InfamousGuy101

Paradise Lost

Mark A. Lopez

---

"Velia Larci," she replied, "Communications," she said, leaving out any other pertinent details and making her seem like an office worker, "I also don't dp pep talks. I drink things."

She took a larger swig of her whiskey, taking the bottle back off the pilot and topping her glass up before handing it back to him.

"What do I think?" she asked before answering her own question, somewhat facetiously, "I think that I was kinda both looking forward to and dreading the 'Crybaby Nebula' comeback tour but I rather suspect they're making their way through insectoid intestines at this point. Which, incidentally would be a great name for a band: 'Insectoid Intestines'."

She paused, then grinned, "Relax buddy. We're in space. Unless the Metacer can jump into orbit now, we're quite safe."

@Dyelli Beybi

Mark let his eyes rest on Velia a moment, something about the way she carried herself, half-grin and all, struck a nerve that hadn’t twitched in a while. He gave her a short nod then said plainly, “Mark.”

He didn’t press the moment. Not the time. Maybe not the place. Still, it felt good to say his name like it meant something again.

He leaned forward, glancing toward the door and the corridor beyond. The sounds of the station weren’t distant. People shouting. Something smashing. Another voice screaming a name that never got answered.

“I wouldn’t count on the Metacer being our only problem. People’re already cracking. Food’s limited, water’s rationed, the vents are pushing hot air, and someone’s already got a shiv in their back down in sector three.”

Mark turned the tequila bottle in his hand once, then set it back down.

“I say we take our shot before this place turns into a coffin. Ship’s our best chance. Maybe our only one.”

The doors opened again and the blue-glint of a hydration suit caught his eye. He turned just as the aquatic alien stepped into the bar and approached the group. Mark wasn’t used to seeing one of her kind up close, but the suit said more than the species ever could.

Fihlyn Numosath

---

The Drink was well-lit with its neon sign, and it seemed to have become a refuge for those seeking respite from the unfurling apocalypse outside. As Fihlyn stepped inside, her hydration helmet caught the light oddly, a shimmer playing over her scaled skin. Her stomach growled as she picked up on the smell of food from the kitchen, and her eyes rested for a moment on some of the liquor sitting behind the bar. Now wasn’t the time, not when there was a chance that they’d have to leave at a moment’s notice.

As she glanced around, Fihlyn’s eyes lit up as she recognized one of the Edenites sitting by the bar. The dark-haired dhasath had been listed as one of the bridge crew - one of the faces that Fihlyn had taken the time to memorize before being properly introduced. She’d found the Edenites usually appreciated the effort, especially when it came to figuring out the pronunciation of their names.

Walking over to Velia, Fihlyn’s excited smile was easily seen through her helmet.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

Fihlyn’s stomach growled again, louder this time. She glanced down at the CSF card sitting in front of Velia.

“Although, perhaps there is still time for a snack?”

@Bentus

Crew. CSF. Pilot.

He exchanged a look with Velia, then sat a little straighter as the fish-woman—Flynn, apparently—made herself known.

“Well,” he said, a bit of grit cracking through, “looks like we just got another ticket off this rock.”

Ginny gave Ren a quick look up and down with a furrowed brow, station 6 meant nothing to her, but the way the Kiellar spoke implied things she would leave unquestioned for the time being. Despite this, she'd regard Velia with a growing grin "Well, think we've got a pilot now." her eyes flitting to John with as much interest as Velia. When the fish-woman arrived and identified the CSF-certified pilot affirmatively in front of everyone, the Texarkanan would scoff in amusement, clearly laying low was going to work out in her favor anyways. She'd nod in affirmation, despite not being the officer Fihlyn was looking for.

"I've got enough technical chops to do whatever wrench monkey work they'd need in machine spaces." she'd offer casually. "Hydroponics, Engineering, co-pilot." she'd nod down the line to the growing throng of eager would-be crew. "Sounds to me, pep talks aside, we got the right people in the right place with the right ship." she downs the remainder of her glass with gusto, confidence on her lips and courage burning down her throat. "I say we load up that ship with everything not nailed down and try to find solid ground before this station toasts us all alive." She holds up her empty glass in a toast before resting it back on the bar

@Pragia12

The redhead, Texarkanan, no doubt about it, added her voice to the mix. Confident. Direct. No posturing, just intent. Mark raised the bottle slightly in her direction.

“That’s what I needed to hear.”

He knocked back another drink, set the glass down with a clink, then stood, retrieving his rifle from where it rested against the bar.

“Shall we move then?”

Paradise Lost

Mark A. Lopez

---

Mark kept his rifle close—across his chest, finger off the trigger but resting near the guard—as he pushed through the station’s outer ring corridor. The air smelled like sweat, ozone, and desperation. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting, pleading, screaming at locked bulkheads. Some were just sitting, staring at nothing. One kid, maybe twelve, was sobbing while gripping his mother’s coat. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, “EDF!? What’s happening? Are they letting us on?”

Mark shook his head, “I don’t know.”

That was all he had, he kept his brisk pace. He didn’t wear the uniform because he had answers, he was a grunt by most means and that meant being in the same boat of knowing jackshit as these civvies. He kept walking. A scuffle broke out near the stairwell, two guys grappling, one with a pipe, the other bleeding already. A third jumped in and Mark just angled away, ignoring it. Security wasn’t coming, they were either dead, underground, or getting blackout drunk like everyone else trying not to think too hard and he wasn't about to play hero, he had bigger problems, they all did.

At the far end of the corridor, the viewplate showed the ship, the ESS 3822-01, still docked, still inactive. Still his only shot.

Mark stared for a moment, his jaw flexing. The idea of stealing a shuttle crossed his mind again. Maybe he could rig something to extend the oxygen, scrub CO₂, maybe. But the conclusion was always the same: a few extra days before he’d die cold and alone in deep space. Not a real option. He’d made it this far, and this? This was as far as he could get without help.

His legs carried him without much thought to the nearest familiar neon. The Drink was half-lit, half-packed, and half-silent in that low, pressure-filled way that meant everyone was thinking about dying but pretending they weren’t. He stepped inside, rifle still slung, eyes scanning habitually for exits. Always did. He clocked a few people at the bar; what seemed to be a Dhasath woman, a redhead in fatigues, a Kiellar in lab armor, and then someone else.

A man; human, tall, face like someone had just thrown him through a war and he was nursing the last of a whiskey bottle and talking with more confidence than sense.

"I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

@Terrans

Mark stopped mid-step.

He caught the tail end of it. He didn’t know if the guy was drunk, post-shock, or just trying to impress the women. But he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip.

He approached slowly, setting his rifle against the edge of the bar with a quiet thunk. His left arm—mechanical and old but well-maintained, whirred faintly as he adjusted the sling.

He didn’t sit. Just looked at the man and said:

“Then maybe you’re the luckiest bastard in the room.”

Mark nodded toward the viewplate window, where the massive hull of the colony ship hung in orbit like a ghost.

“Because if you can really fly that thing, I can probably get us past the locks and patch what’s left of the launch systems.” He paused, “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and see how long it takes the bugs to eat through the bulkhead.”

He the proposal hang there and looked around the group. None of them looked sure, but they looked like people who had already run out of better options.

“Name’s Lopez by the way,” he added, “Engineering, Eden Defense Force. I don’t do pep talks. I fix things.”

He took a seat, reaching at the other side of the bar and grabbing the first thing, a bottle of tequila, fitting.

"So, what do you all think?"

Paradise Lost

Mark A. Lopez

Character Description

Name: Mark A. Lopez
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 36
Role/Job: Military Engineer / Maintenance Specialist

Appearance:
Mark stands at about 6’0” with a broad-shouldered build earned from years of physical labor both on the farm and in the field. His skin is tanned and weathered, with lines of sun exposure and grit from working in harsh environments and a scar at his right cheek from an incident in the EDF. His eyes are dark brown, his hair is usually shaved short at the sides.

Most defining is his left arm—a biomechanical replacement, with visible servos and a few personal modifications bolted onto the frame, including a retractable multi-tool and an arc lighter.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:

Field Engineering: Mark is a highly competent mechanical engineer, specializing in vehicle repair, hull maintenance, and jury-rigging damaged systems under pressure. His knowledge spans from farming combines to military drop-craft.

Improvisation: On or off the battlefield, Mark has a knack for making do with what’s available—turning junk into solutions. He once rigged a cooling bypass using irrigation pipes and an old refrigerator core.

Biomech Tuning: Since receiving his mechanical arm, he’s become adept at fine-tuning prosthetics and other biomechanical interfaces, sometimes helping others with maintenance if they trust him.

AI Systems Enthusiast: While not a programmer, he has a deep (albeit amateur) understanding of old-world AI theory, and has spent years sketching out designs for a non-AI multipurpose helper unit. His fascination is a secret he keeps close around most people.

Weaknesses:

Limited Coding Knowledge: Despite his fascination with AI, Mark has little grasp of complex software or algorithm design, making his goals difficult to achieve without outside help.

Blunt Honesty: Mark has a tendency to say what he thinks, which doesn’t always make him the most diplomatic member of the crew.

Loner Habits: Years of working in solitude, first on the farm, then in forward engineering posts have made him slow to trust and often self-reliant to a fault.

Arm Dependency: While his biomechanical arm is a marvel of medical engineering it's also a potential liability. If it’s damaged in combat or during field work, it can short out, seize up, or overload the power system he relies on for other tools. Maintenance is constant, and failure at the wrong time could mean losing vital capability or even consciousness if the feedback circuit surges.

Background:

Mark Lopez was born on the colony world of Shinar, one of the breadbasket planets under Eden’s nominal control. Life on the farm was honest, hard, and painfully dull for a boy who always wanted to know how things worked. While most of his peers were content managing livestock or harvest cycles, Mark spent his free hours digging through old equipment manuals and disassembling engines—much to his father's frustration.

The moment he turned of age, he enlisted in the Eden Defense Force. For him, it wasn’t patriotism, it was escape. The EDF gave him structure, purpose, and most importantly, access to machinery far more complex than a tractor. He specialized in mobile repair teams, patching hulls and power systems mid-operation,iIt was during one such deployment responding to a native incursion on a refueling moon that a fuel tank explosion cost him his left arm. The recovery was long, but the biomechanical arm he received became a project in itself, something to improve and refine, piece by piece.

Years passed, he rotated between Eden and her colony worlds, assigned to keep aging patrol ships running and patch together crumbling infrastructure. Off-duty, he filled notebooks with schematics for a machine assistant, a sort of autonomous helper drone that could aid mechanics or farmers. But anything resembling artificial intelligence was a dangerous subject. Even speaking the word "AI" in Eden's outer colonies was enough to get you shunned or even killed. Still, he toyed with the idea of limited, pre-scripted logic routines as a workaround, he never built the thing, but he carried the notes wherever he went.

Then came the Metacer. At first, he thought the reports were another drill or a hoax, then his relay station stopped responding. Then the sky fell.

Mark served during the desperate defense of Tarnas Station, buying time for civilians to evacuate. When the order came to fall back, he stayed behind to ensure the generators didn’t fail. He escaped only when a freighter pilot overloaded their engines and crash-launched through the hangar roof, buying him just enough chaos to board the last transport to Eden Orbital Station. >/list>

Empire of the Clouds

Itzi Ku

---

Itzi kept her hands firmly on the controls trying to tune out the muffled voices and scrambling boots echoing behind her. But it was impossible not to hear the cries for help, the ragged breathing, the barked instructions, Aden had been hit. She hadn’t seen it happen, but she’d felt it. That kind of thing cpuldnt be tuned out.

For a fleeting second, she pictured herself in his place: slumped over the rails, blood pouring from her arm, helpless. It caught her off guard how vivid the image came, how real the fear felt, she swallowed it down hard and forced her eyes forward. She had a job to do but the thought lingered; how many times had she flown without really considering the risks? How close had she brushed death already and never even realized?

She was no soldier, no gunslinger. She flew, that was supposed to be her shield, her distance from all this madness. But that distance had vanished the moment they lifted off with that cursed gold.

Then it happened, light, faint at first, like someone striking a match in a fog. Itzi turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of Mitunbaal, kneeling beside Aden, her hands glowing with something warm and golden.

Itzi blinked, for a second, she thought her eyes were playing tricks, but no, it was real. She’d heard stories, old ones, whispers passed around back in the hills of her homeland of people touched by something divine, who could mend wounds with their bare hands. Stories. Fairytales.

And now, she was seeing it.

“By gods...” she whispered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.

She watched in silence, the awe plain on her face, until the moment passed and she remembered the ship still needed flying. She turned back, but the wonder didn’t leave her, something had changed aboard this ship, something beyond war, gold, and gunfire.

Maybe, just maybe, there was still room for miracles.

Paradise Lost

@InfamousGuy101 looks grand... just for internal consistency with the stuff we've been discording about, change the name of the colony world to Shinar or Kikkar

@Dyelli Beybi

Done

Paradise Lost

Character App

Character Description

Name: Mark A. Lopez
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 36
Role/Job: Military Engineer / Maintenance Specialist

Appearance:
Mark stands at about 6’0” with a broad-shouldered build earned from years of physical labor both on the farm and in the field. His skin is tanned and weathered, with lines of sun exposure and grit from working in harsh environments and a scar at his right cheek from an incident in the EDF. His eyes are dark brown, black hair is usually shaved short at the sides.

Most defining is his left arm—a biomechanical replacement, with visible servos and a few personal modifications bolted onto the frame, including a retractable multi-tool and an arc lighter.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:

Field Engineering: Mark is a highly competent mechanical engineer, specializing in vehicle repair, hull maintenance, and jury-rigging damaged systems under pressure. His knowledge spans from farming combines to military drop-craft.

Improvisation: On or off the battlefield, Mark has a knack for making do with what’s available—turning junk into solutions. He once rigged a cooling bypass using irrigation pipes and an old refrigerator core.

Biomech Tuning: Since receiving his mechanical arm, he’s become adept at fine-tuning prosthetics and other biomechanical interfaces, sometimes helping others with maintenance if they trust him.

AI Systems Enthusiast: While not a programmer, he has a deep (albeit amateur) understanding of old-world AI theory, and has spent years sketching out designs for a non-AI multipurpose helper unit. His fascination is a secret he keeps close around most people.

Weaknesses:

Limited Coding Knowledge: Despite his fascination with AI, Mark has little grasp of complex software or algorithm design, making his goals difficult to achieve without outside help.

Blunt Honesty: Mark has a tendency to say what he thinks, which doesn’t always make him the most diplomatic member of the crew.

Loner Habits: Years of working in solitude, first on the farm, then in forward engineering posts have made him slow to trust and often self-reliant to a fault.

Arm Dependency: While his biomechanical arm is a marvel of medical engineering it's also a potential liability. If it’s damaged in combat or during field work, it can short out, seize up, or overload the power system he relies on for other tools. Maintenance is constant, and failure at the wrong time could mean losing vital capability or even consciousness if the feedback circuit surges.

Background:

Mark Lopez was born on the colony world of Shinar, one of the breadbasket planets under Eden’s nominal control. Life on the farm was honest, hard, and painfully dull for a boy who always wanted to know how things worked. While most of his peers were content managing livestock or harvest cycles, Mark spent his free hours digging through old equipment manuals and disassembling engines—much to his father's frustration.

The moment he turned of age, he enlisted in the Eden Defense Force. For him, it wasn’t patriotism, it was escape. The EDF gave him structure, purpose, and most importantly, access to machinery far more complex than a tractor. He specialized in mobile repair teams, patching hulls and power systems mid-operation,iIt was during one such deployment responding to a native incursion on a refueling moon that a fuel tank explosion cost him his left arm. The recovery was long, but the biomechanical arm he received became a project in itself, something to improve and refine, piece by piece.

Years passed, he rotated between Eden and her colony worlds, assigned to keep aging patrol ships running and patch together crumbling infrastructure. Off-duty, he filled notebooks with schematics for a machine assistant, a sort of autonomous helper drone that could aid mechanics or farmers. But anything resembling artificial intelligence was a dangerous subject. Even speaking the word "AI" in Eden's outer colonies was enough to get you shunned or even killed. Still, he toyed with the idea of limited, pre-scripted logic routines as a workaround, he never built the thing, but he carried the notes wherever he went.

Then came the Metacer. At first, he thought the reports were another drill or a hoax, then his relay station stopped responding. Then the sky fell.

Mark served during the desperate defense of Tarnas Station, buying time for civilians to evacuate. When the order came to fall back, he stayed behind to ensure the generators didn’t fail. He escaped only when a freighter pilot overloaded their engines and crash-launched through the hangar roof, buying him just enough chaos to board the last transport.

Now, Mark is aboard the colony ship, a survivor, a builder, and a man still dreaming of machines that can think, but don’t decide. Now with humanity on the brink of what seems to be extinction he asks himself...

What if the machines could help again?>/list>

Lost World: The Lost Continent

Caleb "Cal" Mercer

---

Caleb Mercer strode down the Intrepid’s gangplank before the earth had finished trembling beneath her settling ballast. Sun-baked jungle air rolled up to meet him; humid, green, and faintly sweet. Around him the expedition frothed in the landing zone with engineers unspooling steam-line tethers, porters heaving teak crates, sentries fanning out with bayonets half-fixed. Mercer threaded through the scene with ease, expression intent but unhurried.

At the fringe of camp he knelt, cinching the leather straps of a narrow field-pack until they bit comfortably into his shoulders. The Steamwinder carbine—brass receiver catching flashes of sun—slid into its scabbard along his spine, muzzle capped against the damp. His Webley rode forward on the belt, thong loosened for a quick draw. Into jacket pockets went a pocket compass, a stub of carpenter’s pencil, and three folded sheets of oil-skin map paper still clean as virgin linen.

He straightened, tasting the moment the way a wine-man rolls a vintage on the tongue. High to the southeast a serrated ridgeline shouldered above the canopy, its basalt spine mottled by strangler-figs. If any place could offer a first rough sketch of this labyrinth, that crest would do.

“Right, then,” he announced to no one in particular, though a pair of wide-eyed porters paused long enough to overhear. “I’ll take a stroll up yonder ridge, mark the lay of the land. Back with a map in one hand and, God willing, both arms still attached.”

He tipped the brim of his slouch hat, an amiable salute to the bustling camp, and slipped beyond the outer picket, rifle in hand.

Empire of the Clouds

Zeppelin #27 — Portside Gun Mount / Interior Access

a Collaboration between @InfamousGuy101 and @Expendable

---

The last few bursts died in Carter’s barrel with a final clack-chunk. The metal of the grip was hot, even through his gloves, and the smell of oil and burnt powder clung to everything. He stepped back slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. His ears rang, and somewhere the sharp, panicked cry of someone calling for a medic still echoed faintly.

Carter turned his head in time to catch Zoe hauling Aden off the platform like a stubborn sack of wheat. He didn’t say anything, just watched for a moment, long enough to see the blood. Carter had seen the same scene in the Main. Whatever he thought of Inburians onboard, the man's wounds didn’t deserve a shrug.

“Poor bastard,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. Then he pivoted away without lingering.

The firefight had died down with no more flashes from the hills. Just the wind howling around the frame and the quiet groans of a strained ship pressing upward through air it didn’t want to climb.

He arrived back into the control cabin as Arkadios gave his measured commands. Carter’s brow furrowed, half at the idea of being over the Morktree with anything less than full lift, and half because he didn’t particularly like Arkadios assigning their names with that cold tone of his. Even so, Carter didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll take topside,” he said, already turning for the engine lift. “If one of the bags is nicked, I’d rather know now than on a cold descent into that ghost-ridden forest.”

"Carter!" Christina roared back from the master control board, blood dripping from her right ear from a graze. At the moment, aside from one shot gage, everything looked normal. "Che cazzo?! Who was shooting at us?"

"Sorry it's breezy," the mechanic-turned-engineer called out, hoping Carter could hear her above the wind. "Some pezzo di merda left a window open! Going to need a warm up, that bastardo better not have tossed the coffee!"

Carter ducked under a set of hanging wires and hoisted himself up into the compartment with the rigging clanking on his shoulder. The wind howled through the open tear and the sight of Christina's bloodied ear made him grit his teeth.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he crossed the short distance, “You alright?” he asked. Christina was tougher than most soldiers he’d fought beside, but even tough cookies cracked if they weren’t patched up. He only hoped Zoe could do the same for Aden.

He gave her a once-over and nodded toward the panel, “If everything else is holding, then we’re better off than we look. As for our friends shootin’ at us… by all accounts, looked like either those red-banner nutjobs didn’t like us procuring the loot they wanted to steal or perhaps someone just had the same idea we did and just didn't take too kindly to us beating them to ii.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, grimacing at the sweat and soot, “Either way, they’re behind us now. And we’re traversing the Morktree...”

He cast a glance toward the tore up canvas, “Not that I’m eager to take a sightseeing detour through the cursed forest. I’ve heard stories, and none of ‘em come with happy endings.”

Carter rested the tool rig down and began to inspect the outer tarp, boots clanking as he moved, “If we can do a quick patch job that holds and nothing’s burning, we’ll hopefully clear it by sundown. Maybe we get lucky for once.”

He smirked faintly over his shoulder, "And if Nikos hasn’t bled out or passed out, maybe we finally get a cup of that ‘world famous’ coffee he keeps bragging about.”

Christina's eyes rolled, then glanced at her reflection in the gages with a scowl. Reaching under the console, she unhooked the first aid kit and laid it out on a bare surface, then tried holding a square of gauze on it, wincing in pain. She tried to wrap it, but it was impossible to do with one hand.

"Carter...," she sighs, turning around while her right hand held the gause in place. "...I need help."

Carter turned at the sound of his name and saw her standing there with the gauze pressed to her ear, jaw tight, blood still trickling from beneath her fingers.

The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled just slightly with the pain, and it knocked the casual edge right out of him. He set the tool rig down with a dull thunk and moved to her fast.

“Alright,” he muttered, more gently now, “let’s get that cleaned up.” He took the kit, fumbling briefly with the antiseptic bottle before uncapping it. The wind made everything awkward, and the rocking of the deck didn’t help his clumsy fingers, but he managed to dab at the wound, careful as he could manage.

“Sorry,” he apologized for whatever stinging it would cause to Christina, his voice was a little lower, a little more human than usual, “You’d think someone who was awarded war ribbons would know how to dress a scratch...” He gave a faint grin, then secured the bandage in place, finally taping it down. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.

Reaching to the his belt he reached for one of his pouches to pull out a silver flask and handed it over, “Figured this might help more than me fumblin’ with gauze...”

She bit her lip. A shot from her flask wouldn't go amiss, either, but she wouldn't refuse the offer.

He leaned back on one knee and looked out over the wind-stirred canvas. “Hell of a ride, huh? Burning city, castle, now the Morktree… almost makes you wonder if the gold’s worth it.” He gave her a sidelong look, “Still, should buy us more than enough stitches and whiskey once we’re out of this.”

The antiseptic stung, making her sharply draw in her breath in pain and to grip the console handrail tightly.

"Thank you," she said when the bandage was in place, and again when he handed the flask over. She unscrewed the cap and flung it back, then drank two slugs, feeling a different sort of burn as the alcohol rolled down her throat.

"That's..." she managed, swallowing, "That's good.... What is that? Whiskey?"

Carter chuckled softly as he snapped the first aid kit shut and set it aside near the console.

“Yep,” he said, straightening up, “King’s Iron, distilled up in the high hill ridges back at the Main. Used to be a soldier’s favorite before the ration cuts. Burns like hell, but it stays warm in the gut longer...”

He leaned back against a support beam looking up to the gashed canvas, the wind whistling low through it.

“For a while,” he added, almost to himself, “it was the only friend I had left after the war. Didn’t ask questions and didn’t talk back.”

Then he looked over at her again, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the forward compartment with a smirk.

“So what about you?” he asked, “Got plans for your cut? Gonna disappear into the mountains? Buy a villa? Or just drink better whiskey than mine?”

Plans, Christina thought, frowning.

"When I escaped the Esercito Popolare, or whatever those figlio di puttana calling themselves now, I took only what I could carry. My rifle, my helmet, a rag to wave so the Inbur's porca vaccas didn't shoot me."

Her face burned, remembering the hands that groped her during their search. But the hands of the bastardo political officers were not gentle, either.

"It would have been so easy to do what was expected," Christina spat. "But I could not sit in comfort when war was coming. But Inbur's army didn't want me, I was rischio per la sicurezza. How you say, 'security risk'? So I use my skills to fix zeppelins. But nobody trusts me, I could not borrow tools, so I had to scroccare with what little monies I could get."

She paused, glancing over at Carter, then down at herself, staring at her stained khaki overalls that needed patching and a good wash.

"My family were merchants," she said wistfully, a small grin on her bloodied face. "My father ran grand company, we had fine house and my mother and I had many fine dresses. If only mia madre could see me now."

"I was visiting my uncle, a mechanic who had sailed with my father, playing with his daughter, we were like sisters," she said, then continued in anger, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "But walking home, we see those figlio di puttana dragging my parents out into street. He covered my mouth to keep me from screaming as they shot them."

"So I become un meccanica," Christina shrugged, glancing down at her hand as if to inspect her nails. "Rough hands, broken nails, no pretty dresses, patched bloomers, but no rieducazione."

"I need new kit," she told Carter. "No pretty dresses, just pratica. Better tools, more guns. There are many who need killing."

She paused, taking another slug from his flask. It didn't seem to give her as much trouble, before. Was she getting used to it? She could feel the burn, countering the throbbing in her ear. Christina passed the flask back to Carter.

"And yes," she told him, "better liquore for when I am not tired enough and sleep not come because fantasmi that crowd my head."

Carter didn’t interrupt. He just crouched next to the open panel and listened. For all the fire and grit Christina spoke, it reminded him of too many things he’d seen, too many deaths and faces gone. And though he’d never say it out loud, her story stirred something in him, more than he expected from a Calarian.

By all rights, he ought to have distrusted her. Hell, if they’d met just a few months earlier, he probably would’ve treated her like one of those flag-waving fifth column rats torching farms and hanging officials. But she wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. Maybe never was.

He took the flask back, weighing it in one hand, then looked at her, as properly as he could.

“Well,” Carter said, voice low and steady, “I’ve seen men with less reason give up and turn mean. You didn’t. Can’t say I got a stake in any of this madness but if this gold helps you put a few of those ghosts down, maybe it’s worth haulin’.”

He tipped the flask in a quiet toast, “To practical things. Tools. Guns. And ghosts that stay buried.”

With that, he stood, giving the flask one last tap against his palm before sliding it back into his belt pouch. “Come on. Let’s patch this lady up before she decides to finish what the bullets didn’t.”

The next few minutes passed in near silence as the two got to work with Carter hauling the spare canvas roll and adhesive from the rig pack and Christina holding steady as they worked in rhythm. They clambered over struts and beams, wind tugging at their sleeves, voices occasionally barking short commands over the rush.

“Hold that corner, tight!”

“Watch your foot!"

But despite some sniping, it came together fast. They cut and sealed the canvas, taped the inner mesh, and ran a few quick checks over the exposed rigging. Carter leaned back once it was done, fingers sticky with sealant, eyes sweeping the patched section.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Coulda been worse.”

Lost World: The Lost Continent

Caleb "Cal" Mercer

---

Cal lingered a pace back, hat tilted low as the chatter eddied around him. The stock-exchange baron, -Gibbs, was it?-shone like a polished coin, his words rattling against the glass in bright, eager clinks: Standard Oil, textile empire, rare antiquities for the parlour display. Cal’s lips twitched; he had seen men buy tiger rugs and think it made them hunters.

Next to Gibbs, young Takács shifted from one boot to the other, eyes alight with the academic hunger Cal remembered from Siamese temple digs: the kind that could note the curvature of a glyph yet miss the cobra at ankle height. And somewhere off to the side, that razor-thin doctor scribbled neat hieroglyphs of his own, measuring the world in angles and theories as if a charging beast might pause out of courtesy for a diagram.

Cal cleared his throat, “Gentlemen,” he drawled, “I’ve no doubt Omon has scrolls and baubles enough to christen a dozen museums and set a fair few society pages aflutter.” He tapped the brim of his slouch hat back, eyes sharpening to the emerald sea below, “But the maps we’re about to walk off the edge of weren’t left blank for want of curiosity. More likely something down there obliged the last curious souls to stop drawing.”

A grin crept across his face as he loosened the leather thong on his Webley revolver and let the walnut grip wink in the light. “So by all means, chase your prestige, your glory, your footnotes in the annals of civilization. Just remember: ruins have teeth, natives may not care for polite introductions, and the ferns out there grow big enough to hide things that’ll pick their teeth with our bones.”

He settled the revolver back, knuckles resting easy on the rail. “Stick close when the scouts say tread left instead of right, keep a piece of iron within arm’s reach, and most of us will live long enough to toast each other with whatever vintage passes for champagne in these parts.”

Cal’s grin tilted wry. “Fail that, and at least Reverend Jacob will have plenty of souls to shepherd on short notice.”

Lost World: The Lost Continent

Caleb "Cal" Mercer
The Next Near-Death

---

Cal sat cross-legged on the narrow bunk, the volt-rifle balanced across his knees like a sanctified relic. Copper coils winked in the sliver of sunlight filtering through his cabin's porthole as the Intrepid’s engines thrummed somewhere amidships—steady, unhurried, as though the airship had struck a private bargain with the fickle winds Mr. Wright claimed guarded Omon. Methodically he ran the brass rod through the barrel, pausing to listen to the faint electrical crackle that lived inside the weapon, hungry for a charge. It sounded uncannily like the Khartoum dynamo that had once blown a Nubian sapper into mist and carved the thin scar along Mercer’s cheek.

Adventures flickered through his mind as if projected on the cabin bulkhead: the tiger that flowed out of Malayan fog, teeth flashing; the Russian packet boat groaning open beneath his boots in the Bering gloom; bullets, claws, ice, and fever—all of them missing by a whisker. Each escape had bought him a purse of gold and a greater craving for the next wager. The expedition’s pay was handsome, true, but he knew the sovereigns would spend like salt water if Omon’s legends proved half as feverish as the maps.

The intercom crackled overhead: “Landfall in one quarter hour—prepare for first sight.” Mercer laughed under his breath, snapped the side-plate shut, and murmured, “Here’s to the next near-death.” Hat, gauntlets, cartridge belt—he shrugged into each piece with a pilgrim’s solemnity, then strode into the dim passage where oil-lamps nodded like conspirators.

Moments later he stood on the observation deck, his palms resting on cool brass rail. The cloud-veil ahead parted like theater curtain to reveal a continent that had no business existing. A green ocean stretched to the horizon, its canopy heaving in the heat like the hide of a sleeping beast. The flowing of rivers flashed in the sun, veins of life in untouched land. No chart had traced those arteries; no lighthouse had ever blessed those shores.

A wicked thrill unfurled in his chest—the same bright sting quinine leaves on the tongue—reminding him that every heartbeat hence was an ante thrown onto a table none of them truly saw. He grinned at the rolling jungle, the molten sky, whatever gods kept tally in forgotten realms. Deal the cards, that grin seemed to say, and mind you play fair—though I certainly won’t. And with that silent challenge, Caleb Mercer waited for Omon to blink first.