Desert Raiders: IC

**Kare** · 03-24-2013

The face of Jenvia had changed. Before, it had been a dry, blank plateau of sand and scraps of metal hiding in the desert. Arid and disinterested, it kept itself to itself – a mantra by which the people, mostly living in two-bit shanty-towns miles from anywhere else – adopted in their heart of hearts. Things had changed, though. Gears shifting across the borders had brought the metal to the surface, and, abroad, one could hear the crunch of boots around the corner. War would be upon the continent of Mir very soon.
Jenvia, whose back was turned and eyes remained closed to the impending expansion of Tanrika to her south, became a willing bridge for her ally, Fraycia. By day and by night, monstrous trains with monstrous cargo whistled through the otherwise barren land. Times were changing, and, if the trains reached Tanrika, the change would not be for the better.
Behind a large desk in the centre of Tanrika's capital city, a middle-aged man, dressed as a military officer, leant forward to a transceiver on his desk. Gently, he pushed a small button on the bronze speaker, and, quietly, said; "Quiet birds-"
The voice on the other end said his own part of the code, "-keep flying."
"Good, Laurence. Just the man I need to speak to; I have a new mission for you."

The Kolibra: Privateers Extraordinaire

Mission One: A Line in the Sand

It was a bright, clear day. It usually was. Henry shuffled his feet, and watched the sand shift under his boots. He left a vague imprint on the ground, which dissolved into his shadow as he walked away from the inn. His comm set had been glitching for a few minutes; the little brass horn that curved into the concha of his ear had been making whistling sounds for almost fifteen minutes, now – halfway through a beer, he had subconsciously been trying to filter out the annoyance, but now he had heard it through the hubbub, he couldn't ignore it. Immediately, he'd excused himself, risen to his feet, and headed outside, away from people. With a splutter that sounded like metal scraping on metal and birdsong both at once, he could hear a voice spring into his ear.

"...your comms on. Henry, can you hear me?"

"Good afternoon, Larry, my man!"

"About time," in his mind's eye, he could see the pilot bristling, impatient, “I've been trying to get through for fourteen minutes."

Henry smiled to himself; Larry's precision had always amused him somewhat, especially with that slightly mumbling, petulant voice of his. It was like a mildly deaf child that had learned to speak only in loud colours and without the subtleties of intonation, "Yeah, sorry about that. Other people were causing an interference. Just couldn't hear you."

There was a pause. Then; "Don't do it again."

"Hey, it's your comms," Henry grinned wider. It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it wound Larry up. In moderation, annoying the pilot was practically a sport, "You know what long-distance is like. Anyway, what's the word?"

"I have a new one for you. Six PM, line thirty-seven. There'll be a-"

"Six PM?" interrupted Henry, "That's ages yet. Just come into town and tell us yourself. We're in Rottsley."

"I can't. Need to look after the Kolibra."

"Leave her at the sand-harbour. She'll be fine."

"It's expensive," protested Larry, unconvincingly. Most people couldn't even tell happy from sad with Larry - insofar as the pilot experienced those things, anyway. Henry had got him pegged, though.

"No, it isn't. Just come to the inn – I'll even get you a drink if you're lucky. Show your handsome face for once."

It didn't work. It usually didn't. No amount of cajoling could persuade Larry to be a proper human being – and not for a lack of trying. For years, Henry had been trying to get Larry to socialise – with the rest of the team, if not with anybody else. Occasionally, he had succeeded; pretending not to understand the ins and outs of a mission and insisting that the pilot explain it in person. That had worked, until Larry had caught on. When members of the team had left, they had usually thrown some kind of send-off in the nearest bar. He'd agreed to go attend, but not to remove that mask of his. The one time he took the thing off, he had gone completely unrecognised and nobody had really spoken to him anyway. The fact he had gotten completely and utterly drunk hadn't exactly improved his attitude, either. It was a shame, but, still. In the end, Larry had refused point blank, still using the sand-harbour charges as an excuse.

Henry looked up at the sky. No hint of a cloud. At two o' clock, the start of the afternoon, it was rather stifling, as the sun beat down on the Rottsley. The shanty-town was deserted, and even though he was stood in what he presumed was supposed to be the main street, he was the only person in sight. He could feel himself begin to sweat, and beat a hasty return to the inn. It was a gloriously shabby building, held up by its own ignorance of architecture. It appeared to consist mainly of wooden planks, nailed together haphazardly, with the odd rack of corrugated metal, presumably bodging together massive holes that had sprung up. Well, it's not like it had to be waterproof, really.

As he crossed the door, he could feel the wave of cool air passing over him. The other thing he could feel in the bar was the eyeballs of every other patron, which was to be expected, really. In these rural areas, difference wasn't particularly usual, and Henry looked particularly different. While his ruggedness matched the implied roughness of the bar, his outfit didn't – his hat, in particular, was clearly military, flagging him up as an outsider immediately. These people lived in the heart of Jenvia, where soldiers were practically mythological beasts. Of course, Henry wasn't a soldier of any sort, but the hat stuck out like a sore thumb. Needless to say, he removed it before entering the building and carried it under his arm for discretion. That meant there was just the small matter of his mechanical eye. That was rather less easy to remedy. It came with its benefits, but didn't exactly help him fit in. Eye sets weren't rare, but this was clearly installed directly into his face, surrounded by a grim red welt. It was literally screwed into his head with eight small fasteners. He'd only been outside for twenty minutes, and the bushy-bearded and buxom-breasted of the inn were still where he had left them, but returning had given them a new opportunity to stare. Trying very hard resist the urge to have the telescopic cylinder extend out and to fix on each of them in turn (just to give them a bit of a show), he smiled at the barmaid, and returned to the table where the others – his crew – were drinking.

"Right then, ladies and gentlemen, listen up," he had straightened himself out, extending his back, and tilting his chin upward a little. 'Captain mode', as he called it, required posture, and as much eye-contact as was possible – he turned to each of them, before taking a swig of his (now warm) beer, and starting; "That was Larry, as you've probably guessed – he's got a mission for us, later today. At six o' clock, some Fraycian engineers are going to be skimming to line thirty-seven for some maintenance – then, at ten, cargo is going to be passing through in train HGY-10034. Our tip-off has ever so politely asked if somebody could please de-rail the bastard and have the cargo vanish. Any guesses who's going to make their wildest dreams come true? That's right! Our very own selves."

**Sir Beowulf** · 03-25-2013

Cheers sounded throughout the tavern, the only place that was always happy. Another round of brew was brought to the table by a lovely maid with a busom to match no other. Karl always enjoyed being in small-town taverns, no matter how bad the rooms were, or the food, the booze was always top notch. Karl cheered along with the others and grabbed himself another draught and gulped it down eagerly. Times like these it was fine to be a privateer. Karl sat with his back against the seat and his legs kicked up onto the table, much to his compatriots discontent. He was relaxing, and relaxed he was.

Karl let out a quick hush as he spotted their glorious captain entering. "Hush, ya idjits! Th' Captain is here, hope he's got a good mission for us. Ah'm bored to all hell." Karl quieted down as Henry walked up to their table, straightening himself up and going into 'Captain Mode'.

"Right then, ladies and gentlemen, listen up," Henry paused to take a swig of beer, "That was Larry, as you've probably guessed – he's got a mission for us, later today. At six o' clock, some Fraycian engineers are going to be skimming to line thirty-seven for some maintenance – then, at ten, cargo is going to be passing through in train HGY-10034. Our tip-off has ever so politely asked if somebody could please de-rail the bastard and have the cargo vanish. Any guesses who's going to make their wildest dreams come true? That's right! Our very own selves."

Karls' grin grew even wider, finally they were getting a mission. It had been too long since the last time. "Thas' great news, Cap'n. A round 'fer the Captain!" Karl raised his glass and clinked it against the others as he praised their Captain. He was mainly joking, though. "Hopefully this time, we'll actually bring down some trains."

**Catherine** · 03-25-2013

Eleanor had already had quite enough to drink by the time the captain returned. Her cheeks showed signs of having drunk even more than she had, and it might have had something to do with her ordering the strongest alcohol available. One only available in Jenvia...legally. For a reason, she was finding out. She wasn't a drinker, ever. And this was definitely the drink to stop anyone who was. She remained in her chair, though. She'd seen the man at the other end of the room who'd bought the same drink fall over as soon as he stood up, landing in the vomit he emitted on the way down. No, her chair was the safest place to be. And then she got news she didn't really want, not now: A mission. Meaning she'd soon have to be up standing, which was bad enough. And then back on the Kolibra. That would be fun. Most definitely. She'd have even more fun complaining to the others. She'd had enough trouble talking to them when they first met with her accent as thick as it was, and now she was drunk. She'd have to wait to complain. If she complained. She was excited about the job, no doubt, but...

"Eecannie-- Id cannie byel liatta?" And that was her complaining. Her complaining while trying to enunciate clearly. Had she not tried so hard, she probably wouldn't have made words at all. And she'd have to try again if her complaint was to be heard. "Iet. Cannie. Bei. Lei. Terre?" She was already regretting asking, and even more regretting the drink. She'd never do it again. She'd also had trouble understanding what was said, and was pretty sure she'd be out cold by the time it happened. And her newness into the group...that would be a problem; they could easily find another engineer that wasn't so...green. And they had no reason to be loyal to her. They only just met her just before their last assignment. "Saw. Rie. Foor. Giev. Me. I'll shliep on the shkeymer." She wanted so much to find another way to get better. Maybe more food.

"Burn thish!" She shouted, with a strange, childish happiness, to the buxom maid who'd been serving their table all day so far. "And pleazh make me a sammich?" I'll never drink again, I promise! She kept the smile up the whole time, even as she cried. Why did I order this? "The besht fer drunkshes and keaveys." And there came the slang. This town was different than hers, but that word rarely ever left the borders of Jenvia. "Ilten keaveys." Keavey. Their word for their own. Their precious. It was mostly used when talking about children, which fit her apparent mood and intellect level at the moment.

She turned back to her table. "You shdop drienging. Ish bed." And now she was a hypocrite. Who hated herself enough already. Maybe it'll kill me and save someone else the trouble. Their new engineer can ride the skimmer, do a good job. They'll save the country.

**SDanko12** · 03-26-2013

Rick sat lounging in his chair with an easy grin on his face, he was enjoying the down time he and the rest of the crew were having. He sat leaning back; rolling a cigarette in front of him glancing up occasionally to look at whomever was speaking. It was pleasantly cool inside the inn, despite the heat outside and he had his jacket and the top of his shirt unbuttoned to take full advantage of this. His hat and leather headpiece sat on the table in front of him and his duster coat was draped over the back of his chair. Once he had finished rolling the cigarette he placed in his mouth and struck a match against the rough surface of the wall behind his head and held it up to his face, after a few puffs of smoke he shook the flame out and drew in a lung full of the cigarette and exhaled slowly. Looking up at the bar maid who brought them another tray of drinks he winked at her and noted the slight reddening in her cheeks as she smiled back at him.

As the captain entered the inn he didn't so much notice the man as he did the looks that all the other patrons gave him upon walking in. Rick actually liked Henry, as far as Rick liked anyone he met, and something annoyed him about the open and brazen stares the locals would give him, or more specifically his eye set. However he didn't want to lower the mood and if the captain saw fit to ignore it, he wouldn't try and play the hero. He glanced at Karl as he pointed out the appearance of the captain to the others. The purposeful stride that the captain had as he approached the table gave Rick the impression that they were about to get ready to leave. When the captain began speaking his impressions were proved to be correct and Rick finished his drink quickly.

"I'm surprised Chuckles didn't come and join us, he's usually so keen to join in on the festivities." Rick said getting to his feet and picking the duster coat up off the back of his chair with a smile to Henry. He had taken to referring to Larry as "Chuckles" due to his deadpan and serious nature and did so in an affectionate way, he found the pilot amusing, if a bit strange. Turning while putting on his leather headpiece and his hat, he looked down at Eleanor who seemed to be far drunker than he had realised, he knew she had been drinking some very strong spirits but because she had been so quiet for the last little while it didn't really register with him that she would be feeling the effects of it. Looking at her now he could see that her cheeks were reddened by the alcohol and he frankly had no idea what she was trying to say.

"Lenore, sweetheart, do try to keep it together." Rick said with mock seriousness, "We have important work to do and it'll reflect badly on me if the love of my life should fall off the Kolibra due to drunkenness." He always said such things to the female members of the Kolibra and often proposed marriage to them. Rick liked to think that he did it all out of a sense of fun but the truth was he wouldn't be able to stop himself flirting with women if he tried. They could have a knife to his throat and he would still call them beautiful. “Do I have to carry you my love?” He asked holding his arms out to the engineer.

**Kare** · 03-26-2013

Earlier

They had engineers for everything, nowadays. Everything was mechanical, from the captain's eye-piece to the devices they used to communicate over distances. Even the brains in their heads had become, if not themselves machines, components. All of this needed an engineer, of some form or other. Except the Kolibra. She did not need an engineer. All she needed was her pilot, who just about knew how to keep the old girl running. Only Laurence knew what was good for his baby, and nobody else would help him. That newish girl certainly wasn't; tearing apart machines was one thing, but piecing them together was quite another. He had spent the hottest hours of the day pacing her deck, boots clanking on the metal panelling that constituted a floor. This week, he had been systematically removing her internal and external chassis and inspecting the pipes and occasional wires behind the surface; all in perfect working order. Well, most of her worked, and, with the Kolibra, that was about all one could hope for.

She was an old skimmer; almost the same age as her twenty-four year-old pilot, and even then she had been cannibalised from the farming skimmer she would go on to replace. Technically, all such vehicles were basically the same: an open-topped cylinder with a huge propeller on the bottom to give the contraption lift. Still, the Kolibra was clearly an agricultural old girl, bothering only to have the one propeller. Most other skimmers, and certainly those owned by privateers, tended to have much more modern designs, incorporating additional propellers to aid with direction and speed. A competent pilot, of course, didn't need such novelties; every time the captain suggested installation of extra blades, Laurence had sniffed off the idea as an insult. His skimmer, his rules. He also refused, regularly, to upgrade the cage on the underside of the chassis, that contained the propeller for its own protection. His was not one of the new-fangled angular oddities, but instead a semi-sphere. The result was that whenever the skimmer landed on the unstable sands, one side would slump by about fifteen degrees or so. Stability was a wasteful extravagance.

Today, something odd had occurred – all was well. His intense inspection of the craft had finished, both inside and out, and very few repairs had been left to today. Those that had were minor – nothing more intrusive or difficult than replacing a slightly tired-looking pipe. He had then cleaned out the boiler, inside and out, just for something to do. Now, the metal silo, backed on one edge of circular wall, shone. With nothing to do, Laurence had taken an odd moment to rest; unlike the more utilitarian skimmers, the Kolibra was equipped with something more than practical weaponry and more essential than propellors: comfort. The pilot was always on the lookout for spoils, and one such delight was sturdy furniture, whose bases he reinforced, and installed directly to the deck. Such seats, if not already, he had patched with leather, to increase their resilience against the wind-carried sand.

The unusual circumstances of free time had resulted in Laurence actually sitting in one of the larger chairs (a big, squashy wingback chair whose arms had been removed). His overalls, black with soot from the boiler, lay in a small heap on the floor, but the pilot remained otherwise completely, and smartly, dressed – all the way up to the top button. His tie was long enough that the tip was tucked into the front of his trousers. Little sweat patches had formed under his arm-pits, and around the elastic of his braces, which hugged his shoulders perhaps slightly too snugly. He could feel the back of his shirt sticking to the leather surface of the chair as he leant back into it, and gently rubbed his face. His skin was exceptionally smooth, despite the rough conditions that ravaged even boulders into pebbles over time in the Kranor Valley. With delicate features and barely having seen a scratch, Laurence's face was a testament to the value of a face-mask, which lay, looking like a small, dead animal, at his feet.

For almost half an hour he sat, twiddling his feet, and going slowly mad. The only thing in his head was the absence of anything else in his head. He almost grimaced at the irony of the cacophony of nothingness, but he didn't quite manage it – his mouth remained slack, hanging very slightly open. Suddenly, his brain sprung back to life. Contact. The small sensor clipped onto his ear began to whirr gently, and he instantly leapt out of the chair, and scooped up the leather face-mask on the floor. His dexterous fingers quickly buckled the straps onto the back of his head, and shifted the headphones, and then the metal mouthpiece, in turn. He had never seen what his mask actually looked like, on. If anybody else could see themselves, they would probably remove it rather quickly. For a moment, he began to feel light-headed. The LED in the centre of the mask's forehead began to glow, almost imperceptibly in the daylight: comm set online. As he regained his senses, he could hear somebody speaking through the massive headphones;

“Quiet birds-” said the voice on the other end, waiting for Laurence to complete the code.

“-keep flying,”

“Good, Laurence. Just the man I need to speak to; I have a new mission for you.”

Thank goodness. Something to do.

Present

Typical. It was their first mission this week, and it had taken Henry almost fifteen minutes to answer his comms. When he finally had got in contact, he'd been pretty uncooperative – it took almost ten minutes' insistence to get him to drop the notion of Laurence coming into Rottsley, leaving the Kolibra with complete strangers, and then drinking alcohol. He didn't like alcohol, and Henry knew it. There was nothing good in a bottle of beer that couldn't be found in a cantine of water. Besides, drinking always brought out the worst in people. He could see the crew now; drunk; incomprehensible; and lascivious. Laurence avoided bars.

He slumped back into his seat – the sun had moved a little, and so he twisted his neck to keep it out of his eyes. The chair needed to be able to swivel freely, and lock in place only during actual flight. He could feel the sun gently nudging at his shoulder, which began to bake in the heat. For a moment, he began to wonder whether he should perhaps have gone anyway, but dismissed the thought immediately. Henry was a good friend, and there was nobody he would prefer to captain the Kolibra, but he could be very lazy, and always preferred Laurence to explain missions to the crew instead. The only time Laurence had delivered the brief himself, he had mumbled and stuttered through it at breakneck pace, and the captain had had to clarify more or less every single aspect of the plan, “That,” Laurence now said, every time Henry suggested it, “is exactly why we have a captain.”

An idea occurred to him, and he kicked off his boots. With their steel toe-caps, they landed with a dull bang on the metal panelling as he dropped them on the floor. Crossing his now unburdened legs underneath himself, he closed his eyes slowly. Peace really was overrated.

Meanwhile, in the tavern, Henry couldn't help but grin, even though his captainly instincts told him not to encourage the shambles of a crew he was supposed to lead. Apparently his absence (and Larry's resilience) had been longer than he had estimated, and in the time, Lenore had done a fantastic job of getting herself well and truly drunk. She was all but under the table, and, given her thick Jenvian accent, was entirely unintelligible – but, at least, remorseful, and she still had enough time to sober up. She'd need it – barely able to balance herself while leaning on the heavy wooden table, she wasn't doing anything remotely related to the subject of engineering any time soon. Typically, Rick had seized the opportunity to drown her in schtick. Smooth. It appeared she thought they were leaving immediately, and Henry decided not to correct her. Perhaps that would help bring her to her senses. It was tempting to persuade Larry to bring the Kolibra by after all and take her for a spin, but, with an inward grin, he dismissed the thought as childish. She wasn't to know they'd have a mission, and her distress might be punishment enough. If that wasn't, Rick's slimy nothings certainly should. That said, they were usually surprisingly effective – some had all the luck.

He breathed an inward sigh of relief as the barmaid brought Lenore her 'sammich', two crusty tweels of bread with something dead sat between. Appropriately, it was rather a sobering sight. Rather more importantly, she also brought him a new bottle of only slightly lukewarm beer. Catching the eyes of the others, and nodding with a knowing exasperation at Rick and Lenore, he chinked their glasses and took a big swig.

**februari** · 03-26-2013

Throwing caution to the wind, Lil sat atop the makeshift bar, legs crossed and swinging a booted foot back and forth to vent her fidgety nature. Without a meixe to her name, she'd pulled out the stops, especially given the heat, and favored a full-length corset bustier, it's earthy brown bedecked with a multitude of silvery eyelets and buckles, and a loose, flowing laced skirt that fell just above her booted ankles. Sadly, even the bustier did little to accentuate Lil's waifish figure, but it at least bared her shoulders. Cocked to one side atop her head, she'd chosen a short brown leather top hat, ringed by a series of slowly moving gears, the function of which was not readily apparent. A ruddy-complexioned, well-built young man stood next to her, staring longingly into her deep amber eyes as he droned on incessantly, hands waving about for emphasis, and unfortunately staying within his conversational comfort zone.

"So most people just think it's all the same, but there are different kinds. I mean, obviously there are different kinds, but they're all special in their own way. Some are good for growing and some can actually be burned. Well, not directly, but they give off flammable fumes that can be used to heat things, like boilers." With a disapproving frown, Lil tipped her mug upside down, with nary a drop spilling out, to signal that she was ready for another round and causing him to pause momentarily to fish more meixe from a tattered, soil-stained trouser pocket. "I'm not boring you am I? I mean, you seem interested, but ... well ..."

"Baby, you're talking about shit. Nobody's as interested in it as you, but I'll pretend as long as you keep buying.", Lil replied.

The hand holding the meixe hesitated, as a defeated look came across his boyish face. Muffled snickers could be heard from across the room where, at another table, were seated a trio of young men roughly his age and similarly attired in dungarees and loose-fitting shirts, all in the stained earth-tones one would expect from those who work with livestock and the land. Unsure which way to cast his eyes, he diverted them downward and started to back away from the bar. Sensing the impending end to her line of credit, Lil stopped him with a gentle touch on the cheek, lightly running her fingertips along the line of his jaw. Her expression was one of soft caring, or the condescending sympathy one might give to a puppy who'd just piddled himself, as she nudged him back toward the bar. "It's not interesting at all, and I'm still here. Think about it."

He did, and evidently arrived at a favorable product as evidenced by his pronouncement that they'd have another round. Having witnessed her encouragement, the largest of the trio slid his chair back and rose to approach the pair at the bar. His swagger was overplayed to make it clear to all that he was the most experienced of the group, as he sauntered over and leaned toward Lil, partially edging out the manure-enthusiast and his apparent friend. "Hey, so, maybe when you finish that drink we can go someplace more private."

With a wink, Lil tipped back her freshly filled mug and dabbed at her lips daintily with a pinkie to clear any remnants of foam, not that the luke-warm beverage possessed much fizz to begin with. Head cocked to one side, her tone was chipper but projected a sharper edge, "That sounds great! How about you go find a mirror, or something else shiny, take a long look, and guess how drunk I'll need to be first. Then you can figure out if you have that much meixe." The remaining pair of farmhands burst into laughter, while their fallen warrior stammered out a series of incomprehensible syllables before returning, red-faced, to their company. On his departure, she encouraged her patron to continue, "So, please, I have to know what else you can do with it."

The boy resumed his treatise on the various properties of dung, with Lil smiling and nodding along, as the captain re-entered with a sense of purpose. She placed a finger to the boy's lips and shushed him. "I need a minute, but don't forget what you were saying. I can't wait to hear about the beetles. If you please." Lil placed her hands on his shoulders, and he slipped his around her waist, helping her down from the bar. For his part, he returned to his friends where congratulations were had and machismo was brandished. She, however, took her beer and a more serious demeanor to join the others for their briefing. Of one thing she'd become certain that day - her first mission with the Kolibra would be a resounding success, so she would never, ever, ever have to endure another seminar on the various types of dung for a damn drink.

"Right then, ladies and gentlemen, listen up,"

When he finished, Lil shot her hands up and let out a vociferous cheer. "Thank you! I'm so bored!" The youth, now across the room with his friends, cast a confused glance her way, to which she responded with a simple shrug. Lenore, meanwhile, responded in barely intelligible vocal slurs, which Lil was all too happy to translate for those less fluent in the tongue of the inebriated. Having grown up in one of these crap-holes, where drinking and screwing were literally the only entertainment available, it was practically a second language. Similarly, she could gauge the frequency of headboard thumps against the wall and predict how much longer before she could get some sleep, but that was something different entirely.

**Catherine** · 03-29-2013

Eleanor ate her food quickly, probably too quickly. It made it easier for her to ignore any advances made on her. There were more than she'd like to admit, and the sad part was most were from the Kolibra's crew. There were a couple others, but thankfully they were at least somewhat intimidated by the same people she sat with. And without a word, she left to find a place to rest quietly, a task much easier to a native like her. She didn't have to go far; she'd made a camp for herself earlier out of habit. She'd done this since she was a kid, and continued even while she worked in Tanrika. It wasn't much, but it was at least somewhat hard to spot, secluded, and would protect her from most threats at least a little while she slept.

She awoke a few hours later, and it was clear her genetic resistance to alcohol had kicked in. That isn't to say she was completely unaffected; she still had a bit of a hangover, and wanted to stay asleep, but she knew she'd have to meet the crew again soon. A quick peek out of her shelter showed that no one was around (thankfully, as they could easily have followed her). She climbed out slowly, the bright light hurting a little, and with a slight disorientation. I will never touch alcohol again. I will never worship it. I will never beg for it. Why did I try it? What rational brain says, "Hey, poison me! Stop me from working! I want to burn later! BURN!"? What was I thinking? She walked toward the bar again, hoping at least one member of the crew was still there. Or there again, if they'd left, but that thought didn't cross her mind. Why would they leave? They enjoy it. Dunderheeds. She walked in with a smile on her face, even though she couldn't see straight...or really at all, given how bright it was outside still.

**Sobriquet** · 03-31-2013

James fit into the crowd of farmhands and locals seamlessly despite his slight Tanrikan accent. It had taken him a while to find the perfect disguise: a short sleeved soil-stained shirt that most locals wore, and the just tattered enough dirt colored pants. Even if the locals knew James was an outsider their guard was always lowered when someone looked like they belonged, and that meant they’d be more likely to let an outsider into their gambling table; hopefully even if said outsider goes on a suspicious winning streak. Gambling was why James loved the bars in Jenvia. Nobody knew how to count cards or any probability theorems that dictated the games. James felt a little guilty using the knowledge at first – it felt like he was robbing them while they had a bucket over their heads – but the fact is that he came into Jenvia with naught a meixe after being swindled in the countryside. He needed the money to eat if nothing else; though the more than occasional beer was good too.

“Doggonnit! Dat’s da last time ya got lucky!” the burly farmhand across the table yelled. James had a wide grin as he raked in the winnings.

“What cannae say? Maybe the cards jus’ like mah face.” James said. Mental note: say ‘mebbe’, not ‘maybe’! The last bar he was in in Jenvia before he started mimicking accents was on the verge of accusing him for witchcraft before they threw him out. James figured it’d be safer if he put more effort into blending in with the surroundings. The farmhands didn’t seem to notice the slip though, primarily due to the beer.

“Hey, look a Tommy there. Damn he be scorin’ some!” the second farmhand said as he gestured towards Lil Fickle and her companion. “Tommy cannae score anythin’. Listen ta him ramblin bout dung. Dung!” the burly farmhand said. The games continued, but it was obvious that all three were listening to Tommy now. James actually quite liked Tommy, but listening to him talk was excruciating.

Then Lil said "Baby, you're talking about shit. Nobody's as interested in it as you, but I'll pretend as long as you keep buying." James grimaced, but the two snickered loudly in response. James got a little annoyed. Poor guy was embarrassed enough - and you don’t treat friends like that.

“I couldda hooked ‘er in by now.” The large farmhand said.

“Ten meixe says ya can’t.” James said as a smirk formed on his lips. Sometimes you don’t need to calculate probabilities in order to know that it was a good bet.

The farmhand stared at James for a while, his eyes squinted at him in what was supposed to be a threatening look and he said “yer’ na’ gonna be so lucky this time” as he stood and walked over to Lil. James closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

"That sounds great! How about you go find a mirror, or something else shiny, take a long look, and guess how drunk I'll need to be first. Then you can figure out if you have that much meixe."

James couldn’t help it. He barked out a laugh and shot a quick wink at Lil as the oaf walked back. The farmhand didn’t talk much after he came back from his pretty gruesome defeat, only grunting as he handed over the meixe baton to James. The captain walked in shortly after that. James recognized the silence that took over the bar. It was not unlike the one that he got so many times in the past; people suddenly finding their inner tourist to gawk at the outsider. James started shuffling the cards as the captain spoke.

"Any guesses who's going to make their wildest dreams come true? That's right! Our very own selves."

Awesome. He cheered with the farmhands at the table as Tommy came back from his (in his view) pretty good time. James cheered the loudest and hardest and he bought a round of drinks for the whole table; not because he was actually happy for the guy – he knew that Lil was only using him – but because it was the first mission after a week of just doing nothing in this place. He also needed an excuse to ignore the anxiousness building up in the pit of his stomach. His first mission on the Kolibra. He better not screw this up.

**Kare** · 03-31-2013

Five o' clock. It was time. The sun was beginning to sink a little on the horizon, with a cool breeze drifting across the plains and wastelands of Jenvia. It had all the hallmarks of a quiet night – as though that was likely. Larry was prepared, and had been at four o' clock. Frankly, he'd been ready to go with half an hour's notice all week. He had basically been standing still like a meercat for an hour, keeping an eye on the Kolibra just in case something integral spontaneously fell off under his vigil (nothing did).

Now that night had fallen somewhat, he was rather more comfortable to be truly ready, with his mask and overalls (which, in his spare hour, he had beaten to remove most of the soot) keeping his body slightly warmer, and also protected him from the wind. Though Larry didn't know it, Jenvia had a reputation typical of desert climes – to be constantly scorching. As it was, in the dead of night, the uninhabited plains across the land were remorselessly cold. Depending on the time of year, five, six, and seven o' clock was the golden hour, warm without being intrusive. Any later, and it was worth making sure one had a coat to hand.

The Kolibra began to slow down; from a distance, Larry had spotted the dark shapes of the crew waiting for him, exactly two miles north of Rottsley, as agreed with the captain. True to his word, there they were. Good. Correct. The skimmer faltered to a halt about thirty metres away, and the team trudged towards him and climbed the ladder, one by one. First, Henry – the captain, followed by Karl, the Brain (whose name Larry didn't yet know), Ellie (or whatever her name was), Rick, and, finally, Lil.

“Shut up and listen!” this was how Henry got attention. It usually worked – on everybody else, anyway. They ceased removing their equipment from the underfloor storage, and gave the captain their ears; newbies generally gave him their utmost attention for a month or two, before inadvertantly failing to show him the respect he felt entitled to; the others had gone through this cycle one or twice each – and then never failed to listen to the briefing again. Only one crew-member ever got away with this; “That means you, too, rude bastard,” Henry added, over his comm set, for Larry's benefit, “We ride twenty-three miles East to line thirty-seven, and patrol it. The specific portion of track that will be repaired is three miles long, and we will arrive at six o' clock-”

“Six o' clock exactly,” From behind the pilot's mask, with its integrated metal mouthpiece, nobody else could hear Larry's interruption, so Henry ignored the little trumpet pointing into his ears.

“- but we're not sure what time their emissaries will arrive. Our tip-off has advised us that the engineers – how many there will be we do not know - will arrive with two guards on-board their skimmer, with a second skimmer there to protect it. I'm informed we have Fraycia to thank for their invitation to this party. The engineers, we will call Skimmer A; the guards, we will call Skimmer B. Naturally we can assume that they will both arrive together, and that, while A is the target, B is the greatest threat to us. It will almost certainly be armed with heavy cannons to shoot the Kolibra down. First job is to put the kibosh on these cannons, then on anything else they're using as a threat. James, you partner up with Karl; Lenore, you're with Rick. These kids haven't used the Kolibra's cannons before, so show them the ropes. Karl, Rick: when you think your partner's ready to fire the third cannon unsupervised, let them do so. Lenore, James: you do not decide this. It is up to your partners. As soon as the third cannon is manned, the spare part reports to me. Lenore, listen out for Larry – he may need your help-”

“Ha.”

“James, listen out for me – depending on their setup, I may need help on wirejack duty – the rest of you should know the drill. Lil, keep your ear to the ground. Give me all the information you can as soon as you can. Where they are, what they'll do. The usual. If they try to ram us or board us, you're our first line of defence. Karl, you're our second.”

“Don't forget the signal.”

“I know!” Henry snarled into his speaker, before remembering that the others couldn't hear Larry's nagging, “Our very helpful pilot has just very helpfully reminded me,” there was a play-anger in his eyes, which the longer-serving members of the team would recognise, “Of the importance of having a signal. That is, if they try to broadcast or wirejack you, we need to know as soon as possible. Your comm set may be down, and the longer you leave it, the more compromised you'll be. Karl, Rick, Lenore – you're probably going to be okay. James, you and Lil are more at risk,” he tapped the metal socket on his forehead, which appeared to be directly connected, by several wires, to a mechanism inside his peaked cap, “More sensors. Keep testing one another's comm sets. If the other doesn't respond, inform me! If you think you're compromised, hold your arms out to the side – think the letter 'T', only more dangerous to the rest of us. Larry and I are at the greatest risk; I have more sensors than the rest of you put together, and obviously they'll try to cut the pilot off if they can. Look here,” – he tapped the very front of his hat, where a blue bulb, about the size of a fingernail, glowed green, “If they try me, it'll glow yellow. If they get me, it'll glow red. I expect everybody to keep checking that light! If it's yellow, let everybody know, find the problem, and then fix it. If you can't fix it, or it glows red, drop what you're doing, and unplug this,” he pointed first to the metal socket in his forehead, “and then this,” and then turned to reveal his neck, where a much larger socket had clearly been installed, with much thicker wires plugging directly into the back of his hat, “Just yank them out. Chances are, it'll unbalance my pretty little head and I'll faint, and, if so, get my hat away from me, just in case,” currently, the team didn't have their own broadcaster, despite all these precautions they had against them. Tomorrow, Henry made a mental note to broach the subject with Lil, or at least persuade Larry to let them recruit a specialist, “If you don't unplug me, we probably all die. So, you know, do it. I repeat: if the most dangerous thing that could possibly happen happens – help me take my hat off. Don't worry about Larry. He's decked out with enough Disrupters. Trust me.

“Lastly; everybody connect to James' psychic set,” there was a pause as, in turn, the team focussed their comm sets and smoke into whatever mouthpiece they used. Each and every member was now in contact with one another – it would only take a bit of concentration to reengage the signal between each set, now that it had been made. First contact always took a lot of doing, and tended to be quite wearing; James was looking rather pale and faint at this point, “We'll be going in slow to avoid suspicion, then kick off as soon as we spot 'em. Once we speed up, don't bother speaking without your comms. Everybody happy? Good.”

James appeared to have returned to his senses. His pupils looked a bit dilated, but he was at least standing – more credit to him as the Brain. Not able to resist testing the kid's comms, he used his own microphone, connected by a bar to an exposed piece of technology built into the side of the peaked cap, “James, can you come over here a second, please? You haven't met the pilot yet.”

**Sobriquet** · 03-31-2013

The only thing that bothered James about being back in Jenvia was the weather. You had to be a cold blooded reptile to fully acclimatize to the weather here, or at least that’s what James thought. It’s not like it would hurt anyone if the desert made up her mind on whether it wanted to roast the bejeezus out of you or freeze your eyeballs until they made decent shots for hand-cannons.

James was wearing a simple sand-colored leather jacket with pants, which was a pretty good camouflage in the sandy landscape… except the the fact that his gauntlet and iron buckler was pretty obvious, especially when you were in a fight and looking for dangerous shiny things. Note to self: camouflage the shield. And gauntlet. Which was something I should’ve thought of before signing up to go bumping into trains in the night! Dumbass.

Despite the beer, self-reassurances and the general cheer he felt from winning, he was still nervous. The anxiousness that had planted its seed in his stomach as soon as the captain announced the mission was growing despite his best efforts to ignore it. It felt like he was in university again, just before the final exam. His family members just expecting him to get excellent results again so that they won’t have to worry about footing the bills for him; and the only way for him to get the teachers and society’s respect was after he proved himself worthy with those results. Everything hinged on the exams. And he failed it.

He shook himself out of his memories. I failed because I didn’t want to be in their military. I didn’t want to dance to my parents’ tunes. But I want to be here. That is the difference. I’m gonna nail this mission.

He smiled as he saw their ride moving towards them. His heart dropped as it came closer. That’s the thing I’m gonna be on? James knew of the the Kolibra and its reputation, but holy smokes the thing had only one propeller. One! And he was pretty sure a circular cage was phased out before he moved to Tanrika. James swallowed his doubts, but the nervousness was back with a vengeance.

After he was on board, he took a cursory glance around. It looked oddly… comfortable. It wasn’t by any means a luxury skimmer (which he will never take again after being swindled back in the countryside), but it was surprisingly more comfortable than the exterior suggested. James quickly strapped on his buckler, gauntlet and wirejack on his various leather straps and pouches with a form of mechanic grace. Military training was good for getting used to strapping on equipment as quickly as possible at least.

“Shut up and listen!”

James’ back immediately straightened and he almost saluted before stopping his arm midway through. A sense of embarrassment came over him as he realized what he’d done, and he focused on the captain to avoid looking at the others. Damn he sounds like my old commander. His back stayed straight as he listened intently to his captain’s orders.

"James, you partner up with Karl; Lenore, you're with Rick."

She got the one that is less likely to break my spine if I do anything wrong. Or just generally less likely to break a spine. Lucky her.

“If they try me, it'll glow yellow. If they get me, it'll glow red."

Of course. A light to show whether or not you’ve been compromised. How did I think that cutting the wire between my gauntlet and headset was a better idea? James stored the information away for further upgrades to his set. Assuming that he got back in one piece. Stop thinking that!

He listened to the rest of the captain’s orders, and resisted the urge to yell ‘yes, sir!’ everytime the captain referred to James. Military training was a pain in the ass to live with. He didn’t need to go reminding everyone that he had been trained in Tanrika every time he opened his mouth.

It was then time to be connected. James sighed inwardly. He had been dreading this, but he didn’t let it show. With a practiced efficiency, he strapped the headset on while closing his eyes as he activated the sensors.

One by one, the other crew members connected to his psychic set. He closed his eyes during the ordeal. He only had a while to get used to reusing psychic sets after getting back to Jenvia, but he was able to use his military mental conditioning to withstand it at least. Each one felt like a rat was crawling its way through his ears and eyes, with the feeling getting worse after each connection. He reassured himself in his head, with each message becoming more and more absurd. Somewhere in the middle of this, James thought in his head My brain will not be like swiss cheese! I’m the goddamn Brain! and immediately realized he was using his outside voice. "Um, ignore that." he said, now very much wishing he had decent camouflage so he'd blend into the background unnoticed.

After everyone had connected, James took some pride in the fact that he was still standing. He was a bit woozy still, but he forced his mind to focus on getting back coherency. He opened his eyes, which apparently still hasn’t got used to having a rodent living in the middle of it.

“James, can you come over here a second, please? You haven't met the pilot yet.”

“Yes, sir!”

Goddammit.

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