YOU are the crew of the interstellar scout ship Raptor. Your mission is to explore
uncharted regions of space, deal with aliens both friendly and deadly, and defend the Consortium worlds against space dangers. Captain Darcy has been overcome by the strange psychic entity known as "Something Else", leaving you to fend for yourselves while he recovers in a medical pod. (Dun dun duuunnn)
But, what did Command want him to do? What was his mission? What are you going to do about it? Do you even care or are you just after hot, space bitches?
Utilizing the rules in the attached picture, anyone and everyone is welcome to play. Just lay out your character post in an orderly fashion and I won't have a problem at all!
Progress will be decided by majority vote. Ship creation can be done by vote or I just throw it together.
Rolled 1, 4, 3, 1 = 9
Here comes Lieutenant Roland, the Intrepid Envoy, whose Consortium ID badge places him at a 2 on the L/F scale, making him a mad, passionate bastard, devoted to liaising (and "liaising" as the case may be) with strange alien races! His goal: Keep Being Awesome! (with a minor in Meet Sexy Aliens, 'cause why not?)
Also, rolling up a threat on the table.
So, uh, I'll vote for the Raptor to be an exploratory vessel, with the traits of Fast + Superior Sensors, but the drawback of Horrible Circuit Breakers.
And come on, people, who else is gonna be on the crew, it can't be a one character story.
Unless maybe it's one of those weird episodes like that awful Dr. Crusher one Wait, all Dr. Crusher episodes were awful
Well, crap, I've got to work tomorrow, and worse, it looks like OP has been sucked into a spacial anomaly, never to be seen again.
>mfw I offered to run a game of this on IRC a while back and nobody showed up
Dammit, Lasers and Feelings, what curse lays upon your PDF that pains me so?
Kif, I'll be in my quarters
It appears to be a normal day aboard the Raptor. The lights slowly brighten across all decks and the ship-wide morning music starts to play. Installed by Capt. Darcy it was to "ensure everyone had a pleasant start to their day". Little more than elevator music, it's just become the norm.
The music is usually paired with the Captains morning message, however after yesterday evenings Chicken Surprise with a light braized pork loin, he's been in the medical pod ever since.
What do you do?
The ships log of pressing matters reads as follows:
"Avoid Zorgon the Conqueror.
Check in with Command at some point.
Travel to Mirrion 6 to see Fat Porthos.
Try to cancel dinner with mother in law."
From memory, Mirrion 6 is a pretty groovy commercial planet in a fairly affluent part of the system. However, just as your mind started to wander over who Fat Porthos actually was.. the main communication panel bleeps in life.
"Hellooo? Richard? Helloo? Don't tell you you've got bloody auto-pick up on again... arsehole! Anybody there?"
"Hello, Mrs. Darcy! I'm afraid your son-in-law is feeling under the weather and is currently in the medbay. It seems he won't be able to make it to dinner tonight.
If you'd like, I could come in his place. I'm going to be in that part of the galaxy getting treated for Space Crabs this afternoon, and the writers are looking for a way to get me offscreen for this part of the episode."
His peaceful morning routine of "sleep-until-Darcy-buzzes-me-for-status-report" interrupted, the tall and lanky engineer of the Raptor bangs his head on his tool rack and his fist on the comm.
"Hey, hi, yes, HELLO Miz Darcy! I don't know what time it is on the Meandering Acres, but here on the Raptor, it's the start of our cycle. I'm in my gorram bunk. Morning, Lieutenant"
Character info: Burt "Black Hole" Harrison is a Dangerous Engineer, Feelings rating 2, who's slaved away in the roasting engine room of the Raptor (read: relaxed comfortably in his makeshift mancave above the engine room) for the past six months in hopes of Finding New Worlds.
"Morning, Harrison. I'm glad you finally decided to wake up and grace us with your presence. I've got to hop on a shuttle out of here and someone needs to keep the red shirts in line."
"Under the weather? What? Bastard! Don't you lie to me you tall, handsome first officer! It's an excuse isn't it! Must be... well I..."
The link fizzles for a minute and Darcy's mother appears to be ranting and raving, so much so it could well be heard in the deepest part of space.
".. Just make sure he calls me. Git couldn't care less about his own mother.."
And with that the link is cut. A few members of the crew (of which there are only a handful) appear to be rather distraught at the recent show of rage. Truly hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.
Lights on consoles that usually flash at flashing at just the right tempo and nobody is screaming. The ship is currently in orbit around Faptacular VIIIII, a pleasure world of great renown.
Harrison grumbles under his breath comm.
"Yeah, yeah. Have a nice flight, Lieutenant Crabmeat."
Over the comm, he orders All Redshirts to Maintain Normality, and heads in the general direction of the mess hall.
Well, let's just say that Capt. Darcy never did keep the best itinerary. After a few minutes of investigation it is clear that Command do indeed have a goal for you to accomplish, one which Darcy seems to have ignored for a few days now.
>"Investigate labour planets in neighbouring system Gamma IV for signs of corruption and possible links to underworld cartels."
No sooner did you have the information, then the link was cut. Command obviously weren't the most social bunch, could well explain why Darcy developed his drinking problem.
Ah the mess hall, a vibrant hub for all of those working on the vessel. Red shirts as far as the eye can see (until you reach the wall) chatting, eating and doing things lazy crewmen do in their spare time.
Would you like to:
>Find a group you know and chew the fat.
>Plate yourself up some delicious food and chew the fat off it.
>Take part in a totally inappropriate drinking game
This sounds like it calls for investigation. Unfortunately, as a combat android, I am qualified only for shooting things. The logical course of action, therefore, is to seek out someone who is good at investigation. I therefore check Captain Darcys' address book and search for disreputable-seeming individuals in it, who may have underworld links. He seems like the sort to know people like that.
Meanwhile, I set the ship on a course for Gamma IV, and hope further courses of action will present themselves once I'm there.
Beep, beep, boop, boop. What this means in android could.. well... let's not go there.
It doesn't take very long for a few individuals to ping up on the console, with a bit of a bio and some very good looking mug shots this is what you find:
>Demetrius Pathos (Mirrion VI - Scrap dealer)
>Burt Harrison (Craziest engineer I've ever met)
>Fred Alajandro (Last seen surfing solar winds in Gamma IV, check obituaries)
The food today is a selection of rice dishes with Beef Wellington as a side. Either way it's all relatively tasty, unfortunately no tables appear to have ample leg room. If you want to sit down, you need to either sit next to someone (heaven forbid) or squeeze yourself in.. somehow.
Apparently Captain Darcy was going to visit him already, so Demetrius Pathos looks like a likely first stop. I order the ship diverted to Mirrion VI. And start checking the obituaries from Gamma IV.
"Excuse me, folks," I say as I approach a table, "do you think any of you could spare some space for good ol' BH?"
Harrison's smile might be friendly, or it might be forced. Hard to tell.
The ship skids to halt and recharges its engines. Plotting the new course only takes a few moments as the vessel pivots and glides off to its new destination.
Obituaries from Gamma IV seem rediculously high. Normally industrial accidents are a norm (especially since health and safety at work was abolished), but this is... eyebrow-raising-suspicion level. Looking down exact names, Fred isn't on there... yet.
(brb, getting some food)
While the ship is en route to Pathos, I begin investigating common threads among the more suspicious accidents. I may be only barely competent, but as an android, I can be barely competent much faster than normal humans.
A rather hairy, wide shouldered individual looks up and grins.
"BH, squeeze in buddy. We were just talking about that contraption you made last week, how did that work out for you?"
>Falling from height.
>Fell from an upper gantry.
>Fell down the mine shaft.
>Elevator broke, everyone plummeted.
Gravity is a bitch. That much is certain. And all of this assessed by your barely competent android brain! A round of applause is in order.
You're close to Mirrion VI, shouldn't be too long now. Any last bits and pieces before you enter the system and start orbiting the planet?
I squeeze in as well as I can and begin shoveling rice into my gob. Between mouthfuls, I explain my plan to improve the long-range capability of our Fightercraft.
"And so - long story short - I ended up taking out a bunch of Consortium-regulation garbage, bangin' on a couple casings, mashin' some buttons, and achieved absolutely no variance in fuel consumption. I was able to rig up those extra bits into a sweet lamp, though. You should stop in my quarters and check it out sometime, Bragg."
The pile of rice has diminished to ten percent of its original height, and Harrison moves in on the Wellington.
Everyone chuckles heartily at BH's tale. Whether they have you as the novelty 'crazy engineer' or a legitimate part of the crew is unknown, however they appear to be enjoying your company. As you shovel more of the scented rice into your mouth hole, one of the other red shirts around the table pipes up,
"Sounds awesome BH! So what do you do down in your cave anyway? Most of that part of the ship is off limits to us lot."
He too is shovelling food into his gob. The smell of custard and apple crumble wafts off his breath.
Harrison puffs up a little and wags his fork. "Yeah, man, and that's for a good reason! If they let just anyone waltz into the engine room, who knows what could go wrong! I mean, yeah, I've got a hammock set up between a couple control panels, but they're specially calibrated to be controlled by my body weight."
He waves his hand dismissively. "Very technical stuff, you wouldn't understand. Maybe every once in a while I'll share some cryo-cooled Galaxy Cola with you, but if I've got my hard hat on, it is an orange jumpsuit only zone." The mess lights glint off of Harrison's circular blast goggles.
"Any o' you got an orange jumpsuit? Oh, just me?"
He inhales the last of the Wellington.
Jay "Specs" Hollis is a Savvy Scientist (Lasers 4) wakes up in a pile of holodisks and other infomatics at his desk. 'I must have fallen asleep while working on Solving Weird Space Mysteries' he thought to himself. Wiping drool from his chin and a off his desk he proceeds to clean himself up and check the day's "space news" pausing just long enough to read some space obituaries.
Are there any links between the victims? Did they move in the same circles, have the same friends, were members of the same political organizations?
Also, realize that one of the people I identified as being a likely disreputable person works on this ship, and call him up.
The smarmy comment about orange jump suits puts a grin on everyones face. Bragg elbows BH in jest, digging into his own pile of food. "You's a funny guy BH! We should do this more of..."
His words are cut short by the lights shutting off and a red ambience taking over the room...
Welcome aboard! Well, maybe good morning is a better introduction. Your browse through the daily tabloids is pretty average, if not a little quieter without Darcy constantly badgering you for more updates about.. whatever it is you're researching. Certainly a blessing.
Something does, however, interrupt your moment of solitude...
They were all miners. That much is certain, as for more intricate details, you'll have to dig a bit deeper (roll lasers, so below your number).
Burt Harrison is indeed on the ship and was certainly on Darcy's list of "individuals of ill repute". Unfortunately as you were about to page him on your universal communication, scanner, thingy. The helmsman pipes through on the loudspeaker...
ALL DECKS. ALL DECK.
PURPLE ALERT. PURPLE ALERT.
Gor-Loks off the starboard bow, ish. YEAH. THEYRE HERE. FUCK!
In the mess hall, tables flip as folks charge around willy-nilly to their respective post. Everyone's pager beeps with the fury of a wombat stuck in a washing machine, shits about to get real.
What do you do?
>Run to your own post and look busy.
>Man some ship weapons.
>Organise a boarding party.
>Play with the engines and do a barrel roll.
Also guys, on that bombshell I need to call it there. I'll archive it and dig this out again at some point if people are interested. Probably able to go again in about 6 - 7 hours, but that's a gamble.
Thanks for the time being and hopefully see you on the other side!
Also, to anyone else reading this, you're welcome to join.
Burt Harrison leaps to his feet. His hand shoots to his tool belt, and he is comforted to find his Multipry just where it ought to be. In the chaos of the mess, a memory leaps unbidden from the back of his mind:
/Man, I remember when I first signed on to the Raptor. It sure was a change from living planetside, conducting minor repairs to civilian vehicles. I had memorized the specs of almost every Consortium ship - I knew before I saw her that the Raptor was nearly 950 feet from nose to engines - but the experience of coming aboard and seeing all of those people../
People whose survival now depended on the functioning of his engines. Harrison grips his Multipry and moves back towards his quarters.
Gav, on his part, accelerates, his positronic brain moving from its default clockspeed of one second per second to its maximum sustainable speed of twenty-five seconds subjective for each second objective. Like all androids, his brain is based on human cognition; as a combat android, a number of significant alterations have been made. At nearly any given moment, most of his brain is devoted to the question, "how could I best respond if someone tried to kill me right now?"
Hopefully, all that obsessive mental preparation is about to pay off.
(Damn. I'm falling asleep waiting on this thread, which sucks. If I can find it in the morning, I'll be playing. If not, I'll start my own game and try to keep it alive. Thanks again, EpicSausage, you've gotten me hooked.)
A whistle sounds and Ensign Floyd says "A communique is coming in on the Consortium secure comm channel!"
A chorus of redshirts groan as he announces "It's Lieutenant Roland! I'll put him on screen!"
"Hello, Lt. Roland here. I'm through at the space clinic, and thought I'd check in on you spazmos.
"Have you gotten the ship blown up yet? I hear the purple alert going off, why don't you guys stop thinking and planning and solving math problems, and start kicking some butt like your hero, Lt. Roland?
"Anyway, I'm off to dinner with Mrs. Darcy now, so don't wait up, if you know what I mean. If you're still in trouble when I get back, I'll rush in and save you all, heedless of the danger. You know I'm good for it.
Ensign Floyd sighs. "If he were here now, he'd know how to get us out of this jam," he says, as the other redshirts glare and make rude gestures at his back.