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  • Guest365: [link]
    September 21, 2017, 10:38:18 PM
  • Desertpuma: Unfortunately, real life has been pretty busy .. I'll try to get a post up on Ronin today
    July 29, 2017, 05:21:45 PM
  • Clare: Velocity doesn't expect to survive; that just happens
    July 28, 2017, 09:10:13 AM
  • Desertpuma: once the ship gets going, will she survive Ronin?
    July 22, 2017, 11:38:44 PM
  • Clare: And the madness begins. Will Ronin be able to survive Velocity?
    July 21, 2017, 10:09:03 AM
  • Scout: If I were to revive any of my old characters Pele would be the one, she was fun. But hell if  I know how I'd fill the time line gap.
    July 19, 2017, 08:42:17 PM
  • Scout: for example I remember Laurie and Velocity having a rivalry but not really the details of it or Laurie's relationship with any other crew members
    July 19, 2017, 08:40:54 PM
  • Scout: I have all my old character bios saved but I wish I also had pre-crash posts because my memory of them is so fuzzy
    July 19, 2017, 08:39:38 PM
  • Scout: History is good
    July 19, 2017, 08:38:55 PM
  • Clare: I'm a bad, bad girl
    July 19, 2017, 07:58:45 PM
  • Clare: Beth and Ian have history which is why I was thinking of dropping her in, given the situation between Ian and Abbey :D
    July 19, 2017, 07:58:39 PM
  • Scout: Plus confession: I'm scared of playing mechanics because I am very bad at both actual engineering and writing technobabble nonsense :D
    July 19, 2017, 03:58:00 PM
  • Scout: I guess Bri could be re-worked into a mechanic fairly easily, but I didn't get to play with her enough for her to come into her own so I don't really even remember where I was going with her at this point
    July 19, 2017, 03:57:20 PM
  • Scout: Mattie's just a gunhand
    July 19, 2017, 08:29:30 AM
  • Clare: I guess she could have retrained as a mechanic in the intervening years
    July 19, 2017, 07:35:13 AM
  • Clare: If the ship needed a geologist, throwing Beth into the mix could be amusing :D
    July 19, 2017, 07:32:38 AM
  • Velocity Grey-Lambert: Hopefully she won't drive everyone insane
    July 19, 2017, 07:31:58 AM
  • Desertpuma: also in need of a mechanic, another skill that is not Lin's strength but he can handle many basic repairs
    July 19, 2017, 12:53:37 AM
  • Desertpuma: In answer to your queries .. the only people on board Ronin that are posting are myself, Abbey and Ian. The ship is grounded and there was an intermittent message call sent out. Lin is a passable pilot but not much beyond the basics. So Velocity would be welcome
    July 19, 2017, 12:52:57 AM
  • Desertpuma: Good to see the site back up .. got an email notice of a couple of threads getting responses so I thought I would check in.
    July 19, 2017, 12:51:14 AM

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Author Topic: The Monotony of Station Life  (Read 1096 times)

The Monotony of Station Life
« on: April 30, 2014, 08:30:35 PM »
Driscol slid the wet mess across the metal tiles, clearing away the stains and grime, before dragging it back towards her, slowly purging the floor of the wear placed on it by many days of use. Sweat dripped from her brow as she went about her task, and occasionally her arm swung up to relieve the moisture from her forehead, her dark gray jumpsuit open halfway and allowed to hang down around her waist, held up by her belt to bare her arms against the heat. Her jaw clenched in frustration while she slowly, methodically swept across the room.

"This heat will be the death of me," she complained under her breath.

Heaving a sigh, Driscol plopped the head of her mop into the rolling bucket beside her, flecks of dirty water splashing out from within its murky confines. She had done many menial, tedious jobs since the end of the war in her quest to stay out of the way of the Alliance, but this had to be the worst. As part of the janitorial staff aboard the Bridgeway, the hours were long, the pay was negligible, and the conditions were hardly favorable.

Today, the environmental controls in this section were on the fritz; the temp was just a few degrees too high. Not high enough to warrant a panic, so it was on the engineering crew's mile long 'to do' list. Didn't matter that it was currently making her life miserable, it would get done when they got to it. Seemed like something was always broken or breaking on this heap of scrap. She really needed to get out of here.

Deciding to call it a day, Driscol deposited her mop and bucket in the nearest supply closet, locking it up and heading for her dorm in the residential sector. She walked past a few people she knew here and there, giving them a smile, a wave, or simply a nod. It was hard not to know most of the inhabitants when you lived and worked on a space station. Close quarters did tend to breed comraderie... and conflict.

Home at last, she toed her way out of her boots, leaving them neatly by the door, and pulled off her work belt, hanging it up near the entrance. She allowed the jumpsuit to fall the rest of the way down, from her hips to the floor, scooping it up quickly and dropping it into her hamper. Flopping onto her bed in just a tank-top and a pair of shorts, she willed her body to cool down against the cloying heat of the station.

"What am I doing here?" she lamented, although she recalled all too well the series of events that led her to this station.

The tedious work wasn't the only reason she needed to get off this station. There were Alliance all over the place, and it made her feel skittish. Any time she saw one of those horrible gray uniforms, she felt her stomach roll dangerously, threatening to give in to her nausea. The suits brought back too many dark memories, better left forgotten. On top of that, there was the fact that she was much more likely to give herself away, here, than she was on a ship in the black. Worse yet, there was little she could do to help people and try to make up for her past with Alliance military always sniffing around.

Maybe she could stow away on an outbound ship? It was risky... If she were caught, there was little doubt she'd be discovered by the Alliance for who she really is. The only other option was to wait for a legitimate passenger ship cheap enough to charter on her meager wages...

Re: The Monotony of Station Life

Re: The Monotony of Station Life
« Reply #1 on: May 29, 2014, 01:18:10 AM »
That evening found Driscol doing what most people do when they live on a bleak little hunk of metal floating out in the middle of the verse, with little to no entertainment for those who hadn't the thickness of wallet to afford it; that is to say, she was at the local watering hole, getting more than slightly tipsy.

She avoided Mac Doonans, the most popular place in the sector for those seeking to lose themselves in their liquor, because it was too crowded, too noisy, and just too public. Ever since she started hiding away from the Alliance, Driscol had found herself uncomfortable around too many people at once, since it only fed her paranoia. Who knew when someone would recognize her from the old days, or worse yet, from a wanted photo posted some place? The Jaded Palace was no better, with all the same problems, and the added issue of being too rich for her blood.

Instead, Driscol made a habit of frequenting the darker dives, the back-alley brewhouses, the little off-the-record establishments that were run out of backrooms and empty compartments. They tended to draw in the worst sort of clientele, the shadiest customers, and those that clearly didn't want to be seen in the light of day.

"Because you're so much better," she muttered to herself acidicly, gazing down into the bottom of her cheap tin mug of... Rum? Vodka? Moonshine? It was hard to tell, in places like these. No, Driscol knew she belonged here, murderer, traitor, and deserter that she was. Taking a swig of her vile concoction -- and struggling not to choke on it -- the ex-officer glanced around with watering eyes.

This place was one of the sector's many hab-units, but instead of being filled with domestic livery, it housed a couple ramshackle tables and seats, with a makeshift distillery taking up the back room, an unsavory-looking man erupting every so often to bring forth the (disgusting, vile) alcohol to his ten or twelve customers that were crammed into the would-be living space, Driscol included.

The wanted woman downed as much of the rest of her drink as she could stomach, a sour look taking over her face as she tried not to cough on the burning in her throat, and the proprietor was quick to refill her mug. She nodded her thanks to the man, but before she could pay him, he had already rushed off to fill up someone else's drink. Apparently she had an open tab, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a really bad one. As she was contemplating this, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Oy, Denny brought a deck of cards, Driz," one of the patrons (who apparently knew her, though she didn't know him, or Denny for that matter) slurred into her ear. She shivered at the sound of that hated nickname, a shortened version of a name that wasn't even hers to start with. "You in for a game or two?" And why the hell not? It wasn't like she had that much money to lose... right?


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