repair laws if you so much as put a scratch on your Macbook. Android just prevented sideloading of third-party
apps. It seems that our current choices in software ecosystems are limiting at best.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), there is an alternative. This post isn't so much a guide as it is a catalyst for people to go off and discover Linux on their own.

What is Linux?

Linux (or GNU/Linux in some circles) refers to the operating system kernel (essentially, software that allows communication and interfacing between bare metal hardware and userspace software) of the Linux distributions. It is a free, open-source software that comes in many distributions (operating systems with distinct software applications/packages). Linux differs from Windows in many respects but it boils down to 3 fundamentals:

1. Open Source - The codebase of Linux is open to anyone to edit, make copies and distribute. You can customize it and design the UI and every aspect of the OS without any constraints.
2. Portability - Linux is known for being able to run on a wide array of platforms and can even resurrect old computers from the dead.
3. Free - Linux costs zero money. It does not cost anything for you to download or use. You do not need to make an account, you do not need to pay money or a subscription fee and it certainly does not force you to lock into extra features.

A Very Abridged Guide on how to download/use Linux

Bare Metal
The most common method. Download an ISO (image file) of a distribution on a USB/external drive and format it. Methods I recommend are balenaEtcher (linux), rufus (on Windows) and
Ventoy (stick multiple ISOs on one USB). Make sure to disable secure boot on your laptop so your laptop can recognise the USB/external drive and mount it. There's also the option to just run the OS
live from the USB/external drive without the option of overriding your entire drive. It's your choice between running a temporary live environment that you can shuffle around every now and then or a permanent Linux environment. You must also take into account of whether you would like to dual boot or install Linux as the only OS on your machine.

VM
The next most common method. VMs allow you to run Linux alongside a seperate OS. Common methods for this include VirtualBox, Oracle or Hypervisor. VMs are advantageous as they allow you to try multiple Linux distros at the same time on one machine and allow you to maintain specific Linux environments for your own use. There's also the option of using Windows Subsystem for Linux.

There exists other methods using the command line (looking at you, dd) but for the sake of simplicity, the two above should be your primary ways of installing Linux.

General Advice

- There are several user friendly distros out there that have a easy GUI applet for setup. Some distros I recommend for first timers are Mint,
Pop OS, Zorin OS and Ubuntu.
- Don't try and install Arch(without using arch install)/NixOS/Gentoo on your first try because some people said it will make you look cool. Unless you are a stickler for
reading documentation or tech inclined, you will most likely face frustration. Try a arch-based distribution such as EndeavourOS (what I use), CachyOS or GarudaOS which
has a easier set up.
- Kali, Qubes, Tails and other privacy focused OS's are designed to be run live from a USB (In the case of Kali, some people install it on desktops/laptops). Don't daily drive these OS's to feel like l33t haxx0rs.
- Desktop environments range from horrible (looking at you, GNOME) to windows-esque (KDE) to alien environments (Hyprland, i3). Pick desktop environments like Cosmic, LXCT, Cinnamon or KDE Plasma that emulate the feel of windows.
- Learn to use the shell. It'll make life a lot more easier.
- Learn to read the documentation.
- Don't just download any package you see online.

So, that's it. That's pretty much the general gist of Linux. Feel free to ask any questions or discuss in this thread about all your Linux related needs.

Minor Rant About Linux

Minor Rant For Why Linux Kinda Sucks And There Will Never Be A Year of the Linux Desktop

Okay. Hot take time for all of your Richard Stallman, Linus Torvalds, Tor using, FSF, liberetarian grognards.
There will never be the year of the Linux Desktop at this rate and truth be told, Linux isn't for everyone.
In an ideal world, there wouldn't be an insane semi-monopoly duopoly and instead, a healthy ecosystem of OS
environments with unified standards where everyone is free to tinker on as they please.

Unfortunately, this is real life and the way it is right now, there is no conceivable way that Linux will achieve mass
adoption due to the following reasons. Most of these issues may be fixed or mitigated in specific distros but these
issues still plague the wider Linux sphere at large.

1. Fucking package management.Package managing is less painful in Linux than it was before but it is still somewhat of a nightmare compared
to windows. For the uninitiated or worst, for those looking to develop specific packages/apps, you have to take into account the varying
amount of Linux distros and the various package managers they use (apt, pacman, dnf, portage etc). Let's not even get into the issue
of flatpaks, snaps and app images as a solution for compatability(and don't get me started on apps designed to work on X11 versus
Wayland).

2. Backwards compatability and cross-distro compatability. As much as everyone likes to diss on Windows, backwards compatability is
never an issue. If an app worked on Windows 7, it could work on Windows 11 and vice versa with minimal breakage. In Linux, there is
no backwards compatibility (we're not talking about Nix here). Software from a past distribution will not run easily and OOTB on a future
version of the distro without jumping through some serious hoopsAn obscure software application will get less love on Linux than it will
on Windows and is at the mercy of any OSS developer who actively wants to continue development of the application.

3. Jank. The number of badly designed OSS/FOSS Linux GNU software is off the fucking charts. UI, UX and stability are painpoints
when it comes for most comparative apps (looking at you, GIMP). You can tell that these apps were designed by basement dwelling
programmers instead of actual human beings.

4. OOTB and onboarding. Some distros have improved on this but there is a reason why Apple, Microsoft and Android are more easier
to teach people. The reason is that sane people do not turn on the terminal and look at man pages all day. They need a sane OS that works
OOTB with no frills attached. Giving the average user the ability to sudo every command is a surefire way to end up bricking a laptop
unless they are very diligent and know what they are doing.

I also question the need for Linux to become a dominant market. For Linux to become dominant, it needs at least the following things:
- Implement good QA/QC
- Pray to the gods that the AI bubble pops and Google/Microsoft/Apple miraculously crash and all software support for Windows is gone (This is bad
because most of these companies actually fund and sponsor the people who maintain popular Linux distros and packages)
- Create a universal packaging format/platform that requires little adhoc/intervention from the user. (I should not have to create a config folder/
predownload dependencies to ensure it works OOTB.)
- Have a good security model.
- Have good default sound, graphical environment, desktop environments, security, firewall, utilities etc
- Have a good amount of funding (1-2 billion)
- Have a solid development team.

And the question is as follows. Would the development of a unified Linux OS ultimately result in the development of the same status quo that we
had before?

So, Linux isn't the ultimate solution to your woes. Maybe, you could try one of the dozens of Windows 10/11 debloater scripts online, stop using Edge
and switch to a different browser or try one of the many solutions that doesn't result in having to swap out the OS of your laptop.

However, if you are sick of Microsoft's bullshit, then, Linux might just be the OS for you.

Redshift Blues

" Hello, this is Rol Emsberg speaking. Signal's a little cracked. Belters out here don't have that great of a reception. Anyway, I was wondering if that position for...'Nutrition Officer' was still open? I'm kind of in between jobs at the moment so I'm ready to work whenever you are. I'd be willing to give a proper resume, identification....give me a job and I'll do it. I've got nothing else to do anyway. "

---

APPROXIMATELY SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO ON GANYMEDE

---

The first mistake after entering the substation's bathroom was checking whether it had a mirror.The substation's bathroom was beyond repair, Rol could knew that much already. Even in the dim shadows, he could see the black cracks had rooted their way into the white ceram-composite and the smell of mold, an hab tech's nightmare. By the time he flicked on the switch and the white glow of the fluoros flooded the room, his cracked reflection stared at him from under the mirror's surface. Rol was startled, almost jumping on his feet. How long had it been since he last saw a mirror? One, two months? There wasn't much time for hygiene at the cube dorms and their rooms weren't equipped with mirrors, much less functioning ones.

He knows he's a mess, even by colonist standards. His beard is a unshaven, matted knot of sweat and blood red hair. His eyes are shadowed with insomnia and he can smell the syn-caffe on his breath that keeps every molecule in his body from collasping. It's not as bad as the eye though. His fingers dance, skirting the edge of the red puckered scar but never touching it. He can't blame the EVA first aider. He was lucky to survive the meteor shower that happened today with only a four foot chunk of metal stuck in his head without missing his head. He knows that Klooseward will force him to aug up. Can't have someone with a physical disability lest they get shredded apart in the Jovian labour courts. Rol remembers the few fearmongering articles he read on SOLCOM about cybernetic enhancement as he splashes bracken tap water on his face. The buzzwords enter his mind like errant as he splashed tap water into his face. Prolonged mental instability. Possible psychosis. Broken.

A missing eye somehow seems more disfiguring than a missing arm or leg. Cybereyes are less expensive but a coltan alloy limb with synth-myomers earns more bragging rights rewards in dorm gossip than a dinky little eye. He drags his fingers through his hair, cleaning out three EVA's worth of dandruff and shuts off the taps. He breathes in the filtered air, letting the water drip down his face, before a snore punctures the silence.

The source doesn't take that time much to spot. He pulls back the shower curtains in the sole cleanse cube and the bedraggled hijab on the woman's head immediately gives it away. She's wearing the bulky EVA suit, the front plastic zipper pulled down revealing a dirty tanktop damp with sweat. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is parted halfway open, in the throes of sleep. He coughs and the woman's eyes flutter open, first in a daze, and then, wide in shock.

" Yo." The woman's cheeks grow red, adjusting her hijab and sputtering as she pulls herself up to her knees, hastily zipping up her EVA.

"Shit, Chief. So sorry. I thought I would get some rest in here for a second. Condenser's broken and..."

" Relax, Manya. I'm not here to ream you out." He motions to the toliet seat next to the shower cubicle. "Mind if I...?"

She nods hurriedly. The toliet seat squeaked under his weight, his hand ruffling through the front pocket of his EVA for his psilo pen. It clicked open with a pnuematic hiss. He takes a drag off the rebreather and puffs out the smoke slowly, letting it trail out from his nose and mouth. It's not the true stuff, the teeth-rotting crap that makes you go on day long benders. The watered down corp version is scoffed at by the old colony hand veterans but it doesn't burn a hole in his wallet and is mild enough to take the edge off work. Not addicting enough to be a medical insurance black hole but not

" So, everything alright?," Rol immediately regrets his choice of words as Manya shrivels up into a ball. " I know "

" Heh, that's funny. I fucked up." Manya whispered. Rol not offering any response as a signal for her to continue on." I forgot to download the meteor shower report from the SOLCOM servers. My radio frequencies were fucked up because I put off repairing it for the third time in a row. You...your eye..."

Rol stayed silent, letting the strained rant peter off into ragged breathing and sobs. He took another drag off his psilo before stuffing it back into his pocket.

" This is a shit job. Some days are boring and some days are...like what happened today." He coughed, staring off into the wall in recollection, before continuing on. " But, you just gotta ignore all that and focus. Otherwise, you can't do your job. If you can't do your job-"

" I promise I won't make a mistake again.," Manya blurted out.

Rol suppressed a laugh, turning it into a cough. Manya raised an eyebrow in confusion as Rol fought his amusement and replied back. " No, you will. You're gonna make a mistake, maybe the same, maybe different, but it's not because of you or anything related to productivity or some bullshit metric that HR likes to spout out. It's just because shit like this happens, whether we want it to or not."

Rol took another drag in the bathroom. He stares at Manya for a moment. He hasn't pried too much on her past. There were few practicing muslims in Jovspace already. Most of them were in Sol territory due to the pilgrimages they still had to do to Earth. She was young. Orphaned or a single parent. Probably struggling for money. No one came into a colony job. They were either born into it or forced into doing it. Her hands were not calloused yet, her palms sowed full of blisters.

"You know, I once ran out of oxygen on a EVA.," Rol said, breathing it out casually. Manya's eyes stared at him with a wonderment that made him shrink. He wasn't used to that type of admiration. It was unnatural to him, repulsive even.

" Really?," She questioned.

" Yeah, really. Lot of things happened that day.," His head leaned back in recollection. " Mom had the bird flu that day and was on life support. Supervisor reamed me out for wasting our procurement budget. I only had four hours of sleep the night before. I was out eight klicks from the nearest sub station. I was in the old EVAs before our requisition team spotted that tank bug that fried a dozen on the south station, 'member that?" Manya nodded as he continued speaking. " So, yeah. Happened to me while I was taking a soil sample on a scout assignment. I had this weird moment where it was maybe the most peaceful moment of my life. I could just sit out on that plain and choose to...not exist anymore."

" And then, I just walked back to base and went on with my life." Rol shrugged. " But what I was going to say is that the job isn't everything but this moment, this thing isn't everything. You're gonna lie awake at night, thinking about what should have been. Then, you'll wake up the next morning, take a shit and then, go back to your next shift. This job sucks but don't let it pull you down. You're better than that. I know that. "

" So, there's no punishment?," She questioned.

"Well, kind of hard to think of one." Rol scratched the back of his head, scrunching his face in thought. " There's more important things at the moment. In the meantime, you can help me sort out all the paperwork we'll have to file for the incident report."

The look of absolute horror that passed over her face was enough to make Rol feel an itch of pity. Phantom pains and aches already began to creep in his hands, memories of metronomically typing away at a keyboard into a dinky little CRT monitor for ten hours straight. The beancounters at Klooseward always tried to cheap out on everything.

"Fuck.," Manya said, resigned.

"Eyup."

---

THE PRESENT

---

Add substrate feed to incubator dishes. Dice radishes into four inch cubes. Gel the duckweed. Coagulate soy. Keep stock from overboiling. Sharpen knife. Clean out carbon trap. Rebrine lacto-fermented pickles. Fertigate herb farm. Check mealworm population for genetic instability. Dry -smoke coriander. Add the substrate feed. Sharpen knife.

Beads of sweat ran down Rol's face as he dipped a ladle into a cylindrical stockpot. Chunky clumps of rice and millet danced in the thick, cloudy liquid like a snowstorm. He stirred, making sure to keep the congee from separating apart like oil and water. An evening soaking shortened what normally would have been five hours of cooking if he had started from raw grains but the process still took ages. A short cook meant that the crew would have dental appointments from the amount of uncooked grains they would be eating and a long cook would scorch the bottom of the only stock pan onboard the ship into a foul black mess. He took a sip of it and pursed his lips, letting the starchy liquid scald his tongue. Walking over to the counter behind him, he grabs a bowl full of glistening stock and pours half of it into the pot. He stirs it again and takes another sip, letting out a satisfied hum. Nearly ready.

Congee was not Rol's first choice. He'd initially planned to go with grits but the recent blockades had cut off all supplies of dehydrated maize across the wider solar system. Corn and its genetically modified varietals was the most cost effective meal of choice. The lack of vendors meant that he had to source other options for cheap carbs. Rice had gone the way of beef and other water heavy crops. Last time he saw a rice field was in SOLCOM photos of heavily guarded picturesque ponic fields on Mars. Supplementing the rice with expired Jovian barley and millet was a last minute decision but not uncommon. He'd seen street vendors do it before with grated soy beans.

Serenity in chaos. That was what his Mom told him how a cook operated in the hab. Objectively, it sounded simple to any layman. Keeping people from starving.The most dififcult part was keeping them happy while they were being fed and in an economical way. A spaceship was akin to a colony hab in some respects. Rol watched the thin wisps of boiled water pour out of the stock pot like a chimney as the congee continued to bubble away. The color reminded him of Ganymede, the bleak cloudless skies that seemed to permeate the landscape. It had been over a year since he’d last saw the colony but a part of him ached to be back there, even though he was a wanted man if he ever registered himself at the orbital borders. Most colony workers didn’t have the same kinship towards their work sites, merely viewing it as a stop on the road, like a spaceship docking at a port. He knew Ganymede though. Knew the nights where the hab thermostat broke and he had to huddle in his blanket for comfort. Knew the myriad of Martians, exsols, feds and people that he sweated and bled with. It was hell but it was home for nearly a good thirty years of life.

Now, the Dullahan was now his home or rather the galley. The tight constraints of the cruiser and its metal corridors were oddly comforting. If he was a colonist on one of those wide-open greenfields on a agriworld, perhaps, he would have found it oppressing. Rol never grew accustomed to becoming excited like most colonists were when going on EVAs. Most of them said it was a welcome relaxation after spending all their time cooped up in a hab. Wandering an endless barren desert of ice wasn’t exactly of great comfort to him.

Recently, he had spent most of his time in the galley. He had a bunk bed but it had become so inconvenient to move in between the two rooms that he felt most comfortable just sleeping on the countertops when it called for it. His mind wandered to a cork board near the entrance of the galley, numerous tack notes covering the surface like overgrown mold.

[X] – Reseed substrate for fungal germination – need to check shitake and oysters
[?] – Meal prep for next week – need to supplement protein – check wholesale suppliers
[ ] – Debt payment - URGENT

The last unchecked item made him gulp. He couldn’t think about that now. He neede something to distract him. His finger itched.Pulling some chives from the edge of the kitchen's window, he let the metronomic rhythm of cutting and dicing lull his mind into peace once more.

Redshift Blues

Chef History Like so many exsols born in this day and age, Rol's story, or rather his parents, began within the towering, convulsing strata-communes of Schiaparelli Crater, an arcology tracing its history from Australian and Indonesian colonists that had arrived in the first red waves of 2050. His father, Bo Emberg, was the breadwinner, grinding long and dangerous hours, whilst his mother, Ahn Emsberg , worked as an associate algae farmer at the ponic fields. Life in Schiaparelli Crater was difficult, based on the few anecdotes that his mother told him. The rate of emigration between Earth and Mars was increasing exponentially as conditions on Earth declined. Unfortunately, the rate of terraforming projects and arcology construction was unable to keep up with the demand, resulting in dozens of ramshackle pop habs bordering Martian townships. Populist beliefs of secessionism and separatism were beginning to grow popular again after the Jovian Secession in 2127. In spite of all that, his mother and father afforded a decent life with their combined paychecks. Whilst Bo, a staunch fed nationalist, was content with living life on Mars, Anh saw the stars as the future for their family, fascinated by the adverts of offworld life and prosperity in Jovian propo-mags and wild tales about colonist paradise and freedom on the edge of the Sol Federation from her strata neighbours. It was nothing more than a wild dream and a dream without a catalyst is just a mirage. Had nothing happened, Rol would have grown up a perfectly happy citizen of the Sol Federation. Unfortunately, it took one day for his parent's life to come tumbling down. Decades of lax maintenance and refusals by the local strata council to refurbish and renew a last gen helium-3 reactor facility where Rol's father worked at led to a fatal leakage of radioactive tritium-3 waste. Approximately three quarters of Schiaparelli Crater was rendered uninhabitable for five years by the incident. To make matters worst, Rol's father was one of the few that had been exposed to the worst of the radioactive fallout. With bioengineering too expensive for them to purchase and medical bills slowly racking up, Bo's fervent nationalistic pride in the Sol Federation was long gone and with another child in the way in the form of Rol, any chance of a peaceful life in the Sol Federation was long gone. He agreed to his wife's urgings to move to the Jovian Commonwealth where they perhaps had a chance of enrolling corporate health insurance that could pay for his bills. Using what remained of his savings, Bo used what contacts he had to purchase an colony bond under Klooseward Inc, a small to medium sized agro-corp that was making waves on Ganymede. It was with one small catch, though, one that Anh only found out at the immigration terminal as oil-slicked rain drowned the black tarmac around them on the spaceport strip. He'd only had enough money for one ticket. So, it was onboard a damp and crammed Walden-class shuttle cruiser where Rol's first breath were taken. Upon landing on Ganymede, a quick geneburn and oath ceremony made him an official citizen of the Jovian Commonwealth. The next day, Anh Emberg with Rol swaddled up in a blanket was ushered into a commmunal bunkroom by a Klooseward HR agent and told to attend work orientation in the evening. In a matter of 24 hours, his mother got placed in the role of an administrative agronomist whilst Rol would be nursed in a corporate trade school, subsidised by Klooseward, on learning how to become a colony hand. Compared to most kids his age, Rol learnt more practical subjects that were geared towards transforming him into a child labourer such as how to don an EVA suit in low oxygen environments, how to grow gene-modded spirulina in a bioreactor, how to weld a titanium quarry strut in a pinch and operating a autolifter. When Rol turned ten, he began helping his mother in the agronomical needs of the growing colony. As an agro-tech , life was grueling as he worked from dawn to dusk, refiltering algae tanks, seeding rows of ponic fields and welding structural hab beams with little to no adult supervision. The work was so taxing that fresh blisters would erupt on his skin on a daily basis and welts would sprout where his oversized EVA suit rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. Throughout this gruel punishment, Rol and his mother kept each other company by sharing in their love of cooking as they spent countless evenings skimming off substandard produce and organic ingredients from their colony's harvest to cook for one another in the evening, sometimes cooking meals for their . When Rol asked his mother one day why they didn't hoard the food for themselves or sell it on the market, his mother simply replied by silently pointing her ladle at the crowds of workers happily talking and eating with one another and said " You can't buy this moment with heliodollars.". At the age of 20, Rol's efforts eventually led to him becoming the team leader of a 100 man strong colony team where his job changed from maintaining and refurbishing current colony activities to establishing a new colony site on the equator of Ganymede. The effort would involve six years of constant terraforming and construction in a remote, barren ice filled wasteland. Though it would mean seperation from his mother, the opportunity and chance to prove himself in the eyes of his employers did excite him. Rol earned a reputation amongst the agro-colonists of Klooseward as a decent leader who was unpretentious about the rigors and reality of the work they were engaged in. To the consternation of his supervisor and manager, Rol ensured that the life and safety of his subordinates were of the utmost security. His concern for his coworkers was so paramount that he lost his left eye in a space debris shower whilst protecting one of his workers during routine EVA activity. Whilst the work was slow and , the sites managed to pass the regulatory inspections of the Jovian Commonwealth. Life was harsh but consistently so at his colony and for a while, Rol was satisfied. However, just like his father before him, disaster struck on 2168 when Klooseward Inc was acquired by Gali Agrodynamics, a planetary agricultural conglomerate owning nearly 65% of all agricultural production in the Jovian System. The primary reason for this was the emergence of the Bloc Crisis, the cold war between the two superpower polities decreasing the stock valuation for Klooseward Inc which relied heavily on partnerships with vendors based in the Sol Federation. Upon the day of the acquisition, Gali Agrodynamics announced they would be laying off roughly 75% of their workforce to reconsolidate Klooseward's assets and 'reinvest in autoamted technology in a bloated sector'. Rol's team unfortunately were unlucky as they were one of many who were fired. As they watched years of their hard work being scrapped and systematically repossesed by Gali Agrodynamics transition officers, Rol pondered his next move and upon discussing with his mother a risky idea. With the funds they had accumulated and with the help of a variable rate loan negotiated with the Jovian Corporate Bank, Rol decided to recruit his former coworkers as staff in a new farm to table eatery serving Jovian and Martian fusion cuisine. The first few months were good but finances began to go into the red as operational and regulatory costs ramped up. Without his mother's knowledge, Rol made a deal with local Ganymedean trafficking operations to use his restaurant as both a money laundering and fencing operation. Although he despised the business altogether and tried to keep it out of sight, Rol saw it as a necessary and hopefully, temporary evil as he held out hope one day that he could be rid off it once the restaurant business became stable. Disaster struck for the third time yet again when Rol's fencing racket were revealed in an undercover sting operation by the Jovian Civil Authority just a year after it was established. Thanks to the help of his loyal staff who remembered the sacrifices he made for them on Klooseward, Rol managed to escape just as officers surrounded his restaurant and bashed their way through the doors. His mother's ignorance of his illicit behaviours led to no charges being laid against her but half of his restaurant staff were arrested under charges of fencing and illegal trafficking of unauthorised goods. A warrant was issued out for Rol's arrest. Rol fled to the edges of the Kuiper Belt, hiding in a seedy orbital hotel until the coast was clear. Upon reacquiring intersystem radio communications with his mother, Rol found out to his horror that the variable rates on the loan had increased to the point where it would lead her to ruin unless he did something. Rol turned to gig-hunting, primarily in the catering and agro-business on the Kuiper Belt, working two jobs as a japanese food truck cook and a greenhouse operator. His salary was enough to staunch the proverbial flow of blood but it wasn't enough to sew the wound. He needed more heliodollars. On a ride to his strata-shanty from another long shift at work, Rol chanced upon an advert whilst browsing for jobs on the solar net. The information was brief but it seemed that a trading vessel by the name of the Dullahan was in need of crew members. Urgently. Seeing as he had nothing to lose, Rol sent in his resume and slept, thinking that nothing would come of it. A call and a meeting the week after had Rol packing his bags once more. The rest, as they say, is history. Personality & Reputation Rol is a man of quiet calm and focus, finding a meditative peace and calm in his work, whether it's tending to algae bioreactors or cooking up a feast for his guests. His first and foremost priority is to others instead of himself, viewing himself as a provider and a worker first rather than a friend, sometimes to an worrisome degree. His penchant for his work is passionate enough that he works long hours, sometimes skipping sleep, just to complete the next task. But behind the cheery smiles and the offers of a hot meal for anyone's hungry stomach, Rol is a man who struggles to remain optimistic in life. His civic values of meritocratic work and benevolence have been eroded over time by countless compromises and having been punished by life two times in a row. Having lived through a life of hardship and laborious work, the former colony hand struggles to reconcile his current status as a wanted criminal and the simple, honest man he wants to be for his mother. Rol is respected but never to the point of admiration by his former coworkers and his current crew thanks to his dedication to his work and his nature as a work. His relationship with his mother remains fraught, as his omission of his restaurant's illegal operations has resulted in a rift between them, in spite of his attempts to resolve their financial debt. In spite of all this, his unconditional love for his mother knows no bounds and he would do anything to ensure that she remains safe and happy. Appearance From miner trash to colonist rat, Rol has heard all manner of comments on his roughspun and unrefined appearance which he couldn't give less than one heliodollar about. A thick crop of copper hair covers his head like moss and below that, an easy smile scythes through a coarse and unshaven beard. Years of hard life working as a colony hand on Ganymede have bestowed Rol with a stocky and stout figure, usually hidden by his baggy dirt-encrusted poly-aramid slacks. His pan-sized palms are mapped with a canyon of scars and calluses earned from a lifetime of rough work. Rol keeps a functional and spartan wardrobe, consisting of his old EVA gear from his time on Ganymede and a pile of frayed and bleached colony uniforms. The only constants in his daily apparel are his father's Mars Landing Day anniversary beanie and a chipped necklace of Ganymedean las-cut chondrite. Strengths & Limitations Strengths Planetary colonisation is a dangerous field and Rol is no stranger to it. Rol's years of experience on Ganymede as a colony hand and later, as a colony project supervisor for Klooseward Inc makes him one an expert in the construction and management of colony habitats, particularly regarding the installation, modification and maintenance of colony agri-tech systems such as algae bioreactors, protein myco-vats, vermiworm farms and a host of other common technologies used to support colonisation.Thanks to his experience supervising construction of his colony in the Ganymedean equator, Rol is savvy in responding to practical problems with ad hoc solutions and limited resources, remaining calm and even-tempered in dire situations. His education at Klooseward, whilst not equivalent to university education, has given him passing familiarity with cultivation of common crops and rearing of livestock used in both the Sol Federation and Jovian Commonwealth alongside basic skills in operating heavy construction machinery and limited resource management. Rol also is a capable chef thanks to his mother, specialising in various localities of Martian and Jovian cuisine. His business management skills, however, leave something to be desired. Given his rough and tumble life in all sorts of manual labour, Rol has an hitherto inhuman amount of physical endurance and stamina, able to commit to long periods of physical work without the slightest hint of fatigue. Limitations Rol's relationship with his mother and the threat of a looming debt hanging over their heads remains a constant in any decision he makes. He is extremely secretive of providing information about his mother and remains mum whenever moments of conversation or discussion touch upon matters of his family. His current financial situation is also a potential vulnerability if the wrong individual with ill intentions were to be informed about it. Rol is also completely impotent in combat situations, being about as useful as a wet napkin in any situation that involves violence. Don't ask him to pick up a coil rifle, a gun or anything related to combat situations as Rol is likely to misfire and hit you just as likely as he is to hit the enemy. Whilst Rol may be wanted for criminal activity in the Jovian Commonwealth, he is also a veritable greenhorn when it comes to the finer workings of the underworld, preferring to leave it to others to sort out dirty business and is not familiar with some of the subtleties of operating with criminal elements. Everest Mclaine God, I think he would give Mom a aneurysm. Heard about the stories of how she had to deal with upper management back when she was a fed. Personality of his reminds me too much of those Klooseward heliocounters before they got the shaft during the M&A. You see their ilk all the time. Rich europan or mercurians with minds high in the sky, yet, can't pick up a damn irri-pick to save their life. One thing he's got going for him is a vision. It isn't one that revolves around dhim relaxing in some holi-world with a bowl of organic caviar by his side, I'll give him that. Who am I to judge him? I tried a dream that didn't end in a lifetime of chronic pain and it got eight of my coworkers arrested. He's got the stomach to try something that none of us have dreamed off. That, and he pays better than my last two jobs. So what if he requests for some weird crap like jovian baked trout or martian six spiced duck? His dream is paying my bills and he's amusing at worst. I've dealt with worst on Ganymede and his worst gives me a good challenge from time to time. As long as he stays out of my kitchen, he can lead the crew. Gravel I respect any man who's seen the rough side of life but crime's a shade of black I'm not tempted to wander into. Ganymede taught me that. I look at him and I see the compromise I had to make. I try not to show my discomfort but the man makes it hard. Still, he gives me a chance to experiment with cocktails every now and then. Got to thank Yerry for showing me that on Ganymede before he got thrown into an iso cube. I'd rather not talk to him much. I worry that he could find out about my past if he pokes hard enough but I haven't given him any reason to yet. Best to just keep things distant between us with a couple of martian high-orbit coolers as a stick. Laughtrack The kid's spunk and moxie is good, don't get me wrong, but I worry for him sometimes. Back in my crew, the type of shit he pulls would get him put on rotation until he got himself sorted out. I respect the principles of flexibility and improvisation but the guy's got a death wish, anyone can tell that from a mile away. Reminds me of myself when I was a young man, pushing myself, thinking that the body was nothing. Admirable but mistaken. Need to keep an eye and make sure he's eating enough. Keema Seen too many broken men and women like her back on Ganymede. If the work shifts didn't kill you from a hydro-burst or a EVA breach, stims and cheap jovian amesac got you. She's a fun talker in the galley, keeps things from being monotonous and tries out all my new dishes but I'm surprised her liver's still functioning with all the brewed kombucha I keep throwing at her. Her approval kind of makes me feel embarassed since I'm enabling some sort of addict now. Vinh Solid and capable as a chondrite. She's got better wits and wills than most of my crew back then on Ganymede and then, some. We're both working as hard as we can to keep things afloat in this ship in the small ways and I think some people aren't appreciative of her efforts as I am. I think she does more work than I do but it's not a competition. Her borged up behaviour sometimes set up me on the edge though. She's loaded with enough chrome that's worth several lifetimes of my old salary. All I got is this crappy callisto-ware eye and she looks like some old holo-drama supersoldier come to life. I think Vinnie's got to realize that she's more than just the metal glued to her limbs. Don't bring it up in conversation, though, if it doesn't pose any problems. Sides that, been trying to experiment with more Martian cuisine thanks to an old cookbook she provided. Ringworm First time interacting with a mil type. Didn't get many of those on Ganymede. Most of them had been PMCs, exsols, orbiters, spacers, jovians, martians, anyone looking to make a dime. Not as drugged out as the rest of the crew but he's wound tighter than a restraining nut on a space hab. He's got a look in his eyes sometimes when I walk by him in the hallways. Distant, searching for something missing or something in the past. Not my business to loiter around the minds of other people. Haven't seen him explode and frankly, I don't want to be around when that happens. A guy going angry I can handle. A mil-type armed with heavy weaponry and borged up with mil-spec chrome does make me nervous, even though I try to ignore it. Everyone in the galley's my guest, though, regardless of their past. Big eater though and loads up heavy on the protein. Have to make a request to Vinh to stock up extra on the soy and the other myco-vat substrates when he reach the next port. Desna There's a saying about guys who make it past 50 as a colony-hand back on Ganymede. It's a meatgrinder and the corps turn the handle. Either, your mind gets grinded or your body gets grinded on the way out and sometimes, it's both. She speaks little of the past but we both got screwed over by the corps and from what I've heard about Venus; it makes Ganymede look like some upper-crust mercury arco in comparison. Other than Vinh, she's the one I've talked to most on this ship since half of the kitchen keeps malfunctioning most of the time. I know how to keep things working but when it comes to fixing crap that breaks, she's my go to. She's a sour grump like Gravel but she keeps the ship alive to keep us alive. That's enough in my books to make me serve her extra sides every once in a while come meal time. Bambi I never got a pilot's license. Too expensive around my parts. Plenty of kids my age dreamt of becoming a hotshot like Tam Selvagen or Kiirsten Nov. I prefer my feet to be on the ground rather than in a vessel and a preferably slow one at that. Makes me respect Bambi more and her nerves. We both come from different worlds. Saying that we're both focused on the job is like saying a crab and a fish can both breathe underwater. I'll probably never understand what she goes through but I understand the drive for hard work, for discipline. Notice that she can't seem to loosen up during dinner. Enjoys a meal like a person being pumped nutri-fluid via IV in a trauma center. Big Mo Big, strong and dependable. Every ship needs one of these guys. Isn't too bad as a hand in a pinch. I always need help with moving our supplies in the walk-in. Brenko Another loner with a sordid history that I don't care about fishing. At least he comes to the galley every once in a while. Dr Treschow Back on Ganymede, there are some people you just don't mess with in a colony. Doctors are one of them. I'm not talking about the useless dickweed corpo doctor who gives you some prescription and calls it a day but an actual one that cares about you. Lucky that we have one. Can't count the number of times I've had to ask him to fix some cut or burn I was too embarrassed about to admit to the rest of the crew. Miscellaneous Possesses a malfunctioning cybernetic eye provided by Klooseward Inc as a part of his medical insurance benefits. Due to dissolution and acquisition of Klooseward Inc, standard parts for the implant no longer exist and constant error messages fill his vision. Known as Chef because that's what everyone keeps calling him, even when he's off duty. Possesses a hatred towards Avaloanian and Mercurian luxury cuisine. Is lactose intolerant. Is an avid homebrewer and connoseuir of hard kombucha. Keeps a bottle of his own supply within a locker on the ship.

____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “ Live life by the second. That's how you focus on the future. ” Full Name: Rol 'Chef' Emsberg Age: 38 Homeworld: Ganymede Occupation: Chief Steard/Agro-Tech of the Dullahan Affiliation(s): Klooseward Inc (Former), The Little Giant Eatery (Former)

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

CS

Chef History Like so many exsols born in this day and age, Rol's story, or rather his parents, began within the towering, convulsing strata-communes of Schiaparelli Crater, an arcology tracing its history from Australian and Indonesian colonists that had arrived in the first red waves of 2050. His father, Bo Emberg, was the breadwinner, grinding long and dangerous hours, whilst his mother, Ahn Emsberg , worked as an associate algae farmer at the ponic fields. Life in Schiaparelli Crater was difficult, based on the few anecdotes that his mother told him. The rate of emigration between Earth and Mars was increasing exponentially as conditions on Earth declined. Unfortunately, the rate of terraforming projects and arcology construction was unable to keep up with the demand, resulting in dozens of ramshackle pop habs bordering Martian townships. Populist beliefs of secessionism and separatism were beginning to grow popular again after the Jovian Secession in 2127. In spite of all that, his mother and father afforded a decent life with their combined paychecks. Whilst Bo, a staunch fed nationalist, was content with living life on Mars, Anh saw the stars as the future for their family, fascinated by the adverts of offworld life and prosperity in Jovian propo-mags and wild tales about colonist paradise and freedom on the edge of the Sol Federation from her strata neighbours. It was nothing more than a wild dream and a dream without a catalyst is just a mirage. Had nothing happened, Rol would have grown up a perfectly happy citizen of the Sol Federation. Unfortunately, it took one day for his parent's life to come tumbling down. Decades of lax maintenance and refusals by the local strata council to refurbish and renew a last gen helium-3 reactor facility where Rol's father worked at led to a fatal leakage of radioactive tritium-3 waste. Approximately three quarters of Schiaparelli Crater was rendered uninhabitable for five years by the incident. To make matters worst, Rol's father was one of the few that had been exposed to the worst of the radioactive fallout. With bioengineering too expensive for them to purchase and medical bills slowly racking up, Bo's fervent nationalistic pride in the Sol Federation was long gone and with another child in the way in the form of Rol, any chance of a peaceful life in the Sol Federation was long gone. He agreed to his wife's urgings to move to the Jovian Commonwealth where they perhaps had a chance of enrolling corporate health insurance that could pay for his bills. Using what remained of his savings, Bo used what contacts he had to purchase an colony bond under Klooseward Inc, a small to medium sized agro-corp that was making waves on Ganymede. It was with one small catch, though, one that Anh only found out at the immigration terminal with the downpour of acrid smoke-addled rain around them on the spaceport strip. He'd only had enough money for one ticket. So, it was onboard a damp and crammed Walden-class shuttle cruiser where Rol's first breath were taken. Upon landing on Ganymede, a quick geneburn and oath ceremony made him an official citizen of the Jovian Commonwealth. The next day, Anh Emberg with Rol swaddled up in a blanket was ushered into a commmunal bunkroom by a Klooseward HR agent and told to attend work orientation in the evening. In a matter of 24 horus, his mother got placed in the role of an administrative agronomist whilst Rol would be nursed in a corporate trade school, subsidised by Klooseward, on learning how to become a colony hand. Compared to most kids his age, Rol learnt more practical subjects that were geared towards transforming him into a child labourer such as how to don an EVA suit in low oxygen environments, how to grow gene-modded spirulina in a bioreactor, how to weld a titanium quarry strut in a pinch and operating a autolifter. When Rol turned ten, he began helping his mother in the agronomical needs of the growing colony. As an agro-tech , life was grueling as he worked from dawn to dusk, refiltering algae tanks, seeding rows of ponic fields and welding structural hab beams with little to no adult supervision. The work was so taxing that fresh blisters would erupt on his skin on a daily basis and welts would sprout where his oversized EVA suit rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. Throughout this gruel punishment, Rol and his mother kept each other company by sharing in their love of cooking as they spent countless evenings skimming off substandard produce and organic ingredients from their colony's harvest to cook for one another in the evening, sometimes cooking meals for their . When Rol asked his mother one day why they didn't hoard the food for themselves or sell it on the market, his mother simply replied by silently pointing her ladle at the crowds of workers happily talking and eating with one another and said " You can't buy this moment with heliodollars.". At the age of 20, Rol's efforts eventually led to him becoming the team leader of a 100 man strong colony team where his job changed from maintaining and refurbishing current colony activities to establishing a new colony site on the equator of Ganymede. The effort would involve six years of constant terraforming and construction in a remote, barren ice filled wasteland. Though it would mean seperation from his mother, the opportunity and chance to prove himself in the eyes of his employers did excite him. Rol earned a reputation amongst the agro-colonists of Klooseward as a decent leader who was unpretentious about the rigors and reality of the work they were engaged in. To the consternation of his supervisor and manager, Rol ensured that the life and safety of his subordinates were of the utmost security. His concern for his coworkers was so paramount that he lost his left eye in a space debris shower whilst protecting one of his workers during routine EVA activity. Whilst the work was slow and , the sites managed to pass the regulatory inspections of the Jovian Commonwealth. Life was harsh but consistently so at his colony and for a while, Rol was satisfied. However, just like his father before him, disaster struck on 2168 when Klooseward Inc was acquired by Gali Agrodynamics, a planetary agricultural conglomerate owning nearly 65% of all agricultural production in the Jovian System. The primary reason for this was the emergence of the Bloc Crisis, the cold war between the two superpower polities decreasing the stock valuation for Klooseward Inc which relied heavily on partnerships with vendors based in the Sol Federation. Upon the day of the acquisition, Gali Agrodynamics announced they would be laying off roughly 75% of their workforce to reconsolidate Klooseward's assets and 'reinvest in autoamted technology in a bloated sector'. Rol's team unfortunately were unlucky as they were one of many who were fired. As they watched years of their hard work being scrapped and systematically repossesed by Gali Agrodynamics transition officers, Rol pondered his next move and upon discussing with his mother a risky idea. With the funds they had accumulated and with the help of a variable rate loan negotiated with the Jovian Corporate Bank, Rol decided to recruit his former coworkers as staff in a new farm to table eatery serving Jovian and Martian fusion cuisine. The first few months were good but finances began to go into the red as operational and regulatory costs ramped up. Without his mother's knowledge, Rol made a deal with local Ganymedean trafficking operations to use his restaurant as both a money laundering and fencing operation. Although he despised the business altogether and tried to keep it out of sight, Rol saw it as a necessary and hopefully, temporary evil as he held out hope one day that he could be rid off it once the restaurant business became stable. Disaster struck for the third time yet again when Rol's fencing racket were revealed in an undercover sting operation by the Jovian Civil Authority just a year after it was established. Thanks to the help of his loyal staff who remembered the sacrifices he made for them on Klooseward, Rol managed to escape just as officers surrounded his restaurant and bashed their way through the doors. His mother's ignorance of his illicit behaviours led to no charges being laid against her but half of his restaurant staff were arrested under charges of fencing and illegal trafficking of unauthorised goods. A warrant was issued out for Rol's arrest. Rol fled to the edges of the Kuiper Belt, hiding in a seedy orbital hotel until the coast was clear. Upon reacquiring intersystem radio communications with his mother, Rol found out to his horror that the variable rates on the loan had increased to the point where it would lead her to ruin unless he did something. Rol turned to gig-hunting, primarily in the catering and agro-business on the Kuiper Belt, working two jobs as a japanese food truck cook and a greenhouse operator. His salary was enough to staunch the proverbial flow of blood but it wasn't enough to sew the wound. He needed more heliodollars. On a ride to his strata-shanty from another long shift at work, Rol chanced upon an advert whilst browsing for jobs on the solar net. The information was brief but it seemed that a trading vessel by the name of the Dullahan was in need of crew members. Urgently. Seeing as he had nothing to lose, Rol sent in his resume and slept, thinking that nothing would come of it. A call and a meeting the week after had Rol packing his bags once more. The rest, as they say, is history. Personality & Reputation Rol is a man of quiet calm and focus, finding a meditative peace and calm in his work, whether it's tending to algae bioreactors or cooking up a feast for his guests. His first and foremost priority is to others instead of himself, viewing himself as a provider and a worker first rather than a friend, sometimes to an worrisome degree. His penchant for his work is passionate enough that he works long hours, sometimes skipping sleep, just to complete the next task. But behind the cheery smiles and the offers of a hot meal for anyone's hungry stomach, Rol is a man who struggles to remain optimistic in life. His civic values of meritocratic work and benevolence have been eroded over time by countless compromises and having been punished by life two times in a row. Having lived through a life of hardship and laborious work, the former colony hand struggles to reconcile his current status as a wanted criminal and the simple, honest man he wants to be for his mother. Rol is respected but never to the point of admiration by his former coworkers and his current crew thanks to his dedication to his work and his nature as a work. His relationship with his mother remains fraught, as his omission of his restaurant's illegal operations has resulted in a rift between them, in spite of his attempts to resolve their financial debt. In spite of all this, his unconditional love for his mother knows no bounds and he would do anything to ensure that she remains safe and happy. Appearance From miner trash to colonist rat, Rol has heard all manner of comments on his roughspun and unrefined appearance which he couldn't give less than one heliodollar about. A thick crop of copper hair covers his head like moss and below that, an easy smile scythes through a coarse and unshaven beard. Years of hard life working as a colony hand on Ganymede have bestowed Rol with a stocky and stout figure, usually hidden by his baggy dirt-encrusted poly-aramid slacks. His pan-sized palms are mapped with a canyon of scars and calluses earned from a lifetime of rough work. Rol keeps a functional and spartan wardrobe, consisting of his old EVA gear from his time on Ganymede and a pile of frayed and bleached colony uniforms. The only constants in his daily apparel are his father's Mars Landing Day anniversary beanie and a chipped necklace of Ganymedean las-cut chondrite. Strengths & Limitations Strengths Planetary colonisation is a dangerous field and Rol is no stranger to it. Rol's years of experience on Ganymede as a colony hand and later, as a colony project supervisor for Klooseward Inc makes him one an expert in the construction and management of colony habitats, particularly regarding the installation, modification and maintenance of colony agri-tech systems such as algae bioreactors, protein myco-vats, vermiworm farms and a host of other common technologies used to support colonisation.Thanks to his experience supervising construction of his colony in the Ganymedean equator, Rol is savvy in responding to practical problems with ad hoc solutions and limited resources, remaining calm and even-tempered in dire situations. His education at Klooseward, whilst not equivalent to university education, has given him passing familiarity with cultivation of common crops and rearing of livestock used in both the Sol Federation and Jovian Commonwealth alongside basic skills in operating heavy construction machinery and limited resource management. Rol also is a capable chef thanks to his mother, specialising in various localities of Martian and Jovian cuisine. His business management skills, however, leave something to be desired. Given his rough and tumble life in all sorts of manual labour, Rol has an hitherto inhuman amount of physical endurance and stamina, able to commit to long periods of physical work without the slightest hint of fatigue. Limitations Rol's relationship with his mother and the threat of a looming debt hanging over their heads remains a constant in any decision he makes. He is extremely secretive of providing information about his mother and remains mum whenever moments of conversation or discussion touch upon matters of his family. His current financial situation is also a potential vulnerability if the wrong individual with ill intentions were to be informed about it. Rol is also completely impotent in combat situations, being about as useful as a wet napkin in any situation that involves violence. Don't ask him to pick up a coil rifle, a gun or anything related to combat situations as Rol is likely to misfire and hit you just as likely as he is to hit the enemy. Whilst Rol may be wanted for criminal activity in the Jovian Commonwealth, he is also a veritable greenhorn when it comes to the finer workings of the underworld, preferring to leave it to others to sort out dirty business and is not familiar with some of the subtleties of operating with criminal elements. Miscellaneous Possesses a malfunctioning cybernetic eye provided by Klooseward Inc as a part of his medical insurance benefits. Due to dissolution and acquisition of Klooseward Inc, standard parts for the implant no longer exist and constant error messages fill his vision. Known as Chef because that's what everyone keeps calling him, even when he's off duty. Possesses a hatred towards Avaloanian and Mercurian luxury cuisine. Is lactose intolerant. Is an avid homebrewer and connoseuir of hard kombucha. Keeps a bottle of his own supply within a locker on the ship.

____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “ Live life by the second. That's how you focus on the future. ” Full Name: Rol 'Chef' Emsberg Age: ... Homeworld: Ganymede Occupation: Chief Steard/Agro-Tech of the Dullahan Affiliation(s): Klooseward Inc (Former), The Little Giant Eatery (Former)

Book Quotes

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.

— Henry David Thoreau , Walden