So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby SockFiddler » Fri Nov 24, 2017 8:46 am

Gingerly, I tug myself off the floor. Nothing broken, just horrendously bruised. False gravity aches in my knees and ankles and walking is a shitpile of misery. I follow the blond giant up to the flight deck. The walls are covered in pictures of half-dressed women (and men), hand-scrawled, often-filthy graffiti and painted a deep, throbbing shade of cyan.

"Siddown! Join me!" booms the giant. He slides a new bottle along the dash with impressive precision so that it stops immediately in front of an empty chair in the cabin, which I slide into before twisting the cap off and taking a slug.

"Near death makes you feel ALIVE!" he says, laughing maniacally and twisting the corvette away from the ring system. He makes a salient point; beyond the bruises, I feel alive; invigorated. A laugh bubbles up in my chest and boils out of me. And another, and then I am laughing and crying and drinking. It takes some time for me to regain the ability to speak coherently.

"What now?" I ask.

"Now we go to kill your friend!" replies the giant cordially. "In the shiny 'Conda!"

Well there's a bump in the road.

"Wait. What?"

The giant turns to look at me over the rim of his sunglasses. He is still for a moment, watching me. And then he is laughing even more raucously than before. He is, I realise, completely mad. And drunk. And firing up his FSD and jumping into SC.

"Where... are we..? You could just drop me off at... What are you..?"

"Belly full of slaves, no drop-off for you. Complete job and THEN drop you off. Handsome payout - much money for good times, eh?"

"Uh..."

I genuinely have no idea how to respond to this staccato, rail-gunned dump of information. Am I being held hostage? Am I going to be the subject of "good times"? Do I, by this point, even care?

"Relax. All is well. Drink, be alive!"

"Can I message my buddy?"

"I jump in 13 seconds - make it fast!"

I open the virtual coms panel and hastily source Asteconn on the contacts screen: "Rescued by lunatic in Corvette. Getting sloshed. Jumping away - will be back. Sorry about fighter."

"What do they call you?" I ask as I unzip and slip off my boots.

"Tor!" comes the reply. He lifts his drink - which seems to suddenly be in a jug, not a bottle - and drinks heartily. The coms panel lights up and flashes for an incoming message. I tap it to open and read: "Find me whenever. And when you have 90k for new GU."

"What did your friend say?"

"Sent me a repair bill."

More laughter. And drinking from the jug. The jump-count hits zero and we twist away into Hyper. Technically speaking, our mass is melting into energy. Observationally, I'd have said it was melting into booze. Good, expensive, real booze.

"So what am I doing here?" I eventually ask.

"You just joined the A-Team," the giant replies with a prideful tone that catches me off-guard.

"The A-Team?"

"Yeah!" says a voice behind me. I turn to see another guy in sunglasses stepping up onto the deck. He smiles at me over his glasses, looks over some info on the dash and then throws an inquisitive look at his crew mate.

"I found her. Can we keep her?"

"Where was she?"

"Floating free in the void. Blew up a pirate while skimming so close she could see the look in his eyes. Blew herself up. Magic."

"Oh... perfect!" The new crewman is chuckling and shaking his head. He slaps me on my shoulder and says, "You're as dumb as we are! Welcome aboard - I'm Lori!"

"The A-Team?" I ask again.

"Yeah!" he says, collecting a bottle, winking at me and heading off the deck. "We're the baddest Asshats in the galaxy!"
Last edited by SockFiddler on Mon Dec 30, 2019 9:21 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby SockFiddler » Fri Nov 24, 2017 8:49 am

Loriath wrote:Well I guess after last night we can expect you to say “Hell No!” to flying with us again?

You’re a good sport Socks, but we are an acquired taste, like bad Gin, so no worries if that’s the case. It was fun to hear your astonishment during our informal “Meet and Greet” and you did real well killing Anacondas and Clippers.

If you do want to subject yourself to our Incoherent Ramblings* again, you’re more than welcome to.

* Incoherent Rambling is the P.C. Way of saying we are a bunch of curmudgeonly bastards with issues. Note: Drunkenness is not an issue. It’s a lifestyle choice.


ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

I loved EVERY minute of that. Every gosh-darned second. Tor and I have plans to get some combat in today (me in my shitty new Adder), get my money up and get me a proper ride. And anyway, you're great fodder for bad fiction <3
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby Loriath » Fri Nov 24, 2017 11:37 am

SockFiddler wrote:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

I loved EVERY minute of that. Every gosh-darned second. Tor and I have plans to get some combat in today (me in my shitty new Adder), get my money up and get me a proper ride. And anyway, you're great fodder for bad fiction <3


Hey Farmgirl! Watch your mouth or you find yourself floating again. Being A-Team ain’t like dusting crops. One wrong move and you’ll find yourself sitting next to Dawg and be begging Tor to bounce you off some rocks in the belt to escape the smell. And then you’ll be more than happy to ride in my python then, won’t you? At least I don’t smell much and tend to be more sober. In fact, besides Al, I am the mostest sober member. And my deck isn’t riddled with used socks like SOME peoples. Speaking of Al, never flash credits at him. He has been know to sell the weirdest shit for a Buck or too. He might try to sell you off for the price of a cup of Joe. Last I heard he was flying 14 million light s cones for a buck a tonne profit.

And I’ll have you know I was writing Bad Fiction back when you thought a Sidewinder was just a snake. There’s proof here somewhere.
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby Loriath » Fri Nov 24, 2017 11:38 am

Oh and I forgot to mention that to be full A-Team, you have to show us what you can do with a buggy.

:P
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby SockFiddler » Fri Nov 24, 2017 12:01 pm

Loriath wrote:Oh and I forgot to mention that to be full A-Team, you have to show us what you can do with a buggy.

:P


CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby Dudley » Fri Nov 24, 2017 6:50 pm

Morning All...

Any idea where I left my ship..?

and..

Why is my right foot wet??

o7 Dawg
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby TorTorden » Fri Nov 24, 2017 11:19 pm

Probably somewhere in the Pleiades.
And that wet foot might be the tharg puddle you stepped in.

I'd cut the leg off and get a new one cloned.
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby Dudley » Sat Nov 25, 2017 9:20 am

Hey Sock.. Welcome to the A-Team..

"Bar keep.. drinks all round, put 'em on Socks tab.. of course she's good for it.. she's with us.. Hey..when have we ever not paid??"

Kharma.. you still got Xebeths card cloned..?
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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby *Al* » Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:40 pm

Dudley wrote:Hey Sock.. Welcome to the A-Team..

"Bar keep.. drinks all round, put 'em on Socks tab.. of course she's good for it.. she's with us.. Hey..when have we ever not paid??"

Kharma.. you still got Xebeths card cloned..?



Welcome indeed Socks!

......yes, on my tab, of course.......

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Re: So Long, and Thanks For All The... Arrest Warrants

Postby SockFiddler » Sun Nov 26, 2017 9:19 am

Between moments defined by the utter certainty that I am going to die, I am having the time of my life.

In equal measure, my time is spent flying, laughing, drinking and passing out, and the men I am doing this with are reckless, impressive, incredibly capable, functional drunks who demonstrate a friendship and intimacy that only comes from having saved each others' lives more times than any of them can count. They have passed through the hypothetical "I love that guy; I'd die for him" barrier by repeatedly endangering their own lives to save their wing-man, and their stories are many and ridiculous and often quite moving.

We are on Tor's ship, which he has officially named "Lucy", but which is also known by a variety of other, filthier names. "Just the tip" is the one I currently cannot resist giggling at, as the scarred paint-job is mostly yellow but morphs into a deep, pulsing red toward the 'Vette's nose-tip. The vessel itself is an incredibly slick, reliable machine complete with 2 fighter bays, more guns than I can count and - inexplicably - a hot tub and sauna: "So we can purge before starting a new crate!" explains Tor as if it's obvious.

Lucy's interior is appointed in the style of a haphazard, often bewildering mixture of convenience and half-considered impulse that only very, very rich, functional drunks can manage. There are 3 fully-functioning, fixed-unit bathrooms, complete with H2O recyclers and ceramic, claw-foot bath tubs. The typical stow-away, space-saving, lightweight stuff mostly because Lucy's crew would continually forget to pull the toilet unit out and simply pee in the space where it would go, leaving a puddle for someone else to wake up in some hours later. Such trauma could then only be dealt with by collectively deciding that they needed more Whiskey / Wine / "Jugs" (I still don't know what Tor drinks out of those things) before they'd start on the clean-up operation... and then would get distracted and not deal with it at all.

Similarly, there is a constant supply of fresh food, mostly many different kinds of meat, as well as an abundance of incredibly rare, carb-based snacks. The recon food packets standard to deep-space FSD ships were abandoned when the collective decision was made that the crew would rather adopt a liquid diet than waste time reconstituting flavourless, luke-warm goo to sustain themselves with.

The only way I can tell that I have been aboard Lucy for 8 Standard Weeks is by the message that Not-Dave sent me. Time has no meaning here; We drink while we jump, then we fight, dock, hand-in bounties and jump again. Loriath is aboard because he is hitching a lift to "somewhere in Imp space where I'm certain I left my ride..." and we have plotted a course there five times so far, only to be pulled off to another system by a rumour, a job, a bounty or the promise of some decent booze.

This chaotic, impulsive wandering is exactly what I need to distract and focus me. The sharpness of losing Nari is now fading and being replaced by a sense of control, especially when I am flying one of Tor's fighters. I only do this while utterly faced and have grown to love the tiny, zippy vessel which I load myself into whenever the scanner blips. There is no terror anymore, just an acceptance that death is a possibility but, until it claims me, I am one with my machine and should chase, shoot and chase again.

"Fuck that 'Winder," says Lori one evening when I am nursing some seriously good rum and musing over having to borrow a vessel. As far as I know, I am still penniless and lacking a ride. I look over at him and shrug.

In reply, Lori settles back into his chair in the way that indicates he is about to Explain How Things Are. I grin and take a swig as his rants are variously tinged with genius, impossible expectations, filthy humour and the arrogance of a pilot who exactly knows what he's doing. He empties his whiskey and slides the empty along the dash to Tor who is already sliding one back. The bottles pass each other in slick fly-by.

"See, you've been earning," says Lori, twisting the real-corked top off his new bottle. "You've been flying and shooting, so you've been earning. Fuck knows how much, but there's been some spoils for you. And a cut of the trades. This ain't no free ride here, Princess, but we pay jocks fair here, too. You scratch our backs, we'll scratch yours and you're good out there. It's time for your own ride."

"I can't afford a ride good enough to handle the crap you two drop me into," I laugh, leaning back in my chair and turning my head a little to access my Contacts panel.

"Sure you can. It won't be pretty but it'll take care of you. I'll make some modifications myself. Get you a Cobra mkIII or something. Get you out there on your own, in a Grown-Up ride. You're done with Tor's baby-bouncers. Time for some real meat."

"Real meat" is not - unsually - a penis reference but a phrase that at once means "good stuff", "proper action" and, vaguely, "something someone really, really needs." It can also mean decent booze, good sleep and a shower. In fact, the thing it is never used to indicate is a penis.

"Contact, point-two-one light years," murmurs Tor. He is currently relatively sober, having only been awake some 45 minutes. Thus he is completing his coffee-up swing before the first jug, very much like spinning up an FSD ahead of dropping into SC. There is no urgency in his announcement; we're too far out to launch and fight yet. It's more a warning that we will - at some point - need to suit up and climb into our 'pits in the next 15 minutes: when you do that in a hurry, you're more likely to forget your bottle.

Lori is about to start speaking again when Tor breaks into laughter. "Oh... she's going to love this," he murmurs, throwing back the contents of is mug with one hand while adjusting speed and vector with the other. By now, I am somewhat familiar with the sort of thing that amuses Tor, but I am distracted by the notion of having been earning money the whole time aboard so far.

"How much we talking?" I ask.

"I'd think around six or seven mil maybe."

I have a mouthful of rum that is rapidly ejected and sprayed over my legs and the dash. Briefly, I choke, and then I start to laugh.

"Get you a decently-outfitted Cobra," continues Lori, once again settling into his chair, preparing to explain to me what I'd need to do to get a Cobra combat-ready. And then what I'd need to do to get a Cobra A-Team combat ready. It's a fascinating lesson, often punctuated with interjections from Tor about vehicle bays and cargo space, bi-weave shields and thrusters.

They are still chattering - and I am still listening, utterly fascinated - when Lucy drops out of SC. I glance over at my two companions, but neither is showing any alarm. Tor deftly flips and rolls the vessel so that she is now facing in the direction she was coming from, her nose tickled by her own engine wake. A beautifully-painted Python drops out of SC, slows its pace and rolls. Warnings flash that we are being targeted and the Python's weapon hatches open up.

"What the..?" In spite of the cool heads on my companions, this is an unsettling development. That thing is HUGE and built for death. The coms panel flashes that we have a voice link established and the cabin is immediately filled with the sound of a man's helpless, gleeful, rolling laughter. "Happy New Beer, gents!" and then the python opens fire.

Lucy's shields flash purple and blue, and Tor and Lori quickly dissolve into laughter, too. The python continues to shoot us in the face and the helpless, maniacal laughter continues over the coms. Finally, Tor pulls himself together enough to say both to me an over the open coms channel, "Sock, meet Dawg. Dawg, we have a new member."

"Oh, that's bloody marvelous!" comes the reply, "A pleasure to meet you! How have you managed to survive us so far?"

"Fuck alone knows," I reply dryly as the python's weapons power down.

"She's been flying Tor's launchables," says Lori, "Was just saying it's time she got her own wings. She's got the cash."

The python elegantly flips over and bumps windows with us. I can clearly see its pilot grinning and waving at us before raising his bottle in salute. We three salute him in return (Tor swearing and reaching for another jug first), and then Dawg flips again to come to a rest off our right wing. Of course, he is drunk. Of course he's an incredibly skilled pilot. Of course he completely understands his ship. Of course he is having the time of his life.

I am suddenly hit by a pang of urgency: I want to fly like these guys do. Not alongside them, but as one of them. I don't want to be part of the team simply because I can keep pace with them drink-for-drink, but roll-for-roll and kill-for-kill.

"Was going to save up for an Adder," I murmur, provoking more, huge gales of rolling laughter from Dawg who is quickly joined by Lori and Tor in his amusement. "Fuck that!" says Lori, "The way you fly, you'll tear that thing apart before anyone gets a shot off at you. Nah, you need a Cobra."

"Plotting!" announces Dawg with delight, "Balante... 7 jumps."

"I've got your target," confirms Tor, powering up his throttle.

Lori stands up, stretches and laughs. He slaps me on the back and winks. "Let's get you some fucking wings and start teaching you how to actually fly."

And, thus, my life as a commander truly began.
Last edited by SockFiddler on Thu Jul 09, 2020 12:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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