wanderingwolf

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Oryoki at Little Moriah

Skyplex Little Moriah

To Lyen, a skyplex was a fascinating hub of commerce and beautiful sights and smells. On Santo, the idea of a skyplex had been completely foreign. Now, the nun had been to her share of skyplexes in her journeys since leaving the temple, but each time it felt, to her, like a marvel; a complete culture in and of itself. Though her Order was cast to the corners of the 'Verse, she usually happened to find a practitioner with which to commune and exchange blessings. This thought gave heart to her step as she exited her home of the China Doll, coiffed in her orange kasaya robe, her hair neatly braided in a long tail behind her.

Immediately, Little Moriah made itself known through the sizzling smell of kebabs, melted synth cheeses, and spices both familiar and unknown. The man behind a cart flagged her down, wafting the smell of his fare in her direction, "Finest meats in Little Moriah! No better prices from here to the rim!" The nun politely raised a hand in greeting, but continued on her sojourn toward the heart of Moriah. The station was roomy, with about ten foot high ceilings through the thoroughfare, clad in what had once been shining aluminum or steel--now scuffed and plastered over with flyers, posters, and wanted signs. She wandered up to a particularly covered alcove and perused the offerings. "Wanted: Castor Callum, $10,000.00, Alliance deserter and miscreant" and "Real canines, $4,000.00 OBO, healthy and ready to breed" along with "Synthflute lessons, cyberkeys, and drumpads, only $100.00 an hour!" She grasped a tearaway for lessons between a slender forefinger and thumb, pocketing the paper in the pouch that hung at her hip.

'Synthflute,' she thought, 'that might be a fun way to pass the time on this long leg ahead.' The tearaway had all the relevant details, indicating a music shop at the heart of Little Moriah: "Thames Court." The Order of the Interverse supplied their sojourning Sisters with a stipend each month, to an account wired through Londinium. Alliance credits would reach most of the civilized skyplexes and terraformed worlds without issue, simply through her ident card. For those occasions where Alliance credits wouldn't do, the Captain had provided a tidy sum in cash as a part of her limited work aboard the China Doll.

Continuing from the corridor, Lyen watched the way open up from the outer circle of docking stations to the skyplex proper. Here, all sorts of shops and services had been set up, from money lending to old-timey portraits. The portrait booth had costumes from eras on Earth-That-Was. Their display consisted of boas and sequins, top hats and canes with a large sign which said, "Travel back in time to the 19-20's! Paper portraits for your travels!" She considered asking Edina and Abby if they'd be interested in a portrait before they left. The sheer size of this place was staggering; countless alleys and doors led to a spiderweb of connected passages to travel the whole length of the skyplex.

Through to the next ring, Lyen finally laid her almond eyes on the purpose of her trip: the Interverse shrine. A single monk sat on a mat out front of the shrine, clothed in the same color kasaya robe she wore, his eyes closed in meditation. "Amituofo, brother," Lyen said in greeting to the monk, who opened his eyes and inclined his head to see her bow, hands clasped in the prayer pose.

The man was stocky, with a heavy, but kempt, salt-and-pepper beard covering his lips and chin. His eyes were a stone blue, and the lines on his face rested high on his eyes, above pronounced cheek bones. His shaved head shone in the fluorescent lights of the cooridor. He returned the gesture and rose from his position, "Sis-tear, I welcome ye. May the In-ter-verse guide yer pahth." He gestured for her to follow him into the shrine through the decorated, wooden archway, which had been crafted onto the nondescript steel opening to an inner room. She acquiesced, following him.

The shrine was humble, but ornately covered in carved wood; most were room partitions and dividers stacked against he cold, hard steel of the Little Moriah's meager rooms. An astounding amount of plants were present here, too, so much so that the air took on a heavy, moist texture as Lyen breathed in the fresh scent of wet soil. The space was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide, but somehow it felt expansive with wooden statues of Buddha leading the viewer toward the far end of the room where the shrine opened up to depict the largest statue of the Enlightened one, with the flames from myriad candles dancing, and offering bowls waiting to be filled. About halfway, an alcove had been constructed and coyly hidden behind some flowering bushes which offered the sound of a crackling fire.

"Please, take som' tea wit meh, and we c'n speak of yer journey," he said in a strong accent of what Lyen recognized to be Northern Scotland on Earth-That-Was; the experience was pleasing to her ear, and she replied, "Of course Brother, it would be my pleasure." The monk nodded, and indicated a small plastic chair and table covered in an elaborate table cloth indicating the symbolic pillars of their faith.

The cozy spot was warmed by a furnace on which the monk set a kettle to boil. It was customary for traveling Sisters and Brothers to carry a donation to shrines on the farthest reaches of the 'Verse. Lyen had packed her coin purse just for this express purpose. The stipend her temple on Santo supplied her was more than sufficient for her needs. Today, she carried this month's allowance in full.  The monk straightened at the table, from attending to the kettle. Lyen asked, "Brother, do you have a bowl? I wish to practice oryoki."

"Aye," the monk replied, he craned toward the furnace and produced a cloth-wrapped bowl and a bell, setting them on the table cloth between them. He unwrapped the bowl with measured gestures, the cloth unfolding into a diamond shape which he then tucked on each side to resemble the lotus' petal. Utensils were also present in his bundle, as the Brother must have participated in oryoki for each meal, even alone here on Little Moriah. Today, however, he would gladly receive any gift from the Interverse which would meet the physical needs of the shrine. 

Oryoki is the practice of 'just enough.' It traditionally refers to meals, being an intricate ceremony of bowls for rice and soup. As a practice, though, it branches farther than the body's physical needs. We are oryoki ourselves. Everything should be appreciated as the container of the Buddha. Lyen reached for her coin purse and fished out the credits she had set aside for this purpose. She began chanting rhythmic phrases memorized while taking meals on Santo, and her cohort joined in her chant, lifting the bell. To Ly, the sound of the bell was most appealing, having none aboard the China Doll. Its clear, low sound filled the modest shrine as their voices joined it. Then, her slender hands placed the coin in the Brother's bowl. At oryoki's conclusion, the monk bowed to her, and she reciprocated, her long, flowing braid falling to her side. 

There was a palpable magic to the inclusion of common practice, even across these great distances. The 'Verse was as wide as the Interverse is deep. It is all around us, Ly thought, and it is inside all of us, connecting us. The practice of giving and participating in oryoki, filled her with strength. As she quit the shrine and the Brother, Lyen followed her feet to the center of Little Moriah's busy trade, almond eyes filled with care for each gaze that matched her own.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Sacrifice at Moriah

In the Black on the way to Skyplex “Little Moriah”

JP from @Wanderingwolf and [@little-bill]

There is a calm in open space–in nothing but the winking stars light years away that lulled the captain. Out in the black there was space to think, to plot a course, but Cal wasn’t considering bearings for the China Doll. Just like the Doll floating in the dead of space, Cal felt the same floating feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t like it.

Hands folded at the back of his neck, boots resting on the console from the Captain’s chair, Strand considered his only viable anchor: the job ahead of them. Yuri had done a bang-up job with his requisitions, from the report Cal had carefully scrutinized. He was every bit the best first mate the Doll had ever seen. Yuri’s sense of no-nonsense felt like an extension of his own, he thought, nodding. Where they had differed on the pilot Cal had plucked from prison was an open issue, but Strand knew his mate would come around.

Speaking of, Boone had lumbered off for a break, saying something about Edina’s fare being mana from heaven. It had given the Captain time to drift and think. Which turned to stewing.

Cal asked the empty bridge, “Sam, you there?”

“Always, Cal,” the AI’s tone was comforting and chiding at the same time. “What can I do for you?”

“Take a gander at Little Moriah, for me? I wanna know about any surprises that might spring up–cause any delays.”

“What kind of delays are you worried about?” Came that lilting, Bostonian accent in response.

“Old friends, new enemies, a postmaster with a grudge, Alliance presence. That sort, shiny?”

“I’ll need some time to check all the variables,” Sam’s voice betrayed a digital cadence through the matter-of-fact response emanating from the bulkhead com.

Cal scratched the back of his neck, “Fine.”

The stars were blinking in a pinkish, red nebula out the viewport. “Feels like the calm before the storm,” he muttered to himself, hearing Boone approaching the bridge.

“Ahoy, cap’n.” Boone said, holding a small bundle of cookies with the bottom half of his shirt the way a child might carry more treats than they can hold. For all his stomping and looming, sometimes even Cal could briefly forget the massive pilot had just spent the better half of his life in a cell. The cookies themselves were pucks of powdered protein bars and malt-flavored syrup, but Boone seemed to think they were ambrosia the way he tucked them away. By now, Boone no longer wore the gray prison uniform he had arrived in – that had been ceremoniously jettisoned into the black weeks ago – but instead, a previous passenger’s polo shirt that had been left behind after being stretched and dyed pink in the laundry, and an old extra-large boilersuit that had been untouched in the back of the China Doll’s cargo bay for years.

“You want a cookie?” He asked, extending his shirt-basket towards the captain.

The Captain turned his head to regard the gigantic pilot; the blank expression on his face holding as his eyes darted from Boone’s eyes to his shirt and back again. A quick jerk of his head was all the response he offered. The man certainly had his quirks, as Cal and crew had begun to learn. A little bit of hoarding, a dash of disregard for his presentation–save that orientation toward the color pink–even a bit of humor which struck a strange chord, given the face of the comedian.

Strand abandoned his posture and set to scanning his console. In the display, the radar ping of Little Moriah rapidly gained size out on the edge of the screen, but nothing showed out the eyes of the China Doll. Cal turned a few knobs to dial in measurements before relaying to his pilot, “Looks like Little Moriah’s within range at one A.U. You ready to bring her in?” His glance and arched eyebrow said something akin to: ‘Put down the cookies and pick up the yoke’ but he let the question stand.

In contrast to Cal’s tone, a lilting, feminine voice echoed from the comm in Boone’s bulkhead, “We’re in range of comms with Little Moriah’s docking control, Boone. Have you hailed a station’s traffic controller in your simulations?” Her question sounded inquisitive with no subtext to indicate anything other than a genuine question.

Boone chuckled softly, a hint of nerves underlying his usual jolliness. "Of course, dear! If there’s one thing they made sure we knew at prison, it was protocol," he responded, nodding to his invisible copilot. His fingers danced over the console, years of simulated flight having etched basic control inputs such as engine checks and hailing frequencies into muscle memory – and for a man of Boone’s size, this left a great deal of room for such memories.

As he guided the China Doll closer towards Little Moriah, a shiver of nerves went down his spine like electricity. For all his expertise in flying the old Firefly, he had only needed to go through the motions of piloting aboard the China Doll until now, he realized. A virtual stationmaster only had so many responses, and a failure to respond correctly had only ever meant a restart – the crew had been in the black for too long to consider any kind of “restart” on a new pilot’s behalf, and that was if they had enough fuel to turn around and dock elsewhere, which was far from the case. The station was only breaking into view, and already, it loomed over Boone’s mind.

“Mr. Cal, are you familiar with Moriah’s significance in the good book?” Boone asked, fixing his eyes on the skyplex in the distance.

“Can’t say that I am,” the Captain had his eyes glued to the console and bulkhead looking busy, shoulders tensing. Pursing his lips, Strand gave in, “But I reckon you’re gonna tell me anyhow…”

“It’s a mountain on Earth-that-was where God tested Abraham’s faith, by having him bring his only child Isaac and telling him to sacrifice him.” Boone said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixing on the skyplex, “Abraham got as far as tying him down and raising the knife before God brought him a ram to sacrifice instead, to reward him for following even the commands he didn’t want to carry out. For not withholding anything from Him.”

Strand took a beat before replying, “Off your only son, huh? That’s a funny way to test a body. What happened to ‘God is good’?”
From the comm speaker to Strand’s left, “Religion, from my research, has little to do with logic and more to do with faith, Cal. Faith can be defined as belief in something for which there is no proof.” Her lilting accent dipped before continuing, “The parable Boone shared is designed to be uncomfortable and impossible to grasp so as to highlight the imperative for faith.”
“From that yarn I don’t cotton proof of a ‘good’ God.” Cal cocked his head and added, “Ram in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.” The Captain tipped his head back to take in the view of the skyplex, finally visible out the nose of the Doll. When he looked out into the deep of space, Cal didn’t see a benevolent or malevolent creator, testing folk and vetting them to be ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ He saw gray. The Black had a way of bleeding into all the corners of the ‘Verse. From where he sat, that just left shades of gray.

Boone gave a weak shrug, placing the hailing communicator in his beefy hand. “He’s full of mysteries, cap’n. I think the mystery is part of the point in that tale, that he doesn’t ask any questions…” Boone trailed off, still staring at the incoming skyplex. “Let’s hope the stationmaster here follows suit.”

"Little Moriah Skyplex, this is the shipping vessel China Doll requesting permission to board," Boone hailed, his voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through him. “Do you copy, Little Moriah? This is the shipping vessel China Doll, requesting permission to board, over.”
There was a long pause of crackling static before a stern, no-nonsense voice responded. "This is Stationmaster Dao. Maintain course and speed for vessel scan. State your business and submit your docking code for verification. Over."
Boone glanced at Cal, who nodded in reassurance before he replied, "Stationmaster Dao, we're here for a routine resupply, and then we’ll be on our way. Transmitting docking code now, over."
After a tense more few moments, the crackling silence was broken up once again by the stationmaster.
"State the nature of your cargo, China Doll.”

"The nature of our cargo?" Boone paused, squinting in disbelief. This was a question no simulated stationmaster had ever asked of him, and one he had no answer for but to stammer. Before Boone could utter a word, Cal smoothly stepped in, his voice projecting the confidence befitting a captain.

“Moriah, we’re laden with passengers, dry goods, and cattle; sending you the B.O.L. now.” Cal pressed a few buttons on the console with a glance at Boone. Placing one palm on the mute signal and making a show of wiping his chin with the other, he added to Boone, “Less questions this way. Less inspections, too, if they reckon we’re full of cow la shi.” He straightened, removing his palm from the console, and after a few moments the station master continued.

“Permission granted, China Doll. Proceed to docking bay three-zero-niner. Any deviation from your assigned path will result in immediate action," Stationmaster Dao's voice crackled over the comm. “Over and out.”
Boone acknowledged the instructions with a curt "Understood, Little Moriah. Proceeding to docking bay three-zero-niner, over and out." Boone clicked the hailing communicator and clipped it back into place on the console.“Thanks for that, Mr. Cal. Always time for an old dog like me to learn a new trick.”
“We got a few tricks to teach here on the Doll.” Cal lifted the comm at his left and held down the button, “Elias, we’re comin’ in to dock.” He let the button go, as an aside to Boone, “That’s so engineering can start down-cyclin’ and divert power to positional thrust.” He set the comm down and added, “Elias ain’t chatty, counta his condition, but his ears work fine, and he appreciates the heads up from the bridge.”

The Captain rose from his chair, sliding arms into his duster. “Now feel free to make the announcement on the shipwide comm that we’re dockin’. I’m off to make sure Yuri’s got our list all buttoned up, shiny?” He didn’t wait for the pilot’s response as he exited the bridge, taking the stairs two-at-a-time.

Boone gave a salutatory nod, taking up the comm one last time.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!" Boone’s voice concluded over the intercom as he leaned back in his small seat, a sense of satisfaction evident in his expression. With a contented sigh, he allowed himself a moment to relax, feeling the gentle hum of the ship beneath him. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a nice ram on this Moriah too, he thought to himself.

wsg

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Art by Wanderingwolf

This prompt was 'fruit.'

Art by Wanderingwolf

Day two's prompt was 'triangles.' This is the result.

Art by Wanderingwolf

Started working on a daily diary of digital art. This is the first prompt: galaxy.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Call Me Luka "MacGuffin" Voss (KATYA Voss cont.)

<STAGE IS SET ON SHINDIGS, KATYA BEHIND THE BAR CENTER STAGE, HANDS PLANTED ON THE POLISHED WOOD. GRADY, BEHIND THE BAR STAGE RIGHT, HOLDING A BOTTLE OF VODKA. DORIAN ON A STOOL, STAGE LEFT, ELBOWS RESTING ON THE BAR, CRYSTAL GLASS IN HIS HAND.>

KATYA: "They won't be back, period. Do what you gotta do and rid them from my life...and this bar too."

GRADY: <Watches brows knit as he's given a dressing-down at KATYA's tongue. He probably deserves it. Scratch that, judging by the blood on his knuckles--weren't his blood--he definitely deserves it. And the vodka isn't numbing this particular pain.>

KATYA: "If it wasn't for this man right here I could have been good as dead." <KATYA gestures to DORIAN, who feigns not to be listening. GRADY's eyes narrow to slits.>

"You wouldn't have raised a finger before that man killed me. I want you out for good, or at the least until you handle your business entirely." <KATYA doesn't meet GRADY's eyes. GRADY's shoulders tense.>

DORIAN: “And that,” <DORIAN shrugs> “poses tha question. What is that business, sir?” <he smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes> “Considering tha mannah in which Ah negotiated with one of yah associates Ah daresay a little enlightenment is in ordah. Cheers.” <DORIAN lifts his glass to the siblings, GRADY chews his tongue.>

GRADY: <Ignoring DORIAN's question, to KATYA:> "I'm workin' on it, Kat, but you know what would really stop them comin' round?" <GRADY, sidling a step closer to his sister, taps two fingers to his temple, a shimmer in his eye>

"I got a plan will set us right--yes us!" <GRADY, intently to KATYA> "You for this place and our old man, me, well..." <GRADY's jaw tightens, opens for another slug of vodka, for courage maybe>

"You know, I been thinkin'. That ire you got ain't lost on me: I know who I am, Kat. I know who I am, and I'm alright with it." <GRADY raises a hand to show he's not done>

"Hear me out, and if you don't like what I've got to say, I'll walk. For real this time. Hmm?"

"I know I've brought nothin' but trouble to you, to Pa, to this place he built." <GRADY gestures to the bar, affectionately known as Shindigs> "But I'm ready to set things straight." <GRADY unhands the bottle of vodka, dragging the back of his blood-covered knuckles across his chin> "The right way, like Pa always says. No scams, no blood spilled, no more scabs at the door with an over under in your back. And then I can pay you back for everything I owe you--owe Pa--and you get what you want. No more Grady darkenin' your doorstep. I'll take my share and I'm gone for good." <GRADY takes a beat, his hand scratching the back of his neck>

"Trouble is, I can't do it by myself." <elbow propped on the bar, he pivots his gaze to DORIAN to indicate he's included in this, now, for better or worse.>

KATYA: <Takes a beat, brow arches>

DORIAN: <Subtle shake of his head as he lifts his drink>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Enter Grady (Katya Voss cont.)

The sound of steel scraping cement pealed from the back room, training the eyes and ears of Katya and Dorian on the entrance of a slightly ajar, wooden door squeaking on barrel hinges. The white knuckles of a large hand pulled the door open to reveal a man dressed in a striped button down shirt, suspenders, brown slacks, and an askew emerald green bow tie, complemented by a bushy red mustache beneath chiseled blue eyes. As he stepped into the bar proper, those eyes were focused on Katya, finger pointing as he approached at an even pace.

"You did good, sis," an errant hand smoothed the long hair at his crown against the shaved sides of his head. "Those boys won't be back 'til morning," his approach halted as he palmed a fifth of vodka, unscrewing the cap, "and I've got a plan." The bottle upended into his lips as his eyes landed on the stranger sitting at the bar.

Exhaling, he asked Katya with a glance, "And who's this?" a free hand rested on his belt buckle, replete with a Ruger Wrangler replica hanging at his side. The stranger had a face that was hard to read, but something about his eyes unsettled Grady. Katya on the other hand, looked primed and ready to give another lecture a-la-padre. He lifted the bottle to his lips again to numb the overture.

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