Roleplayer Guild - Roleplay Forum

This is the IC Thread, OOC Thread can be found Here

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The young woman standing on the bridge of the inter-planetry carrier vessel was pale and thin. Pale in a never-gets-enough-sunlight way. Thin in a sort-of-always-forgets-to-eat way. She was thick, straight, shoulder length hair, the kind of hair that was every colour you could imagine for hair. Mostly light brown, with a reddish-gold tinge, and the occasional stray black hair that didn't really make any difference at all to the bulk. Her eyes were pale in colour.

Her name was Striker, this was not her real name of course, but in her line of work, real names were kind of a liability. Once upon a time people had called her Gwennie, people that had known her since infancy, people that she had known since infancy. People who were long gone.

Striker ran her hands across the twisted controls of the ship. A smile twitched across her face, because this was home to her. Striker had spent too long living in the sky to be at home on the ground. She heard a noise behind her and turned her head to see what it was.

"Is that you Cap'n?" She asked quietly.

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Clicky for Kate ---v---

"A pilot, huh?", said an old man. His face was rough covered in wrinkles. He poured a glass of brandy. The girl in front of him started to cry. "Yes. I want to experience the world, what's wrong with that?", she cried. He swallowed the whole glass. He took a deep breath, then he stood up and looked at his beautiful daugther. Then he slapped her.The girl fell to the floor. She stopped crying. "I hate you", she said with disgrace.

Catherine woke up covered in sweat. She hated that dream. She stood up from her bunk bed and felt the metal beneath her feet. Three years had gone by since that day. The day when she told her father she was leaving her home to experience the rest of the universe. She never forgot the slap. She stretched her legs and drank a glass of water. She wore nothing but underwear. She changed to something more fitting and washed her face. The water to her face felt good. She looked at herself in the mirror. She knew she was a rather attractive woman, but now she just looked tired and worn out. She put her long dark hair in a pony tail and tried to best to get her face somewhat cleaner.

She left her room and locked the door tightly. Outside, she took a deep breath. Even though they were onboard a ship she liked the air. It felt fresher. The oxygen rushing down her body felt good and she walked silently to the deck. On her way she looked out the windows. It was beautiful. "Is that you Cap'n?", a woman asked her as she aproached the bridge. The woman was Guinevere, or just Striker as she used to call her. "No it's just me Striker", she said walking towards her seat. Catherine was co-pilot of the ship and Striker was the pilot. Together they made a great team. "Good morning", Catherine said to her gently, and then she put on her headset preparing for another day. She didn't regret it. She loved this ship.

It was a beautiful day out by the fresh water sound, and who better to share it with than his one true love. There she was beside him running through the tall green grass, some times looking back at him in a teasing manner. It was like there wasn’t a care in the world, the radiant colors of the sunset played off of her strawberry blond hair like fireworks. Her beauty was intoxicating; Sophia’s warm tan skin was like that of a new born child, so soft and touchable. The two of them were racing through the meadows, laughing all the way. The place that they were going to was near and dear to their heart, the sight of their first kiss. It was a soft knoll over looking the bay and Forman Naval Base; it had a perfect point of view to see the sun ease below the watery horizon casting a cascade of colors across the landscape.

Sophia looked back at him, sticking out her tong, clearly wanting to make fun of Thorin for being slower than her, though she knew full well that he was letting her win the race to the knoll. All that Thorin could do was smile, the fact that god was gracious enough as to let him be in love with Sophia was enough to make him forget the world. And that was exactly what it was, love, true love, not the kind you see between celebrities on TV or between the top Jock and the Lead Cheerleader, this was what was meant to be, for no other purpose than to be love and be loved till the end of time.

The two childhood sweethearts finally reached that gentle hill, with its olive grass being swayed like ripples in a pond by the Southern wind. Sophia stood like a statue as she reached the crest, and Thorin understood why by the time he made it up too. The sun was just beginning to set, pinks and oranges, violets and reds all cast out over the horizon like a perfect painting. But no it was better than a painting; the warmth of the sagging sun could be felt on your skin like a wave of comfort cast forth from the gods. The smells of daffodils and the harmonious trills from the swallows pleasantly caressed the senses.

Thorin’s trance was interrupted by a warm hand, gently finding its way between his fingers. He looked down to his left to see Sophia resting her head on his shoulders, her gaze still fixed on the endless variety of colors from the horizon that played on her face like an angle strumming his soft tunes from a harp. A more romantic scene one could not have been asked for. But, it all came to an end when the howling of Petrel Fighter-bomber tore through the serene sunset like claws through paper. They soared over the small, naval community unleashing their weapons of destruction upon the unsuspecting denizens. Clouds of twisted smoke arose from the fiery explosions, pot marking the hamlet relentlessly. Thorin covered Sophia’s face in his sculpted chest in an attempt to comfort her and shield her from the blinding flashes of light erupting from the city across the Sound (A lake like inlet connecting to the ocean, for those who don’t know).

Wave after wave they came, shattering the lively hood the two of them had once had. The reverberating roar from the explosions could be heard for miles, as well as the soft clicking sounds from the Asp tanks within the city spewing their anti-air rounds blindly into the sky. Thorin looked down at Sophia, cupping the sides of her head, directing it upwards into his eyes. She looked so afraid but said nothing, the shear terror in her face seared into Thorin’s memory forever. She closed her eyes gently and kissed him, knowing full well that this would more than likely be the last time she would ever do so. The kissed that lasted only a brief few seconds seemed like ages. Thorin became lost in the joy of holding her one last time, how he wished that he could stay and be with her forever, simply remain in her arms till the day of days in which they could be as one forever. But, that was not possible, Thorin was a member of the UIR Special Forces Detachment and it was imperative that he regroup with those of the survivors from the bombardment at keep the port secure.

Their lips parted not from free will but an inner knowledge of what had to be done. Thorin gazed into Sophia’s magnificent green eyes, they were entrancing, like emeralds so precious and valuable that you wanted to stare into them forever. So there the two stood, not speaking a word yet conveying every last emotion left in their souls. They both understood each other, but neither of them wanted to. Thorin watched in utter sorrow as small streams of silver rolled down Sophia’s cheeks. He wanted to wipe them a way but Sophia refused. Thorin ran his hands through her hair for the last time, the subtle waves pouncing between his fingers. He quickly pecked her on the forehead and looked back toward the ravaged town. He released his embrace and slowly gazed into her eyes as he made his way toward the ocean. The deep green saucers pierced his soul, giving him the last bit of strength he had to do his duty, both to god and his country.

He quickly sped off, sprinting down the hill, wiping away the single tear that rolled down his face with the back of his hand. It was time to be a warrior, love had nothing left for him to hold on to. Little did he know that this, this ungrateful showcase of war would be the last time he ever saw Sophia again, well alive that is. Thorin’s face hardened as he raced for the shore line, down the gentle arch of the hill. In one smooth movement he slipped off his shirt, revealing his keenly sculpted figure, and dived into the slat stricken water. The cold liquid engulfed his senses.

The same sensation of freezing water awoke Thorin from his trance like state, yet this time the cool liquid was his own sweat, he was drenched with it. His face in particular was calmly floating on a small pool of the sweet liquid that had collected on his pillow. He sat up with a jolt, casting aside the equally soaked covers. His head now throbbed from the sudden motion. He could feel his brain pulsing in rhythm with his heart; like a steady beating of a war drum. Suddenly he remembered were he was and quickly scanned the room for any unwanted spectators, if they saw him in this state they would lose all respect for him, he had to remain strong. But all was safe, he was alone in his quarters, the only sign of life was the mirror hanging above the sink that played with his own reflection in the dim light.

He slowly rose with his hand clasped over his forehead so as to numb the pain. With lead feet he made his way over to the rusted sink, propping his wobbling body as he hovered over the brass colored drain. He hated this fucking ship, and he hated this fucking crew. A surge of anger raged through his body. What the hell was he doing here, he wanted to go home, go home and be with the ones he loved; but, he could not. He had no home, no one would be waiting with open arms to welcome the returning war hero; no bands would play their invigorating tunes at his arrival. No one knew his name, no one knew of the sacrifices he had made, and no one cared. He was alone in this galaxy, as noticed as a grain of gravel in an asteroid belt. Pathetic. HE WAS PATHETIC!

Thorin slowly looked up into the mirror before him. The first thing his eyes were drawn to was the jet black shirt he wore, how it hugged every curve of his abs and pectorals. Two lonely dog-tags hung loosely from his neck, creating a slight jingle as his legs wobbled for balance. But, something wasn’t right. In place of his rich deep tan he looked almost ghostly pale. The stark contrast of his black shirt to his now patsy white complexion made his eyes cringe. [i]What the hell was wrong with him even in his strength he looked weak. What was wrong with him? He was already an emotional cripple, if he lost his physical strength he would be nothing to anybody, a catalyst in the cold.

The only thing that remained in its present intensity were his deep silver eyes. He glared at them, hoping to see into the depths of his soul, to see if he still had one. But he saw nothing, nothing but pain. Another surge of rage pulsed through his body much stronger than before. With a tightly clenched fist Thorin thrust his hand through the mirror, sending the full force of his weight through the thin glass panel. What was once his reflection now exploded into a maelstrom of glittering shards. They fell to the tile floor and shattered into a fine dust around his feet.

A sudden surge of pain erupted from his left hand. With dismay Thorin looked down at his still clenched fist to see 3 or 4 pieces of broken glass firmly lodged into his knuckles. Streams of maroon liquid began to pour from the gashes, slowly traveling down his arm until finally they dripped onto the floor like tears. ”Fuck!’ he yelled, not in pain but out of frustration. Oh, how the gods had blessed him; he couldn’t control his temper, he couldn’t control his life, he couldn’t even control his mind. Plus, on top of his already vicious internal struggle he now had a bleeding hand to deal with.

He calmly looked around for a bandage, normally he would have cleaned out the wound but from the looks of the sink that action could put him in even more of a predicament. With the now oozing hand held high he scrambled through his rucksack searching for a first aid kit. Much to his relief it was exactly were he had remembered putting it. He popped open the lid and felt around in the small container with his finger tips searching for a roll of gauze. Once he felt the spider wed like bandage he wasted no time in putting it on, blood was already starting to pool beneath is left arm. Knowing full well that it would be a stupid idea to attempt to remove the fragments himself for risk of severing a ligament, he quickly wrapped his hand glass and all.

What had he gotten himself into. Now he would have to go see the home town drama queen Dice, and probably become one of her experiments in the process. However, for some reason or another he enjoyed her company more than most of the crew. She was so exotic, yet so close to home. Something about her reminded him of Sophia, though she acted almost the polar opposite. It was her eyes, those same dreamy eyes that had longed for him on that day on the knoll. What he would give to relive that day, if only he had not left her stranded there as he went of to fight some other man’s war. What difference would it have made to be down one less ignorant meat-shield willing to die for a twisted since of patriotism and honor. He could have stayed with her, they could have run away from the tide of war. Marriage, children, growing old with the one you loved, all the things you look forward to in life could have been his if only he had stayed with her. If only he had cast out his pride. The word pathetic illuminated his mind like a phosphorus flare on a moonless night. Snap out of it! He had, had enough of memories, all they brought was the pain of thinking what if.

Thorin grabbed the pair of dark tan combat boots neatly placed beside his cot and slipped them on. With one hand he began the monotonous task of lacing them while he kept his wounded hand elevated above his heart to stint the bleeding. As he drew the last cord on his boot he noticed that his arms were beginning to regain color. Thank God now he would look only half as unusual walking down the corridor with a bleeding hand. Hopefully no one would be awake at this hour, though exactly what hour it was Thorin did not truly know, hopefully morning.

With a calm stride, the bruised and battered warrior left his secluded sanctuary and headed for the medical bay. The blood emanating from his hand was beginning to soak through the bandage already; little beads of deep red smoothly glided off of the gauze, leaving a trail of small red splashes through the deserted hallway. Thorin only hoped it would remain this vacant until he could reach the confines of Dice’s quarters, though the prospect of being cramped in a room with her seemed like only a slightly better alternative.

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Xarxes strode onto the small bridge of the vessel not far behind Striker. "Not quite accurate Wagtail." He put his hand on her shoulder in a vaguely paternal way, no need to antagonise the crew. He knew his appearance often worried people but this lot were hard bitten.

His Kukri rested lightly against his hip as he took his seat taking in the situation with a rough gazed glance. The Event Horizon was a beauty, his beauty. But he couldn't for the life of him remember how, or why. His gaze screwed up for a moment in a look of concentration as he tried for the Umpteenth time to recall.

"Good Morning Striker how is the old bird this morning?" He asked with a voice like a dinosaur that had swallowed a cubic metre of Razor Wire. An intimidating voice.

Asking the question was somewhat inaccurate some would think the question was better asked of the engineers, but Despoiler knew that Pilots often kept as much attention on the status of the bird as they do their own job, flying them.

"And what do we have planned for today?" He asked recalling it was important to do so.

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Kadaeux and vslayer: Emperor and Empress of noob Pawnage.[/CENTER]

Pigeon rubbed his eyes and began to massage his face with his hands. He was absolutely shattered. It wasn’t really particularly surprising when he thought about it as he had been awake for hours plotting and re-plotting his vectors; going over the velocity and displacement calculations time and time again; checking the charts so many times that even when he closed his eyes he was seeing star systems and trade routes. He groaned and stretched his arms up above his head before giving himself a shake, desperate to fight off the fatigue that threatened to send him to sleep right here in the navigation room. Not that it was really a room – more of a navigation cupboard, small and dark as it was. But that was how Pigeon liked it as it meant fewer people came to see him and he was generally left to himself. But he knew that his sanctuary of peace would be destroyed if he screwed up these course headings and that the captain would maroon him at the next available opportunity. Pigeon checked the time before nodding, I can go over these vectors once more and then I’ll take them to Striker.

Pigeon looked at the chart in front of him and, despite himself, he smiled. Maps just made him feel happier. Plotting a course on a map was like reading a book, an exciting and absorbing book, where you had to work out the ending for yourself through luck and skill. Mostly skill, thought Pigeon.

Several minutes later, after he’d finished going over the vectors, once again found nothing to change and transferred them to a data pad, he got up and, taking a deep breath, he headed out of the navigation room and made his way to the bridge. Striker was there, as he'd expected, but so was the captain. Pigeon stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering whether he should go back and re-check everything once more, before giving a small cough.

“Um...Striker, here are the flight vectors and heading details the captain asked me to get to you,” he said, holding out the data pad in his right hand whilst his left hand unconsciously tried to flatten his untidy dark-red hair. “I marked off the best places to breach nearby trade routes so we can strike fast and make a quick getaway into asteroid fields if we need to. Just...just if you wanted to have a look. I’m..um...I’m pretty sure it’s all right but if you find any problems then just let me know. You know where I’ll be.” He gave a shy smile, placed the data pad down on the front console and turned to leave.

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The answer must be in a book...somewhere...

"Damnit."

He woke up this way every morning. Every single morning, Daniel "Rave" Shepard woke up in his cot onboard this ship in an unknown region of space, and he cursed. His variety when choosing the day's curse word was usually based on how different his dream had been from his reality. Today, he had been in a ship, in space, but it has been his ship. This dream being disturbed only deserved a damn-it in response, but on a good day, he got much more colorful. The reason his dream had been interrupted was that his cot sucked. Every day, at roughly the same time, it fell. not just slipped, but "fell", as in "broke", as in "needed to be repaired".... He was not a fan of such words or sentences. Daniel Shepard, only 28 years old, was a very bad man, at least to some people. He got out of bed... or more accurately, off the floor, and collected his bearings. The air was stale, they'd been traveling for a while, huh? Cracking his head, back, and knuckles, Dan showered, then got dressed.

A pair of sand colored baggy pants and a black T-shirt, along with some sneakers, made up his outfit today. to top it off, he wore an old fashioned snap-brim, green plaid hat. The black fingerless gloves, the gun holstered at his left leg, these things were useful. The cot, this thing wasn't useful. Shaking it off, Dan promptly did absolutely nothing, sitting in his room and cleaning a rather large automatic rifle very carefully, this was the way he could still be doing work without risking a thing. It was "preparation" when it needed to be. He sat on the floor, leaning against a wall and using the bed as a cushion on the ground, he was as happy as he could be, given the circumstances.

Dan was by no means lazy, or cowardly, or a bad worker.... the pay was good enough to make all these traits disappear. No, it was simply the lack of anything interesting for a hired gun to do on these long trips. His profession was fighting, and he had nobody to fight, which made him useless. At this point in time, useless Dan had to keep busy. Gun cleaning, this was a way to retain sanity on the long voyages. Socializing with the same few people got old quite fast, actually. As depressing as it sounds, people are truly not that fun to talk to, in general. Sure, they have their moments, but Dan was past that, he wanted more, and as always, he would sure as hell try to get it. If that meant jumping ship with cargo, fine.

Eyes were closed. And a second later, deep sea-green eyes were wide open. There was none of that foolish half-sleep half-awake business that many of us mortals have often. We, who are terrified of waking and facing another day. No, no. Not for this girl. She slept because her body needed it, and woke fearlessly every morning, ready to attack the day with a vengeance, sunny-side up.

Dice was her name, or the only name she cared to answer to. In the mornings her curly ringlets were askew, as if running for their lives the only way they knew how. A tongue roved over her red lips once before Dice quite literally jumped out of bed, a cot in a tiny closet that adjoined the medical bay. She had no want of a bigger room. The medical ward was her work and her home. It wasn’t equipped with the most advanced technology, as far as medical wards go, so Dice went to a table where sat a music player. She scrolled through the songs before she found the one she wanted. She hit play.

The immediate and obvious response to music blasting in the room and reverberating around it was a rapid, forceful jerking dance around the room. She sang periodically with the lyrics. “Kill me romantically!” she howled from deep within her chest.

Dice stopped before the mirror, cocking her head and gazing into her own eyes. “Good morning, Dice,” she greeted herself with a half-smile, voice cheery with only the slight hint of characteristic raspiness present. She hummed to herself as she stroked the curves of her own body beneath a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt which sported the logo of a favorite band of hers (The AxeHeads), then proceeded to put on the essential makeup and comb her unruly hair.

Dice turned from the mirror and cleaned off some of her tools that she had neglected since their last use. She picked up a syringe and wiped it down with a disinfectant, then held it up to the light, turning it curiously and watching the pointed needle and measured glass sparkle in the fluorescents. She put it down after a moment.

The medic finished cleaning up, and set everything in its specific place in the backpack she kept with her at all times. Everything must be in complete order, ready for her to grab at a moment’s notice should she need it.

“You’re a parasitic psycho, filthy creature, finger-bangin’ my heart…” sang Dice with sudden loudness and ferocity with the tune.

Unlike the rest of the crew, her dear friends, Dice had no mysterious or horrific background to answer to. At least, none that she could see. Her life had been fairly average, according to her mind, and she was never – ever – the victim of a situation. She would not let herself be. Dice was stronger than that. And so, Dice moved through each day in its own being, helping the crew as was required and experimenting with her somewhat unusual medical techniques.

Dice went to the mirror again. “You’re due for a haircut.” She pulled the medical scissors she had just cleaned out of their proper place and began snipping away at her curls, shortening them up to be a bit more springy as she tossed her head. She had only cut a few off when she heard a knock on the door.

“Great way to start the day,” said Dice sarcastically, though inside she really meant it. Dice loved visitors, especially if they were wounded. And, as it turned out when she opened the door to the medical bay, he was.

“Apollo,” she said, a wild grin crossing her face. “What did you do, hm? See your face in the mirror and decide you didn’t want to look at it anymore?” She laughed at her joke, totally unaware of how true it was, and gently leaned over to take the taller man’s wrist in her firm grip. Apollo was a good friend of hers, at least in her own mind. And more than that, he was fun to look at and touch. Dice led Apollo into the bay and sat him down, laying his arm on a nearby table. She quickly washed her hands and flicked her fingers to dry them.

“My, my. What is all this sweat for?” asked Dice nonchalantly, briefly running her hand over his muscled shoulders before setting down to her business. She didn’t really need an answer, just an excuse to touch him. The medic very gently unwrapped the makeshift bandage Apollo had bound to his hand. She tut-tutted, making a shame-on-you type sound with the clicking of her tongue, before standing back and examining the hand at a distance, arms folded and putting her weight on one leg. “You want me to numb it first?” she asked at great length, as if it had taken her that long to come to a diagnosis.

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You were wondering why I'm so busy with RP's and characters?

My RP business card.

With a quick grunt of displeasure, and a soft rustle, blankets shifted on a hammock made in the corner of a small room not ten feet from the engine room. The hum and purr of the engine working properly helped Kamryn sleep peacefully at night. The thin figure sat up stark in the make-shift bed, stringy brown hair fell messily before a thin, young face. Soft hazel eyes popped open, only to take one glance around the messy dwelling, and slam shut. A moan and a wiping of her eyes signified she was fully awake, she wasn’t sure how, but she had gotten her sleep schedule mostly on par with the other crew members.

Small feet touched down on cold steel, only to cause the owner to release a small yelp, and pull her feet back quickly, only to cover them in dirty beige socks, and proceed exiting the bed. The young woman continued on with her morning routine, first pulling her hair back into a sloppy ponytail, then proceeding to the engine room. “How’s my baby doing?” She approached the engine, which continued to hum loudly, with rhythmic pounds of the gears turning, and pistons pumping. “Good girl!” The young woman practically coddled the engine, a massive creation, taking up the better part of the enormous engine room. The petite figure made it’s rounds checking pipes, meters, gauges, and, of course, the thermostat. Kamryn, while a tough girl, hated the cold, which is why the engine room was her favorite place in the ship.

After the ship’s engine was thoroughly investigated, poked, prodded, gauged, and double-checked, the thin figure made it’s way from the room, stomach grumbling loudly in protest to the previous night of skipping dinner to spend time with the dear engine. “Ungh.” She grumbled to herself. Halfway to the kitchen, Kamryn found a few stray drops of blood littered on the floor. Avoiding the blood like it was diseased, Kamryn made her way, on tip-toes to the door leading to the kitchen. “Food.” She grumbled as she opened the cold steel door. Without looking up, the small figure wound it’s way to the large fridge, pulling from it two slices of bread, three eggs, four frozen sausage links, and a small amount of juice. Without paying attention to her surroundings, the young woman set to work making her breakfast, and belated dinner.

Much to Apollo’s surprise the corridor was completely abandoned a welcomed case of events. The only sound he could here was the dull hum of the ships internal engine and a faint sound of little footsteps behind him. Quickly he looked over his shoulder, but there was nothing there; there was never anything there. He was doing it again; the slightest sound of anything behind him sent adrenaline through his spine ready for a fight. It was sheer instinct, war had not taught him to do so, he simply did not like people behind him; he did not trust them, and that he had learned from war. The faint pitter-patter of footsteps grew louder and more rapid, clearly closing in. But it was no matter; he was standing outside the bulkhead to Dice’s room. Above the automatic door was a sign clearly labeled in red ‘Medical Bay’, definitely a clue.

The tall muscular man took in a long deep breath to prepare for what was to come. He had to turn into the civilian state of mind less he be looked down to as a pessimistic drain on life. He slowly raised his good hand and rapped on the door sharply. He knew that there was an automated voice system by the door but he preferred it the old-fashioned way. Within a second or two the door quickly zipped open revealing a small yet well asserted young lady with hair whose myriad of colors almost sent her complexion into chaos but remained a complement to her appearance somehow. She seemed perky as always, full of life and vigor, an embodiment of youth. She quickly shot a comment about his hand and punching his own reflection in a mirror, apparently her way of a casual greeting. ”Well that’s a pleasant way to start a conversation, thought Apollo though not transferring the sarcasm into words. He simply smiled, she meant no harm by it and Apollo took no offense. That’s what he liked about her, she was so blissfully ignorant of people’s emotions and at the same time she was completely genuine. Her words weren’t cynical in the least, they were simply like a toddler who points out the obvious in every situation even when it’s uncomfortable and everyone is trying to hide it.

Apollo just smiled at the eclectic girl before him, not granting a response because it was clear she didn’t want one. The petite woman quickly grabbed his wrist in a firm grip. Her fingers didn’t even completely encompass, a fact that Apollo found cute for some reason; like a kid trying to drag their parents away from a conversation by attempting to tug their arm off. The heavily sculpted man followed her into the room and was immediately assaulted by music playing from a small device atop a distant table. He wasn’t particularly fond of the tune; in fact the bass was quite irritating in the cramped room, almost like a howitzer unloading salvo after salvo in a monotonous rhythm. But who was he to criticize, this was her room and her life; if white noise and tone deaf lyrics were what made her tick than who was he to stop her. Quite frankly the outcome of his left hand was soon to be determined by none other than Dice, so what ever made her more comfortable was in turn more comfortable for him.

She gently plopped him in a chair and placed his left arm on a metallic surgery table before walking off to wash her hands. There he sat, dissecting the lyrics of this so called ‘music’ while his practitioner was away. The simple adjective of bi-polar could loosely describe the entire song. Oddly enough as he sat waiting in silence the song actually became catchy, like a melody you recite in the shower to pass time. Once Dice had washed her hands she slowly walked back over to him in an almost seductive way; gliding her hands smoothly over his coarse ridges of muscle, sending a slight tingling feeling down his spine. She said something about all of his sweat but he threw that comment aside too, simply small talk intended to be a one man show like always, or one woman show to be biologically correct.

The small, exotic woman slowly unwrapped the gauze bandage around Apollo’s hand, sending a shot of pain up his arm. He did his best to block it out, only a small twitch under his eye broke through his calm façade. He could feel her brilliant sea green eyes bore into him like a scolding mother. He felt like an idiot, completely reliant on the help of others because of his own mistakes, it was easy being humble in a situation like this. Dice stepped back to get a better look at his fragmented hand, and what felt like a better look at him in general. After the florescent young doctor had worn out her patronizing aura she anxiously asked if he wanted an anesthetic to ease the soon to come pain.

Apollo calmly thought about the prospect for a second though he knew his answer. He spoke in a cool, seductive Scottish accent. “Do really need an answer to that… You know it’s in my job description to play the hard-ass. So you might as well do me the favor of limiting my options… Pain is an emotion, and we both know I’m not keen on those.”

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"Morning Wagtail," said Striker as the young co-pilot took her seat, "Cap'n."

She took the notes that Pigeon had give her and tapped his shoulder to indicate that he should stay.

"That Captain was thinking that we should make a raid on that Luxury Carrier that is passing through sector 13 today," said Striker in a voice that was loud enough for them all to hear, "Which is what these are for." She shook the data pad lightly and plugged it into her console so that the co-ordinates appeared on her flight path screen. "According to these we have four hours until the ship passes through the best possible spot for us to do our work. I reckon it'll take us one and a half to get there, assuming Priest is awake and alert... has anyone seen her?"

Striker ran a hand through her hair and tied it back with a hair elastic, setting her hands on her hips.

"Maybe you should call her on the intercomm Captain, although knowing her she's probably in the kitchen. It might be good for us to get going straight away, what do you think?"

The pilot spun around her chair and sat down, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

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Clicky for Kate ---v---