Blue Heaven: An asteroid outpost, once thriving as a mining town, now tapped out and dry. Leaving only the unfortunate enough to miss the last freighter off this rock; turning this place into a slimy den of low-end crime. People only driven to do what they do to survive out here on the fringe colonies. The frontier mining town used to have everything a spacer would need; but when the ore dried up, so did the shipping lanes. Now everything sold was old scavenged equipment from the mines, or still had blood spatters on it from Spacers out in the wild. The general store became more of a generally empty store. The doctor had hightailed it out on the last freighter, and the pharmacist turned shiner; running the still for the bar.
Power was available, but scarce. Dim, old, neon lights offering most of the illumination out on the streets. Their colors flashing and blinking a spectrographic display of lights, buzzing and humming quietly in the empty streets. The only set of lights that didn't flicker or waver belonged to the bar. Heaven's Blues is what read in the elaborate cursive tubing that pulsed a bright and vivid baby blue color. Inside was a typical crowd. People drowning their sorrows, surely and burly merc's sharing war stories; and of course, others trying to find a crew to get the hell off this rock.
Sitting at a table that was a little too big for him; was a small bipedal feline. Orange and white in color with vivid tritium green eyes. His eyes almost holding their own neon glow in the darkness. He was wearing a red leather Bomber jacket which had a bit of bulk to it; even possibly having a plate-carrier stitched in the back. Black pants which were baggy around the waist, seat, and thighs; but would tighten up and cling to his ankles. The pants giving the illusion of feeding right into his boots which were of the same shade of black. A revolver-style pistol was nestled in a holster on his hip, while an egg painted with in tan colored camouflage clung to his back through what seemed to be a magnetic attachment point. He was standing on the seat, leaning against the table as his bright eyes searched around for any viable candidates.
There was a small group of empty bottles piling up in front of him as yet another beer was being sucked down. Emptied, it found itself sliding into the others with a sharp and crisp clink of glass as the ginger tom then let a belch rip. No other patron bothered to look his way, as just like him, they had been here for hours. The only difference being the regulars were looking to wash away their woes, where as this 3' 4" tall feline was looking for a way out of here. He had a ship, all he needed was a crew now. Operating a craft like his with a skeleton crew of 1 was a terribly bad idea.
Power was available, but scarce. Dim, old, neon lights offering most of the illumination out on the streets. Their colors flashing and blinking a spectrographic display of lights, buzzing and humming quietly in the empty streets. The only set of lights that didn't flicker or waver belonged to the bar. Heaven's Blues is what read in the elaborate cursive tubing that pulsed a bright and vivid baby blue color. Inside was a typical crowd. People drowning their sorrows, surely and burly merc's sharing war stories; and of course, others trying to find a crew to get the hell off this rock.
Sitting at a table that was a little too big for him; was a small bipedal feline. Orange and white in color with vivid tritium green eyes. His eyes almost holding their own neon glow in the darkness. He was wearing a red leather Bomber jacket which had a bit of bulk to it; even possibly having a plate-carrier stitched in the back. Black pants which were baggy around the waist, seat, and thighs; but would tighten up and cling to his ankles. The pants giving the illusion of feeding right into his boots which were of the same shade of black. A revolver-style pistol was nestled in a holster on his hip, while an egg painted with in tan colored camouflage clung to his back through what seemed to be a magnetic attachment point. He was standing on the seat, leaning against the table as his bright eyes searched around for any viable candidates.
There was a small group of empty bottles piling up in front of him as yet another beer was being sucked down. Emptied, it found itself sliding into the others with a sharp and crisp clink of glass as the ginger tom then let a belch rip. No other patron bothered to look his way, as just like him, they had been here for hours. The only difference being the regulars were looking to wash away their woes, where as this 3' 4" tall feline was looking for a way out of here. He had a ship, all he needed was a crew now. Operating a craft like his with a skeleton crew of 1 was a terribly bad idea.
