Clumsywordsmith — Roleplayer Guild

Aaand... Here we are:

Character Sheet

-Name: Raymond Charles

-Appearance: (Please provide a picture. No anime or artwork please.)
Still working on that...

-Crew Position/Rank: Pilot

-Age: 39

-Relevant History/Background:
Brief Overview:
Raymond Charles was a decorated pilot for the Colonial Marines, before an eventual honourable discharge and transfer to the research and protoype testing division of Weylon Corp; it was here that Raymond assisted with the testing and development of a whole bevy of technologies – including the prototype vessels that were to eventually lead to the Heliades Class Explorer – but at some point in the years since his discharge, the volatile nature of a difficult past got the better of him, and the company eventually found themselves forced to terminate his contract early. Thus followed a gradual downward spiral, until Raymond's longtime friend and former wingman from his Colonial days -- William Edward Phillips, AKA Archie – arrives with an offer of the rare chance to regain some of his lost glory.
(And, while it is marginally far-fetched for a formerly disgraced pilot to be handed such a position, it could be argued that the mission is a possibly suicidal one as it is, and Raymond is a very expendable asset. Not to mention still quite good at what he does.)

Intro:
...The buzzing began again. Louder, more insistent this time. What had begun as no more than quiet reverberation in the back of my skull shifted into the bludgeoning force of a full-on scream; needlesharp, it drove into my forebrain, sent spirals of pain shooting toward the base of my neck. It had become a warning klaxon by now. Red lights, flashing. Fire and screams. Faces, bodies – limbs and features contorted into a writhing mass of terrified agony.

And then light broke across my face. I jerked upright with a start, the pain in my head only intensifying with the sudden motion. “Shit!” was all I could manage to utter, before hastily scrabbling for the nightstand – knocking over a glass of water, forgotten – found the wristband... no, no! What the hell was it I was looking for, anyway? And now the water pooled across the floor, flow seeping around the clutter of obstacles strewn from one end of the room to the next.

“Shit!” I exclaimed again, began a desperate struggle to disentangle myself from the sweat-sodden heap of stinking laundry that had become my bedclothes.

“You called for me, Sir? I do believe you have a visitor... shall I tell him you're busy, perhaps? The melodic voice of my AI housemaid chimed over the apartment intercom, as cheerfully disposed toward all things helpful as ever. Her bright nonchalance did little to soften the edge on my mood.

“Gods around me... turn off the goddamn door buzzer, would you Annie?” was the exasperated response as I hopped barefoot from one cold tile to the next – no good! No good at all when your personal AI knew to summon herself upon expletive. Couldn't be helped now, I supposed. “And it's pretty obvious, the visitor... don't you think? A name might be more helpful!”

“William Edward Phillips, Mr. Charles.”

“Aww, fuck me...”

“I'm sorry, Sir – your last virtuporn subscription expired on the 22nd of this month; shall I renew that for you?” At any other point, maybe, I would have been inclined to laugh at her response. Not so much today.

“It was a manner of speech, Annie.” I hopped to my other foot, swayed – almost lost it... caught myself on the wall before finally managing to pull on a pair of mismatched socks and (fortunately) matching shoes.

“My apologies, Sir – I will make a note of it. Shall I let him in?”

“Yes, yes! Of course!”

The scarred surface of the door finally slid to the side; I stepped through with a mild kind of hesitation – I had not seen Raymond in years, not since the event... and by all accounts there was no guessing what wild turn his life might have taken since. Not for the better, clearly. I sniffed, wrinkled my nose.

I was greeted by a sight I had dearly hoped I needn't see. The efficiency was strewn with the better part of a month's detritus; everything from half-eaten takeout to (judging by the smell) never-quite-washed laundry; three neat little paths wound their way through the wreckage: one trailed to the bed, another to the door of the washroom (left ajar), and a third to the fridge tucked away in the corner of a tiny kitchenette. Each of the three swirled into a demented kind of roundabout around a coffee table turned landfill parked dead in the room's centre. The kitchenbot sat idle in its cupboard; whether it could run or no seemed a moot point – the piles of dishes and other debris left the counter an unnavigable mess.

And then there was Raymond. A wan, disheveled and faded picture of his former self; the thrice decorated Colonial pilot now reduced to sleeping beneath a pile of his own laundry for bedding. The man who had covered my wing more times than I could recall driving himself to his own grave in this stinking shithole of a rental. I pursed my lips. Perhaps this had all been a mistake? I could no sooner drag this man back – as he was – to Wey-Yu than I could tender my own resignation. Thoughts flickered to and fro... and then he spoke:

“Say, Archie... Gotta light?” A thin smile creased Raymond's lips; then he coughed – a rasping, hack against the corner of a stained sweater. He gave another hopeful glance in his friend's direction – the stern features finally relaxing into a look of miffed acquiescence; the offering produced, a spark lit... and then the ever-ubiquitous voice of Annie breaking through the momentary silence:

“Mr. Charles, Sir – you are to be reminded that it is against both local housing regulations -and- the contract of your...”

“Yes, yes! I know, I know. Go on. File a report? What will this be, the seven-thousandth?” another drag and an irritated wave of the hand afterward, the AI responds:

“Eight-thousandth-five-hundred and seventy-second, to be precise, Sir.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, but they mustn't care much then, must they?” He proffers in response, cocking an eyebrow in a look of defiant triumphed that I found all too familiar. I had made up my mind, anyway. He was a wreck. A complete mess... but I suppose he'd been in worse spots. And something about him using that old nickname: “Archie”; for old times sake, anyway. Maybe the last little shred of human decency that I hadn't since lost to the Wey-Yu overlords. Casting another glance around the apartment, then back toward my old friend, I couldn't help but ponder for a moment how he – hopeless excuse for an individual as he then was – wasn't still in all likelihood the better man. I sighed, lit one for myself, then a drew a long breath before presenting that rare sort of offer that comes only once in a thousand lifetimes.

*****

Long, long after Archie had gone I sat there – sat against my coffee table in the midst of my wreckage of a room, burning through smoke after smoke as I weighed my options. Not that there was really much to way, in all honesty – even I had to admit the current state of affairs had all but run its course. From aced-out-pilot to honourable discharge (with more decorations than I cared to recall...) to the true heyday of my career – cutting-edge test pilot for Weyland on designs that I still figured I'd be snuffed without hesitation for leaking...

But something about the glory of it had gotten to me. The money, the dark mystique: a brief flash of memories I still can't seem to erase, all these years later... but the subterranean bass of some illicit club, the throbbing lights and smiling throngs of strangers suddenly become my acquaintances – closest friends... even lovers. Until I found myself reduced to sipping bourbon from a tin flask whilst piloting derelict freighters from one half-abandoned mining complex to the next...

To here. I'd be lying if I didn't admit how near the edge of the cliff already loomed.

They really must be desperate, if they wanted me back. What strings had old Archie pulled, I wondered? He didn't seem much himself – maybe only a shadow of what he'd been all those years past... god knows what the hegemony had done to him. Some of the power gone to his head, no doubt. At least he had a little... well – much more than a little! – still to share for an old friend. I mean, he was right. I -was- always the best. Was still pretty damned certain I was. But I supposed I was gonna have to play a pretty solid game to hope to convince the higher-ups that I really -was- still the man for this Aphelion job. Then again, maybe it was the suicidal nature of things that called for one such as me. Someone good... good but really and truly expendable. An asset they'd already lost and written off quite some time ago.

“Annie – be a dear, please... fetch me up an assistant from the nearest -acceptable- apparel boutique; and find me a working bot to fix up this mess, would you? No... no... belay that. Cancel my contract here. Let's find someplace... with a view. I want to see some mountains again. Before I die.” She seemed to take my rambling as AI's almost always do – quiet indifference.

“As you say, Sir; it seems William Philips has recently authorized a sum of sufficient quantity to your credit line that will cover our expenses.”

I frowned. I couldn't quite tell if it was the booze and mangled loneliness getting to me, or if she'd actually said -our-.

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