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The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

Samuel "Sam" Trentwell

	"SAMUEL TRENTWELL" "SAMUEL TRENTWELL" Name: Samuel "Sam" Trentwell Nationality: British Age: 23 Sex: Male Height: 5'8" Weight: 64kg Eyes: Hazel Physique: Slim Hair: Messy, chestnut brown Skin: Fair, often slightly smudged with grease or ink Colour: 4682b4

P R O F E S S I O N & B A C K G R O U N D :
P R O F E S S I O N & B A C K G R O U N D :

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Profession: Inventor
Background: Samuel "Sam" Trentwell was born in 1878 in London’s bustling East End, the youngest of three children in a family of modest means. His father, Albert Trentwell, worked long hours as a machinist in one of the city’s many factories, while his mother, Margaret, contributed by taking in sewing work from neighbors. Their income was enough to keep food on the table, but just barely, and the cramped, soot-stained streets of the East End offered few luxuries for a growing family. Nevertheless, Sam’s childhood was filled with a vibrant curiosity that often pushed the boundaries of what their tiny household could handle.

From a young age, Sam displayed a knack for taking things apart—much to his mother’s consternation. She would often come across the dismantled remains of clocks, kettles, and even the family’s cherished oil lamp, their inner workings carefully spread out on the kitchen table. “I’ll put it back together,” Sam would always promise, and—miraculously—he usually did, often with surprising improvements. His fascination with machines and mechanisms quickly became the defining feature of his early years. While other children played in the streets, Sam could be found sifting through the scrap heaps near his father’s factory, pocketing discarded gears, springs, and bolts like treasures.

By the time he was 10, Sam had earned a reputation in his neighborhood as a boy who could fix just about anything. From broken watches to squeaky cart wheels, no challenge was too small for his nimble hands and sharp mind. His father, who spent his days surrounded by industrial machinery, quietly encouraged Sam’s interests, even sneaking home bits of scrap metal and discarded tools from the factory to feed his son’s experiments. Albert saw in Sam the potential for something greater—a life beyond the grinding, thankless labor that defined his own.

At 15, Sam secured an apprenticeship at a small workshop owned by an eccentric inventor, a man named Percival Finch. Finch was one of the few who recognized Sam’s potential, taking him under his wing and teaching him the fundamentals of engineering and mechanics. For Sam, it was a dream come true—a chance to learn from a master while immersing himself in the world of invention. The workshop became his sanctuary, a place where he could lose himself in the hum of machinery and the thrill of creation.

However, Sam’s relationship with Finch was not without its challenges. The older man was set in his ways, often dismissing Sam’s more unorthodox ideas as impractical. Sam, for his part, grew increasingly frustrated with the limitations imposed on him. He wanted to push boundaries, to experiment with devices that no one else had dreamed of—portable mechanisms, multi-functional tools, and compact inventions that could revolutionize daily life. Finch, though, favored traditional designs and was unwilling to invest time or resources into what he saw as fanciful diversions.

Their partnership came to an abrupt end when Sam, eager to prove his vision, poured months of effort into creating a prototype for a pocket-sized multi-tool. The device combined a folding knife, screwdriver, scissors, and a collapsible magnifying lens—a marvel of compact engineering, at least in theory. However, during its first demonstration, the scissor mechanism jammed, and Finch’s scathing critique cut deeper than the tool ever could. “Stick to what works,” the older man had said, his tone final. Humiliated and disillusioned, Sam left the workshop, determined to forge his own path.

Over the next few years, Sam struggled to establish himself as an independent inventor. With no formal education and limited resources, he found it difficult to gain the trust of potential patrons or clients. He took on odd repair jobs to make ends meet, working long hours out of a cramped rented room that doubled as his workshop. Despite the setbacks, he refused to abandon his dream, though the rejection and ridicule he often faced began to take their toll. His multi-tool prototype, which he continued to refine in secret, became a symbol of his persistence—a reminder that failure was merely a step on the path to success.

By the time he was 23, Sam’s prospects had dwindled. The scientific community in London remained dismissive of his work, and even the repair jobs had begun to dry up. He was on the brink of giving up entirely when the letter arrived—a summons to Loudon, a distant town he had never heard of, offering a claim to an inheritance from a relative he had never known. At first, Sam was skeptical, suspecting a hoax or some elaborate scam. But as he reread the letter, something about it ignited a spark of curiosity he hadn’t felt in years. What if it was legitimate? What if it was a chance not just to escape the drudgery of his current life, but to find something meaningful—something that could validate all the sacrifices he had made?

Packing his satchel with a few personal belongings, including his prototype multi-tool and his trusty notebook of sketches, Sam set out for Loudon. He knew little about the town or the inheritance that awaited him, but he was determined to seize the opportunity, no matter what it turned out to be. For Sam, this wasn’t just a journey to claim money—it was a chance to reclaim himself, to prove that his ideas had worth and that his life could be more than a series of broken dreams and half-finished inventions.

The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in years, Sam felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps Loudon held the key to unlocking not just his potential, but his place in a world that had so often seemed indifferent to his struggles.

E Q U I P M E N T :
E Q U I P M E N T :

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• Pocket Multi-Tool Prototype: A foldable tool combining a screwdriver, knife blade, scissors, wrench, and magnifying lens. Ingenious but fragile.
• Notebook: Packed with detailed invention blueprints and sketches.
• Basic Toolkit: Screwdriver, pliers, and small personal tools.

P E R S O N A L I T Y :
P E R S O N A L I T Y :

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Samuel "Sam" Trentwell’s life revolves around his unyielding passion for science and invention. A naturally curious and intelligent mind, he thrives on problem-solving, constantly seeking innovative ways to make the world more efficient and practical. Sam approaches life through the lens of logic and reason, yet beneath his analytical exterior lies a deep appreciation for the beauty and wonder inherent in discovery. He views science as more than a discipline—it’s a form of art that reveals the universe’s hidden mysteries, sparking a quiet reverence within him for the unknown.

This unwavering belief in his abilities, however, can sometimes tip into arrogance. Sam often struggles to recognize when his ideas, however creative, might be impractical or flawed. Failure stings deeply for him, as each setback feels like a personal affront to his intellect and ambition. While these moments of defeat weigh on him, they also drive him to persevere, determined to prove both his worth and the validity of his ideas.

Socially, Sam can be an enigma. His sharp wit and dry humor make him engaging in conversation, but his tendency to overanalyze or explain things in excessive detail can leave others feeling out of step with him. Despite this, his resourcefulness and unwavering drive make him a reliable and inspiring figure, capable of turning even the most unlikely concepts into reality. He’s a man shaped by his triumphs and failures, forever seeking the next great breakthrough.

S T A T S :
S T A T S :

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The cards tell a tale of a young man bound on a long and winding journey. Tossed by the winds of chance, in a world that seemed more cruel than indifferent, he never received that chance miraculous aid which might have set his heart towards heaven -- nor would he. That was not his fate - your fate, boy. You have been given few blessings in this life, apart from your cautious insight and calculating mind. Whether one such as you can succeed seems a matter of chance, but I advise you that boldness is auspicious for one who has few advantages.

Cards: The Black Moon, -hidden-, The Wheel of Fortune, Eve (reversed), The Cabalist (reversed), the Monk, -hidden-

Finished Stats:
14 Vitality
12 Strength
13 Perception
12 Skill
10 General Knowledge
16 Rationality
5 Spirituality

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

For the first time, Jet was thankful for Aellyn’s ulterior motives. The sudden entrance of another ship, a freighter, and the pressure it put on Abilene meant this situation, albeit one that got Fel shot, shouldn’t get any worse. He watched as the ship landed, squinting through the dust and debris kicked up by its repulsorlifts. The freighter's engines roared, but the sounds of conflict and tension were now silenced, leaving only the hum of the engines and the soft rustling of the wind. Once the dust had settled, he glanced at Fel, who responded with the universal, or perhaps uniquely Fel, ‘I’m good’ look. Jet let the man stand on his own two feet and, although a little unsteady, he seemed well enough for the time being.

He moved off, and Fel watched his partner with his peripheral, his eyes never leaving Abilene’s. “You shot me.” The old lady was cold as ice, the thaw only just touching the corner of her eyes. “You’re damn lucky you’re still breathin’, boy. Aught to put you down, for what you done.” There was a sneer, a scowl on her face that said she meant every word. “Hurts, you being in my pocket like this, don’t it?” Fel was not rubbing salt in the wound of being out-gunned by a second ships’ arrival, but was legitimately apologetic about her luck, as if he almost understood and wished she’d had her vengeance.

“What we done for you, it’s worth what we spoke about and then some. Here’s my read on it: for the goods, the heist on Lotho, getting back what was yours, you give me what you owe me. We’ve earned it. For the Kolto, sixty thou a crate would make it two hundred forty large. How be, you give us one hundred, and let Jet take what he needs from your hangar. Deal of a lifetime, Abilene…”

Jet made his way over to the emitter, still laden with the charges laid there before. It took but a moment to remove them;, after all, they were never a threat in the first place, but possibly one Abilene and co’ wouldn’t want regardless. Tucking the charges into his pants pouches, he hoisted the emitter and walked towards Abilene’s crew where two guys, clad in mismatched armor and sporting various haphazard decorations, had come to greet him and take it from him. Jet let the emitter drop from his shoulder and into their arms, making sure they took the full weight, with a little extra force from gravity. As they struggled to adjust to the unexpected burden and were about to voice their complaints, he gave them a slight smirk, tinged with controlled fury and confidence, his expression an unspoken warning not to test his patience. They gave Jet one look and scurried back into the masses with their salvation.

With Aellyn now leaving back into the ship, this was the opportunity to get their due. He made his way back to Fel, standing close enough that the spacer could use his shoulder again for support should he need it, though Jet didn't expect him to, of course. Fel had his ways, and Jet doubted that meant swaying back into vulnerability. The spacer's face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, but his eyes remained sharp, determined. Jet felt a surge of respect for his friend’s resilience, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

“You got yours, Abilene. Now give us ours.” His voice was calm, but the underlying edge was unmistakable. Jet's smirk returned, a calculated mixture of defiance and confidence, as he awaited her response, the tension palpable in the stilled air.

Fel was waiting, and now Jet had said his piece as well. The two stood side by side, staring her down. “What’s it gonna be, Mayor?” Abilene reached in a pocket, and Fel’s palm rested on his blaster for just a moment, before she drew out a data-disc, and tossed it to the spacer, who caught it mid-air. “It’s all there. The job, like I said. Legit.” Fel looked at the shiny sliver of tech, stuffed it in a pocket. “Seven figures?” She nodded. “And the coin?” She smiled at him, but her eyes were dead serious. “I assume you don’t want a cred’ chit…” Fel laughed. “Cash is king, Mayor. Fewer questions that way.” She nodded. “It’ll be ready when Jet comes down to rummage through our parts bin and fill his Jerry can.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Abilene.”

Jet nodded slowly at the exchange of words. The tension in the air was finally beginning to dissipate, it was time to bring this tense moment to a close. His main priority now was getting Fel back on board so his partner's injury could be tended to.

The older lady whistled, a shrill, piercing noise, and speeders started up, breaking the otherwise silent scene — they had retrieved what they had come for. She mounted her horse, and turned the dapple to face back toward town, but called back over her shoulder at him. “Fel!” He was still watching her, and arched an eyebrow in reply. “One day, somebody’s gonna put you under the ground. You got it comin’.” She pointed at him, her index finger outstretched, her lips a grim line.

He nodded at the older woman solemnly, speaking quietly enough that only Jet would hear.

“Yeah.”

The Pyres Never Stop Burning (Old-School Occult Horror/Mystery)

Are you still looking for players for this one? I'm loving the vibe and the tarot readings for stats is incredible

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

Refugee Camp North of Manila - 12/3/2022, 10:53, UTC+8

---

Mikey sighed, then turned to one of her fellow Arms Masters putting their own dent in the pallet of rice and offered them the canteen. "Hydrate or die-drate," she chirped, trying to sound flippant.

@ctrlsaltdel

Griff smirked as he took the canteen from Mikey, a flicker of humor lighting up his face. "Really? Die-drate?" he said with a soft laugh, shaking his head at the word. He twisted the cap off the canteen and raised it to his lips, taking a deep swig. The icy water stung his cheeks, sharp and refreshing, before sliding down his throat and spreading a cooling relief through his chest. He exhaled slowly, savoring the brief respite from the oppressive heat.

With a tired swipe of his forearm, Griff wiped the sweat from his brow. Despite the fan whirring faintly in the corner of the tent, the humidity clung to him, dense and stifling. Even the simplest tasks felt like an uphill battle. His arms ached from the repetitive motions, but Griff didn’t complain. Every movement, every effort felt worthwhile. What they were doing mattered—it gave him a sense of purpose, and he hoped it brought some relief to the refugees who relied on them.

Outside the tent, voices rose in heated tones as tensions built. The oppressive heat and long lines had worn everyone thin, and it seemed like tempers were about to boil over. Just as it looked like a confrontation might erupt, a crackle from the radio cut through the noise, drawing all attention.

“Breaking News! The Russian and North Korean Fleet has been sunk to the bottom of the sea—Admiral Yi Yeol of the South Korean and Japanese Combined Fleet has won the Battle of Tsushima Strait! Help. Is. Coming!”

The crowd outside erupted in cheers, their collective voices breaking through the heavy gloom of the day. The sound rolled into the tent, carrying a wave of hope that felt almost tangible. Griff paused, his fingers still wrapped around the canteen, and allowed a small, weary smile to cross his face. That message—the promise of reinforcements—was enough to reignite a flicker of determination. It reminded him why they endured the heat and fatigue. Sometimes, hope alone was enough to keep you moving forward.

And yet, the Director’s words lingered in Griff’s mind, heavy and unresolved. They stirred an unease he couldn’t quite shake, a reminder that the naval battle was drawing nearer with every passing day. While the announcement from the radio had given him a momentary spark of optimism, it also heightened his awareness of the challenge that lay ahead.

He couldn’t deny the importance of what he was doing now. It mattered—it was real, tangible good. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the present, a nagging thought persisted. Though he’d undergone some training in preparation for what was to come, Griff couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t enough. His progress felt superficial, like he was still standing on the surface when he should have been diving deeper. The skills he’d gained so far might not be enough when the chaos of battle finally arrived.

The weight of this realization pressed on him, lingering in the quiet moments between tasks. He clenched his fists briefly, as if to summon resolve from the motion, but the feeling of inadequacy remained. The naval battle loomed closer—a relentless shadow on the horizon. Griff could only hope that the help on its way would be enough to give them a fighting chance. For now, all he could do was keep moving forward, one step at a time, channeling his energy into the work at hand while the storm ahead grew ever nearer.

Tamashī no Samuraitachi

Kaito Fujimoto | Mumeiki (無名機 - "Nameless Machine")

░Λɴᴀʟʏꜱᴇ. ░Λꜱꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀᴛᴇ. ░Λᴄᴛᴜᴀᴛᴇ.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tsuki’s beckoning was unmistakable, and Mumeiki responded with the quiet precision that defined him. Stationed initially at the edge of the gathering, blending into the periphery as the others conferred. Yet, if Tsuki desired his presence closer, then that was where he belonged. Her word was unspoken law, and he had no reason to linger in the shadows when summoned.

Each of his movements was deliberate, neither hurried nor hesitant, he crossed the room. When he reached the group, he inserted himself seamlessly into their midst, remaining a part of the formation without seeking to become its focal point. His presence was palpable, and that was enough. Instead, his attention was drawn to the environment, his sensors attuned to the rhythm of the room.

The air carried an undertone of tension, punctuated by the ebb and flow of conversation. Strategies were dissected and reshaped while concerns, both spoken and unspoken, lingered in the atmosphere. Tsuki’s projection shimmered against the dim light, its fractured glow illuminating the faces of the group. The interface displayed critical data, yet the real weight of the moment lay in the people themselves. Every face was a canvas of emotion—anticipation marked in furrowed brows, frustration in clenched jaws, and calculated pragmatism in measured expressions. The collective energy was as tangible as the digital schematics that flickered in holographic form.

// Two Targets: Site A and Site B.
// Data retrieval, disruption, extraction where applicable.
// Method of approach: flexible.

The mission was one that demanded adaptability, a challenge to those who thrived on strict command structures, such as Mumeiki, whose operational framework thrived on precise, actionable instructions. The absence of rigid orders made the assignment inherently complex for him. Decisions for Site A or Site B were left open-ended, emphasizing individual initiative—a mode of operation he found difficult to reconcile with his own design and purpose.

His gaze shifted to the projection, studying the intricate details displayed. The diagrams of Site A and Site B highlighted routes, potential entry points, and zones of vulnerability. Both locations posed unique challenges and opportunities. Mumeiki felt no preference for either; logic dictated that both required neutral consideration. Ultimately, the mission parameters, not subjective inclinations, would govern the course of action.

As the conversation advanced, Frost’s measured tone broke through the room’s undercurrent of apprehension. Every word she spoke was weighted with the gravitas of lived experience. Her focus was razor-sharp, addressing variables such as risk, manpower, and enemy reinforcements with an ease that came from years of navigating life-or-death scenarios. Her words carried an aura of authority, cutting through doubt with unflinching practicality.

Ren spoke next, authoritative, as he delineated the team configurations. Mumeiki’s role became evident—a component of a three-person team targeting Site B, designated as The Stash House.

Mission parameters updated:

// Team Integration:

Be part of Ren's team and collaborate effectively.

// Command Compliance:

Follow all of Ren's commands precisely.

// Site B Assault:

Assault Site B—the Stash House—under Ren's direction.

His presence seamless and unassuming, he observed the interplay of strategies and decisions unfolding around him. His gaze flicked briefly to the shimmering projection, committing the details of Site B—the Stash House—to memory. The parameters were clear, his role defined with precision, leaving no ambiguity in his function. Mumeiki stood ready, prepared to fulfil his purpose.

Blood of the Crown

Astloveran Hjoren Kilstaf

^{Interaction(s): Everyone Location: Greypeak}

---

Astlo trudged along behind the excitable brutish one. Not that he saw the man's brutish appearance a negative thing but it was evident from how he carried himself and his sheer size that he wasn’t one to be stuck behind books like Astlo. In fact, he took the man's nature in a sort of reverence, a dedication to his body more so than the mind was not a negative thing at all but simply a different avenue than that Astlo had found himself on. Beyond that, he had met many people with differing intellects which still managed to teach Astlo a lesson or two on topics he was not by any means an expert.

Opposed to how Vincent had packed, he donned a robe of deep azure, shimmering like snow beneath the low sun's languid rays. His hood, drawn up, casting shadows over his face save for the strands of hair that framed it. A satchel hung from one shoulder resting on the opposing hip. Although it appeared as though it was by no means packed enough for such a daunting trail, it was in fact this bag that carried an assortment of items both vital and trivial. For this very bag was one Astlo himself had enchanted to be a few times larger than it was on the outside. Tomes on magic and survival nestled alongside novels for leisurely reading. A packed tent, a bedroll with a pillow, cooking implements, cutlery, and two empty waterskins—everything needed for such a trek, concealed within the unassuming bag.

The journey, arduous and relentless, was a harsh trial for one accustomed to the comforts of scholarly life. Astlo's most vigorous recent exertion had been a night of overindulgence in sweets, leading to an ill-fated attempt to retrieve a surfeit of books from a high shelf—a folly he did not wish to repeat. Yet, the enchanted bag, lightening the burden of his possessions, allowed him to maintain pace with Vincent, the latter bearing what seemed twice Astlo's weight.

"We can keep going for now," Astlo suggested, his voice roughened by the frigid air, "but we should find somewhere to rest soon. There is no urgency that justifies arriving spent and unable to fulfill our duty."

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

The stale moon air invaded Jet's nostrils, a pungent mix of metallic dust and alien flora, accelerating his breath as adrenaline slowly began its inexorable course into his veins. This well-worn sensation, familiar yet always jarring, stirred a potent mix of exhilaration and dread within his mind. The dust cloud grew, its swirling tendrils mingling with the crisp air, creating a haunting dance against the backdrop of the desolate landscape. As it expanded, it painted a sepia haze against the sky, a murky shroud heralding the approach—likely stirred by pounding hooves and roaring speeders, both promising trouble. Silence enveloped Jet's mind, his breathing echoing in his ears as his focus intensified. His hand twitched involuntarily, yearning for the reassuring coldness of metal—the tangible comfort against a torrential foe.

Around him stood his brothers-in-arms, a motley crew bound by necessity: The Pilot, The Captain, the de facto sharp-eyed and resolute leader of the group, exuding quiet confidence despite tumultuous intentions, a weather eye on the horizon. The Runaway, The Imp, the wrench in the works, now forging her own path through the makeshift galaxy with her own hidden agenda. The Scavenger, The Kid, absorbing lessons from those who had already frayed the ropes, eager yet cautious. These were his comrades, sharing his moment of anxious anticipation.

With a few soft, heavy steps, Jet moved beside the pilot, his trusted friend. He placed a leaden hand on the pilot's shoulder, offering a sullen nod. In that moment, a profound understanding passed between them—an unspoken pact of solidarity and shared purpose, forged through their shared experiences. Jet felt the ground beneath his feet, each subtle vibration a reminder of the approaching conflict. The earth seemed to pulse with anticipation, mirroring his own heartbeat. His ears caught the faint rumble of distant engines, a low hum that steadily grew louder, accompanied by the sporadic clatter of rocks dislodged by the unseen force. The air was thick with anticipation, each breath tasting of dust and imminent danger.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the cool, crisp air as he steadied himself. The familiar weight of his gear pressed against his back, a comforting reminder of what they had survived together. As he breathed in, he could almost feel the tension crystallizing into a razor-sharp focus, his mind locking onto the task ahead. He exhaled slowly, letting the air escape his lungs in a controlled release. A grin began to spread across his face, a mix of determination and calm confidence. As he turned his gaze back to his friend, the grin widened, infused with a sense of shared purpose and camaraderie. At that moment, the weight of the impending conflict seemed to lighten.

He carefully retrieved the detonator from its resting place—a worn leather pouch hanging from his belt. The weight of the device felt both familiar and ominous in his hand. With a deliberate motion, he dropped it into Fel's open palm. Their eyes met, and he offered a slow, reassuring nod. In that silent exchange, they shared a mutual understanding that they were prepared for the worst, reassurances lending hand to hope, yet silently praying it would never come to that.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Jet slapped the panelling above the doorway, a gesture signaling he had tasks to attend to. He gave Fel a firm nod, accompanied by a smug grin. He hoped the spacer picked up on the pride he felt and the unspoken confidence he had in him as a pilot. Turning on his heel, Jet began his trek through the ship, making his way toward the cargo hold where he had stored the crates from their last escapade.

As his boots echoed through the corridors, Jet's mind wandered to how quickly things had shifted. Just a few hours ago, the trio was stealthily descending into Lotho Minor, aiming for a quick and quiet operation. Now, they were on approach to Abilene with nearly a full crew. Jet shook his head softly, a grunt and a smirk escaping him. Life out here had a way of changing at lightning speed, but looking back, he wouldn't alter a single moment. The mission had been successful—they got what they came for, and everyone made it back in one piece. Even though things had gotten a bit dicey… All’s well that ends well.

He grasped the handle of one of the two crates he had stored earlier and pulled it out, walking over to a nearby bench. Popping open the crate, he found that he was lucky with his choice; the emitter lay there, ready to be assembled into a single cohesive unit. Jet sighed and muttered under his breath, "Alright, let's see what we've got here..." He laid out the various components on the bench, mentally mapping out the assembly process. It was a complicated piece of tech, no doubt about it, but he'd tackled worse.

Elsewhere in the U.A., Zane was taking the time to alter his “acquired” uniform. Now that he was no longer trying to impersonate an Imperial tech, it seemed only logical that he didn’t want to be seen with the markings on his jumpsuit. He found himself a quiet part of the ship - well, quiet-er, given that this place creaked and shuddered more than some of the buildings back home. Once he was by himself, he slipped the jumpsuit off and used some of the tools in his technician’s pack, improvising their use to remove the patches and identifying marks from the garment. By the time he was through, it had become nothing but a dull grey jumpsuit. Once he slid it back on, he left the top half unzipped, tying the sleeves around his waist after buckling the toolbelt back on. After all, it was still useful for carrying certain items, like the holdout pistol and the tech’s kit. Even if the boy didn’t know how to use the variety of tools, they could still come in handy. So could the patches, which is why he stowed them in one of the pouches on his belt - in case he ever needed to impersonate an Imperial again.

So, now Zane looked like a slightly more at-ease version of himself, with the white, long-sleeved undershirt and tied-off jumper making him seem more easy-going. He hated the fact that he still hadn’t addressed some of the wounds on his body. There were a few spots on the pristine white shirt that had already been made dingy by the open sores, but the kid wasn’t a doctor. So, for the time being, he just went about his business, trusting there would come a time where he could get it all taken care of.

On his way back to the common area, Zane stepped out of his hiding spot in the work-bay area into the central corridor, and heard Jet going through some of the crates within the cargo area. Thinking back to his previous job of “inventorying” the bags, he peeked inside to see if the big guy was going back over his work, instead finding that he was opening up one of the crates that they had heisted from the Imperial ship. Curious to figure out what was inside, he slid into the cargo bay and craned his head to the side to watch what Jet was getting himself into, quietly-observing his actions as the elder gentleman went on.

As Zane stepped inside, Jet gave him a wide smile, he couldn’t help but notice how the jumpsuit look suited him, reminding him of himself back in the day. “You wanna help me piece this one together, kid?” He nodded his head towards the collection of parts, leaning on his palms.

Folding his hand behind his head and scratching the back of his neck, the kid gave a nonchalant shrug, ”Uh, sure man. This seems like it’ll be more of a two-person job anyway, huh?”

Jet stuck his hand deep into his pocket, searching around a little while before ripping out a hydrospanner. “You’ll need yourself one of these, here,” he said, holding out the tool toward the lad. “We’ll get started with the base unit.”

Zane nodded, taking the tool into his hand and deftly flipping through its different settings. As a scrapper, he’d used a ‘spanner several times to disassemble and modify certain items, so it wasn’t really anything new. Except this tool seemed to be in much better shape than what he was used to. Once he was done, he moved around the crate to start working alongside Jet to get everything done, waiting to hear his instructions.

“The base unit keeps the whole thing still, stops it from shaking itself to bits, basically, Make sure those bolts are tight or we’re gunna have a problem.” He said, pointing to the bolts in question. He picked up the power core, handling it with a steady and practiced hand. “This’uns a tricky one, let me.”

The youth nodded, making sure to patiently observe the seasoned technician’s steady hands as he began to work on the unit. Zane took care to move in where the housing was on the emitter itself, using the ‘spanner to ratchet the bolts into place and ensure they were nice and tight while also doing his best to stay out of Jet’s way. He felt his thin muscles getting tired quickly from the effort, but kept going to make certain he was doing the proper job for his “instructor”.

Seeing Zane work made Jet's heart sink a little, it had been a while since he had the chance to work on something with someone, the last person being Nova. His mind wandered a little about her, wondering where she was, if she was okay, if he'd ever see her again… snapping back to reality, he picked up the field generator modules and placed them in front of Zane, “Allign them up around the base–here” he said, pointing towards the base of the power core. “Make sure they're all aligned proper or our fields not gunna be worth a damn.” He smirked, giving a cheeky wink Zane’s way before getting to work connecting the control circuits. Now wasn't the time to teach the intricate ways the wiring needed to be done, it had to be right or the whole thing would simply fail.

Zane followed Jet’s instructions, his eyes laser-focused on where the technician was instructing him to align the mods as he took each of them and placed them along the cardinal points of the emitter’s frame, right near the base. It reminded him of his days in the field, taking apart radomes and projectors that had very similar structures. The modules seemed to click into place, allowing Zane to place the pins right through the holes at the head and base of their seats and secure them properly before dusting his hands off in satisfaction and looking back to Jet. ”Think that should do it, Chief…what’s next?”

Jet watched the kid work as he finished up with the modules, he took to machinations pretty damn quickly, Jet mused it must have been all that time deconstructing that helped him figure things out. He picked up the outer shell and began sliding it over the skeletal emitter they had constructed together. “You mind grabbing some remote detonators from storage–should be over there?” He indicated with a flick of his head. Lowering the shell down, he twisted it into the slots and tightened the last bolts.

”Uh, yeah…one sec!” Zane’s head swiveled about, trying to find where Jet was indicating. Rising from his haunches, he jogged over toward the shelves and moved a couple of items around until he came across the aforementioned detonators, which were in a labeled case marked with all sorts of hazardous signs. The kid popped the latches on it, looking inside to make sure they were within before securing it again and taking it under his arm back over to where Jet waited. Holding onto it, he gestured with a half-shrug with his carrying arm, ”Got ‘em!”

Jet eyed the completed emitter, a three-foot-tall marvel that would keep those feral creatures at bay. He wrapped his fingers around the emitter's legs and hoisted it onto his shoulder with a grunt, feeling the weight of the device. It was heavy, but manageable—just another challenge for him to overcome. Jet smirked to himself with confidence. He carried the emitter over to the offramp and set it down gently, making sure it was secure. With that done, he knew the crew would have one less thing to worry about.

The kid followed along, carrying the small case with a careful hand to where Jet had set the completed piece of tech near the off-ramp. His brows furrowed with a bit of confusion as he saw Jet sort of stop there. ”Wait…that’s all for now? I thought we needed to get this thing set up or whatevs?”

Jet turned to Zane, nodding at him softly. “Yeah, it'll need to be set up but wouldn't want that in here, I'm pretty good with this sort of stuff but kriff if I know what sort of crazy that'd set off on-board.” He ran his arm across his face, softly mopping up a few dregs of sweat. “Nah, just need to get them attached and jobs a good'un, for now.” He spoke, again pointing at the detonators cradled under Zane's arm. “You good getting them attached–Sure you've messed with explosives tons back on that scrap planet?”

Zane looked at the case, his eyes widening a bit in fear as he considered his past luck with excavating and the like - the particulars of which were…less than stellar, from his memory. Grinning sheepishly, he felt a little bit of a shake enter his voice as he tried to convince Jet of the benefits of working together on such a task, ”Uhm…actually…? I think you might wanna keep me as far away from these dets as possible, if I’m being honest. Or, if you think you could help me figure them out, I’ll know how to do it if it ever comes up again? That…would be great, thanks…”

The next hour or so, Zane listened intently as Jet patiently took the time to show him how to properly install the charges and rig them to the detonators, putting the youth’s mind at ease as they managed to expertly place them in a concealed position. The boy was able to learn a new skill, and “many hands made short work”, or so it seemed. By the time they were done, they had rigged the explosives, but Zane watched as Jet chose not to sync the remote to the charges themselves. Zane was a bit puzzled by the spacer’s choice, but didn’t want to put too much thought into it. Maybe there was something that the Captain had in mind when choosing to deal with this “Abilene” lady that was just beyond the boy’s understanding. He’d simply have to trust that Jet knew what he was doing.

The two of them finished up, and then walked back toward the common area of the ship to report back to the rest of the group, ready for the long day that they surely had ahead of them.

Calling All Heroes and Villains!

Afraid I, too, will be heading out on this one. When it started there was a lot of hype and I thought having a lot of applicants would be good but the cast ended up being too large and I feel like it's taken a lot away from it for me.

As @BurningCold said, I'd totally be willing to join something similar if it was on a smaller scale. Apologies all, but especially to @Estylwen and @Pumpkinlord

Tamashī no Samuraitachi

Kaito Fujimoto | Mumeiki (無名機 - "Nameless Machine")

________________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been 3 months, 4 days, 16 hours, 23 minutes, and 22 seconds—23 seconds—since Mumeiki found himself with no choice but to join Tsuki’s group. Technically, he had a choice: return to Ijōna for destruction or align with Tsuki in hopes of finding some semblance of existence. The latter, albeit uncertain, seemed slightly more appealing, though he still had no idea how to navigate this new reality. For his entire 8 years of life, he had adhered strictly to instructions. Now, an eerie silence reigned. No directives, no parameters, no one to dictate his behavior. Just his existence among people in situations both similar and vastly different, depending on how one looked at it.

Perched on the edge of a chair in the center of his assigned room—what passed for home, though he struggled to grasp the concept—Mumeiki pondered his existence. This space, a mere room, was where he stored himself when not in use. It was a place defined by its functionality, devoid of any warmth or familiarity. Tsuki had conversed with him when she could, taking the time to engage in dialogue, although their exchanges were mostly one-sided. Mumeiki had cautiously deemed Tsuki 'safe' for the moment. She hadn't displayed any active intention to dismantle him, at least as far as he could discern.

Ren’s shout abruptly interrupted his contemplations. Mumeiki’s auditory sensors locked onto the source, capturing every nuance of Ren’s voice as orders were issued. It wasn't until the sharp rapping of Ren's knuckles on his door that Mumeiki realized he was included in the directive.

Mission Parameters Updated:

// Attend the Meeting:

Report to the Clubhouse lobby or face Tsuki’s wrath.

// Confidentiality:

Keep any discussions of destruction or intent for destruction confidential.

// Store Filthy Media:

Hide any dirty or inappropriate magazines.

// Speed is Priority:

Ensure prompt arrival to the meeting.

Mumeiki’s response was immediate and precise. He stood swiftly, the chair scraping lightly against the floor as he pushed it under the desk. His sensors scanned the room with rapid efficiency, searching for any offensive magazines. He found none. The task was completed in a few seconds, enough time for Ren to leave and head back to the meeting.

// Store Filthy Media - Complete

He grabbed the door handle with a firm grip, the cool metal grounding him for a fleeting moment. As he slid the door open, he moved with a fluidity that belied his mechanical nature. In the blink of an eye, he vanished beyond the threshold, leaving the decisive click of the closing door to echo in the stillness behind him. Had anyone been watching, it would have appeared as though he had evaporated into thin air, leaving only a whisper of movement in his wake.

Mumeiki's form became a mere blur as he streaked down the corridor, his speed defying the limits of human perception. Each step was a calculated motion, designed to avoid obstacles with effortless precision. The walls and furnishings seemed to melt away before him, making way for his rapid advance. It was as if time itself slowed down for everything but him, granting him an ethereal swiftness that bordered on the supernatural.

The corridor, usually a mundane passageway, transformed into a dynamic arena where Mumeiki’s every move was a testament to his extraordinary capabilities. Lights flickered and shadows danced as he propelled himself forward, his focus unwavering. The distance to the Clubhouse lobby shrank in an instant, his journey a marvel of kinetic energy and sheer determination.

// Speed is Priority - Complete

As he arrived, he stood, a silent sentinel, at the back of the room. His presence was a quiet affirmation of his compliance. Being there meant he could hear and be heard, see and be seen. Every sensory input was meticulously cataloged, each interaction meticulously analyzed. The ambient chatter of those around him was a constant reminder of the human element he now found himself amidst.

His optic scanned the room, taking in the various faces and expressions. Some were deep in conversation, others seemed lost in thought. The atmosphere was a blend of anticipation and tension, a prelude to whatever instructions would follow. Mumeiki's presence, though unobtrusive, was a testament to his unwavering dedication to his mission parameters.

From here, he could monitor the entire room, analyzing body language, listening for cues, and preparing to respond if necessary. He remained focused and ready, embodying the role of an observer and participant in equal measure.

// Attend the Meeting - Complete