sideproject CYOA type thing, ran live Wednesday nights starting at around 12 pm EST on fiction.live (schedule may change as convenient) >The curl of cigar smoke, the hues of cyan and violet glimmer across dancing fumes as the perpetual light of the stars airs through the window. >The clock ticks at 2:34 in the morning, you've been at this all night. >The file sits tauntingly atop the clutter on your desk. >You've must have gone over it dozens of times by now, but an incessant nag still pulls you to check it again for some easy conclusion scribbled unseen into the margins. >You sit down and creak open the loosely bound shuffling of accounts, reports, statements, and photos, finding your missing lady immediately. >There she is pinned in a photo on the inside cover, graceful silver curves and all. >A beautiful thing really, but overworked and showing her age. The lady vanished wholesale and now some very important people are paying you to find her. The pay offered was an exorbitant price for an exorbitant subject, and this was your expertise. >The fact that the price was so steep as to be a demand for your services rather than a polite request was not lost on you. >You read over the reports and scattered handfulls of notes you made, knowing the file almost cover to cover by now, you're just looking for anything new. >Regardless, you mentally review the story behind your missing maiden. >Somehow, sometime, somewhere, someone managed to lose track of her, a fact that baffles you. >Thousands of clerks were responsible for keeping track of her routes, her stops, her schedule and wellbeing. Even a few that weren't compensated to do so looked in to where she was going, just to get a look at her in those rare moments that she wasn't on the move, and on top of this a few hundred accompanied her at all times. >All of these eyes on her, and yet someone managed to misplace a hunk of metal that dwarfed the empire state. >Your lady of the hour was 'Harlock's Courtier', an East Zephyr class line cruiser, and she vanished with all hands during routine picket duty. >Her captain was disgraced, her crew a snapshod motley of hangers-on, new faces, and failed ambition, and her assignment was at the furthest end of the map. >If it wasn't for her class and image, she would be a typical picket vessel, but she was an East Zephyr. >An old breed far too outdated now to remain relevant as a ship of the line, but you don't just retire an East Zephyr into mothball to be scrapped or stolen away by villains. Instead East Zephyrs tour up and down the starlanes as status symbols for their owners until their hearts burn out, like an aging idol collapsing on stage from a stroke. >'Harlock's Courtier' was on one such tour, all the way out to Farpoint, the furthest light of civilization in this tame corner of the galaxy. Her new captain, busted down from a more prestigous position escorting haulers along the core starlanes after an incident, met her at port Fairbridge and they set off. >The journey went to plan for a while, the ship regularly checking in as long as she was in light communications range and an occassional phasic ping when she wasn't to let her handlers now she was just fine. >Two scheduled pings were not recieved for some reason, but the next appeared to denote that nothing was amiss, no proper transmission was asked for or recieved. >Then she stopped in at the refueling station halfway up the lane, had a chat with the station's chief attendent, topped up on fuel, and left. >But somewhere along the lane after her pitstop, she fell out of contact and Farpoint never reported her arrival or even a sighting. >You had three theories as to what might have happened. >The first was her captain and crew, disheveled, disgraced, and disgruntled, decided to mutiny and take up the pirate's life, some chance meeting with a devil tongued trickster pirate in the space of those two missed pings convincing them to do this. >If this was so, 'Harlock's Courtier' was prowling in the shadier nests of the outer sectors, perhaps even anchored alongside armed garbage scows at a black station. Such a thing was a massive danger to the images of many important persons, and they'd want the captain's head on a platter as argent as the ship's hull. >The second was the old bird's heart just couldn't take it anymore, a rupture in her containment casing managed to snowball into a full breach, and the fusion meltdown turned her into yet another cloud of unidentified debris. It would then just be a matter of finding any identifying wreckage. >The final hunch has your throat itching in fear. >Either through deliberate sabotage or simple error in maintenance, her navigation array wasn't working correctly, and little by little, jump by jump, her course curved outwards off the edge of the map... into wild space. >Things happen out there, beyond the plotted sky. Ships disappear for decades, men go mad, and stories come back so saturated in outlandish sentiment and horror that it's near impossible to separate truth from fiction. >Now you have to find her, or face potential ruin. >You lean back into the worn leather of the chair, wondering if there's any other detail that might be evading your attention. >The captain... >Maybe some little fluke of his personality would give you a new clue, you scrawl through the records to find his personnel file. >One Emilio Karstoff was your captain and chief person of interest, he had more than one reason to consider absconding with the ship. >Despite the relative niceties of being assigned to an East Zephyr, this was still a punishment. He failed to protect a luxury hauler he was escorting near the core worlds, and his employers in the shipping board do not look on such things with any semblance of leniency. >Now he had been relegated to patrolling the backwaters, where prestigious assignments were few and eagerly taken by more watchful eyes, and a captain was far more likely to get his own ship shot or stolen out from under him with no safety net like the more civilized regions. >Many a captain had been ruined by their time out here. >The topper was the specific incident that sent him here, he was flying escort for a bulk luxury hauler taking a core starlane from Earth itself to the Castor wandering stars. >An easy job with a lot of prestige and connections to be made, one would think. >Sure the hauler was carrying thousands of tons of precious cargo, but only a complete maniac would think to make a move in core space under the watchful eyes of the navy. >But disaster strikes suddenly, and without warning the hauler struck a phasic mine and breached a number of her holds, venting a great volume of that precious cargo into space. >The captain and logic argued that the old weapon that buckled the hauler was mostly inactive and nearly impossible to detect in time until the bloated barge struck it, but he was stripped of his core command and sent out to the backwaters with all of the other wastes and rejects. >Something like that leaves a man scorned, and although he showed no outwards signs of insubordination, it was possible he could have convinced the crew to go along with a plot to abandon the shackles of the greater authority. >The man was human, 51 years old, 5'11", pale of skin and hair, and was known to wear an almost constant scowl. >Didn't sound a pleasant sort, but a stern face like that could be hiding a strong sense of duty instead of rebellion. >It was a shame that you weren't able to track someone that knew him more personally in order to get a cleaner read of the man in your notes. >Your head sinks low towards the stark white pages and endless text, you could go for some coffee right now. >Could really go for it... but you find your intuition calling for you to refresh yourself on your floating paycheck one more time. >Coffee... >review... >At this hour the brew can wait a minute. You peel through the folder to find the folded layout of your missing boat. >'Harlock's Courtier', your target and payday. The shipping board was very eager to get her back to the tune of millions in credits. A sum that could see you eke out a comfortable existence in retirement, or get a ship and crew of your own to expand your particular enterprise. A real ship, not the lamprey you have now. >Like all East Zephyrs, she was around 80 years old and retired from naval service for 30, undergoing three refits and a few major repairs in her lifetime. >She had a length of 980 meters, a beam of 220 meters, and a height of 255 meters from dorsal to ventral superstructures. >Her main armament was a set of 14 twin gun turrets, 4 ahead of the dorsal superstructure, 2 behind, 4 on the sides of the ship, 2 ahead of the ventral superstructure, and 2 behind. >Scattered around her hull and mainly concetrated around the superstructures were a series of AA lasers and missile launchers for dealing with star fighters. >The showpiece of her arsenal was something called the Eurus gun; a spinal mounted, magnetically assisted heavy torpedo launcher with a revolving loader; enabling a rapid salvo of torpedoes launched with a greater accuracy and velocity. The military career of near every East Zephyr saw these weapons used as effective opening blows for fleet engagements. >Powered by a single fusion reactor, and sporting heavy armor with four shield screen generators, she was a tough nut to crack. >Now that she was retired from service, her primary assets would have to be her looks; sweeping lines and flying wing motiffs like a streamlined steam locomotive. Plated in a skin of silver, she was a beauty to behold, and one of the most powerful escort and patrol vessels in the shipping board's ownership. >Although her years of service were behind her, she was still more than capable of scrapping with pirates. >Why such a valuable ship was out here on the borderlands in the first place was a mystery. The shipping board isn't too keen on their floating status symbols getting marked up. >Moreso was the assurance all that armament gave that no common pirate could threaten her, leaving out the all too common conclusion to your case files of 'scuttled by pirates'. If she went with the black flag, she went willingly. >But all of that was later, your stomach twists for at least a single morsel to sate its complaining. You stretch high in your modest quarters onboard this unremarkable ratway of a station. Where to go? >You had the galley, where you could get your late night fix, perhaps find entertainment at the bar, look at the stars in the viewing gallery, or check with the station master at his office above. You had yet to ask him if he knew something about 'Harlock's Courtier', it was in the area. >Your tiny ship was latched up at the docks, could go and check if she's ready yet... again. >You stroll out of the auto door into the dim halls of the station, the air is cool and stagnant, power to habitation turned on low to simulate a more natural night cycle. >This place was never exactly busy to begin with, but now it's practically deserted, the soft white lights only promising as much as was necessary to avoid stumbling into a bulkhead or another person. >The loneliness pulls on you to go back inside, pull up a console and start surfing the phasenet, but the lure of caffeine to your tiring mind is stronger. You march onwards through the desolate halls to the galley. >The cheerful baroque neon sign over the entryway is off, and only low station lights and occasional swirls of starlight from the windows baths the orderly rows of bench tables. >You hear an odd racket as you approach, punctuated by soft cursing and the ting of metal on metal. >Peering around the door, you find the galley deserted aside from a pair of legs sprouting from under the coffee machine, an assortment of tools lain about its hip, and a woman's voice belting curses and grunts from somewhere underneath the machine. >The pull for stimulants refuses to fade, but your professionally trained sense of curiosity is stronger. >You manage to wrangle your sleeping tongue to parse out something resembling intelligible speech. "What's the deal down there?" >The mechanic's legs tense for a sharp second in surprise before quickly uncoiling. >"Oh! Hi there Sherlock. What are you doin' up at this hour?" >You recognize the voice, a rather curious young woman that eyed your runabout as you docked and inquired as to what it is you do. You got as far as 'investigations' before she started calling you Sherlock. >You manage to slur out your mission objective to the wrench hand as you try and push through the mental swamp of exhaustion to remember what she looks like. "Coffee..." >"Eh-ha sorry, that's going to have to wait a few minutes, the damn thing's broken again." >Some choler sitting at the base of your skull briefly raises ire, but all you can manage is a malign grunt. >"Blame the stupid bitch that couldn't make up her mind what kind of frappachino she wanted, so she just pushed all the damn buttons. I'm gettin tired of fixing this damn thing... Uh, tell ya what? How about a cup on the house for makin' you wait?" >No way you can say no to that, your sluggish grunt turns towards approval, and a thought jumps that she might make a fine Watson. >"Cool! Just uh, find somewhere to wait while I finish this up, I won't tell the station master about our freebees if you dont." >Abiding her suggestion, you choose out a table nested near one of the windows after slotting your credit chit into the other vending machine to grab a granola bar. >You gaze out the long rectangular window, munching on the crunchy packet of nutrition as you rack your brain trying to remember what your friendly mechanic looked like, or if she even gave you her name. >The banging continues until the machine gives a grinding noise and a chime, the mechanic barks in victory. >"YES! FUCK YOU!" >... >"Uh... *mh-hm* sorry. Just hate this thing." >She slides herself out and bounces to her feet in front of the machine, it's about then that it hits you square in the face as you see a pair of pointed ears in silhouette from the machine's lit panels. She's an anthro. >Not a small one either, she's tall, and covered in a sugary white fur. A curled palm frond of a tail wags from a belt loop on her pants. >She quickly stacks up a pair of cups, and using some key on her person, coaxes the machine into filling both without inserting a credit chit. >A narrow, white muzzle looks in your direction as she proudly totes her prizes over to your table. Her chest giving a slight bounce as she drops onto the bench opposite you with a grin and eager brown eyes. >Sliding one of the steaming cups over to you, she touts proudly. >"Here you are! One fresh repair special for the detective." >If you know your species right, this girl is some sort of spitz. She tilts her head quizzically and flicks an ear, clearly expecting a thank you. >Far too tired to really ponder on what exact words would best state your gratitude for these precious bean drippings, you opt for a more base expression of thanks. >Reaching out towards that shiny white muzzle, you steer for the top of her head between her ears. >Seemingly out of curiosity, she watches ponderously what you're doing, flinching a little as you gently pat her on the head. >It's a bit of a reach over the table and up towards the level of her head and you sit back down. >Her ears swivel uncertainly before she finds her voice. >"I-uh.. Um, little, unusual, but um. Thank you." >She fixes ahead on the stars outside as she brings the cup to her lips. You're about to remind her of the steam before she hisses and jitters. >"Bah, hot! Hot. Shit..." >She blows feverishly on the beverage, looking sheepish. >Cracking a nervous laugh, the spitz returns to gazing out of the window. >"So uh, if you don't mind my asking. What is it that you're doing out here? Our little hole-in-the-wall station doesn't see much traffic..." >Her gaze turns more wistful. >You feel a little more up to conversation with the smooth warmth sliding down your throat and jogging your frontal lobe back into play. >Although she continues her gaze out the window, she repeatedly eyes you with a genuine curiosity. >You're curious about her too, but maybe not to the same extent. This woman is full of energy despite the station time reading nearly 3:00 a.m., and you get a sense that there's something more to her desire to figure you out. >First you attempt a gentle change of subject by asking her name. "Well, miss...?" >At the same time, the tired veil over your higher functions isn't fully lifted. Your hindbrain sees a delightfully cute dog in front of you, and her fur felt very soft. You catch yourself reaching to pat her on the head again. >She takes notice too, and eagerly darts to ensnare your outstretched hand in a large white paw, cupping the other over it too and giving it a shake so firm it verges on strangling. >"Oh, miss Terann! Though, miss Terann was my mother. I'm Nikita!" >Her grip is firm but dexterous, the hands of a mechanic alright. She pulls them back as you note the flecks of black grease stains dotting her knuckles. >Realizing your probable social faux par, you also pull your hand back and are about to ask about her for a change before she cuts you off. >"Anyways, what brings ya out here, Sherlock? Hunting for someone?" >The last quip is accompanied by a waggle of the brow and a clear icebreaker, but the question still stands. >She seems infected with wanderlust judging by those longing gazes out of the viewport, and you aren't too keen on passengers. Not since that last time... >You arrest your hand before it can move towards your face, and offer a mote of truth while hiding the grander picture. "I'm looking for something." [Deception: Partial Success] >She nods sagely, the light of intrigue in her eyes still not fading, but she doesn't push further into your air of mystery. >"Yeah, just about everyone says that. Mostly while looking out that big window in the gallery." >A heavy sigh leaks from her subtle black lips. >"Course, what they really mean is they want to go to Farpoint for a taste of the frontier life... A frontier life behind thirty different shield screens and enough lunaglass to smelt into a mountain. They get bored of 'the frontier life' real quick." >She drums her claws on the table idly while sipping her coffee, her nose sporadically hovering in the direction of her oil-stained knuckles. >Trying to down more of your coffee quickly, you manage to coast through most of the cup before the pressure to say something catches up. >You keep guiding her away from any prickling questions concerning a lost warship, bounding the ball into her court since she's eager to talk. "So what is it that you do around here? Other than fix the coffee machine." >She belts out a charmed laugh. >"Hnh. I fix just about everything on the damn station, been here a couple years now showing these yokels everything a wrench can do." >Her chest puffs up in pride as she continues. >"So you're just looking at the best damn engineer on this station!" >Her demeanor deflates a little as you meet her with only a quirked brow, but you feel that same prompting to reach out and pat her. You bite down on it for now. >"Yeah I know, I sound like an ass... Thing is only like one other guy here has a degree. and as for the others? I don't think half of them have even touched an engine, and none of them ever worked on a phase drive. So I have to run around swearing at all the routine breakdowns while still getting payed in pocket lint. Truth is I'm fucking bored of it." >That could explain her excited interest in new things visiting her home. She's puzzling over what to say and you confer with your intuition to keep the ball in her court. >Something else she mentioned occurs to you. "...Big window?" >"Oh yeah, the big viewing dome at the gallery. You might not have seen it coming in since it's opposite the docks." >She leans to the side in her chair, jamming a thumb over her shoulder. >"It's just around the corner there if you want to check it out." "Thank you." >You reach and touch her between the ears again as she's looking away, the fur is just as soft and puffy as you remember. She squirms a little under your touch, swallowing some noise reminiscent of a bark. >"Hurmm-mrrmmm. Okay, okay, I get it. You like the coffee." >Gently, she plucks your hand out of her scalp and sets it back on the table. >"Man, you humans get touchy-feely sometimes." >Nikita sits quietly as you get up and polish off the rest of your brew, depositing the cup where it's convenient and strolling back out into the chilled halls of the sleeping station. >True to her word, you quickly find an open passage labeled viewing gallery, the cursive neon sign powered off for the night. >Within you find a spectacle of great ambition for such a small and insignificant station. >Ahead of you the deck separates into three half moon platforms arrayed one above the other in an expansive hollow almost cut out of the side of the station. >Dominating the outer wall is a massive lattice of brass plated beams, stitching a web of yellowing pyramids across the night sky in front of you, almost like a hab-dome in miniature turned to the side. The frosted blue edges of thick panes of lunaglass array an overlayed view of open space in front of you. >You lean against the rail of the top platform, ignoring the abandoned cabaret tables behind you and staring long into the yawning black, studded with all the stars you could ever count. >You know it's hopeless looking for any sign of 'Harlock's Courtier', but that doesn't stop you scanning the belts of light in searching. She's out there somewhere. >The view of deep space is something every traveler in familiar with, so you wonder why this grand dome window faces out towards deep space, rather than the monolithic view of a nearby planet or distant luminous majesty of a nebula. >Your isolation is broken by a single pair of steps parking at the railing a distance aside you, there's that white muzzle again. >"Boring, isn't it?" >The view didn't offer much of anything that you had seen countless times from the view ports of a hundred different ships and stations, so you can't help but agree with her statement. >You're all for stargazing, but really something about it is more eye catching from the ground. Out among the stars themselves, it's just backdrop. >One question raises itself up. "Why even build this?" >She gives you a thoughtful look and scoffs softly. >"You'd have to ask the station master, old codger commissioned this monstrosity in the first place. Way I hear him tell it, he wanted a bit of tourism." >Her lips split in a disbelieving grin. >"Sure got plenty of that, just look at all the nothing there is to see." >Her snout moves towards some point near the edge of the dome. >"Well, there is the fey lights, but they're more interesting to talk about." >"See those flashing lights around there?" >You follow her pointing into the deep black, tracing the line until you arrive near the edge of the dome. >Small flourishes of white light sit center of one of the triangular dome segments, twinkling like fairy dust. >"That's a cluster of pulsar stars, edgers call 'em the Fey Lights. Usually that type of star never form so close with others of its kind, but there must be an odd dozen of them, scientific mystery as to what drew them towards eachother like that." >Your attention is momentarily captivated by the light as it pulses sporadically like a morse lamp. Of course the magnetic balls of gas have nothing to say beyond cosmic babble. >You look back over to her. "Any reason to the name?" >She smiles faintly, something of hers twinkling in tempo to the distant lamps. >"Lot of astronomers would love to get closer, but it's way over the red line. It's like some ghostly lantern, calling folks to their doom in the bog. Some mad miners say there must be some treasure hidden in their nest, of course any of 'em that go for it never come back. And the few that do return are shipped off to asylum." >She shakes her head pitiably, before she's caught by surprise from a brief buzzing sounding on her person. >"Oh, son of a- Shoulda figured I wouldn't have even an hour of peace before somethin' else broke. Welp, it's been a long night, see you around, Sherlock." "Goodnight miss Terann." >She calls back to you as she exits the gallery. >"It's Nikita, and nothing's good about it!" >You return to the inviting expanse of infinite space as you think on what to do next, or if you should just catch your rest. >With the tack of Nikita's boots disappearing into the sigh of the station's interior, your gaze returns to the Fey Lights, as they're the only real facet of interest here. >The pulsars shimmer, dazzling your pupils with brief flourishes from however many dozens if not hundreds of lightyears away they hang. >Their signaling is erratic and thoughtless, but you swear it almost fits some certain base tempo. The Fey Lights flashing a beacon in some foreign, unknowable code. >Despite yourself, you're interested in whatever it is they could possibly be broadcasting if they were somehow arranged in a code. If there are more oddities like this one over the red line, you can understand the sort of pull that might draw men towards taking that unfathomable risk of diving into wild space. >The same sort of pull that perhaps the captain felt. [gained 1 intuition] >A distant clattering of tools calls you back towards the station, and the vents sigh as the atmospheric systems cycle. Where to go now? >The bar seems like a natural choice. >Even if you don't intend to drink, many space fairers make it a point to at least hang around in the company of other travelers, swapping stories and making tenous friendships. >You could probably find a fair number of itinerants there during their brief lay overs at the station to rest and refuel, maybe someone saw the Courtier, or knows someone that did. >It's a fairly long walk to the other side of the station, and the corridors are as dim and chilled as ever, the atmospheric system teasing the air in phantom breezes. >Arriving at the bar, you can immediately hear a living commotion from within, one of the few facilities of the station that is open and populated at most hours. >Opening the door hits you with a wall of noise and chatter, chief among which is a rather bellicose roaring from the bar itself. A set of figures swaying together around the bar being the source. >The fellow in the middle raises a half empty pint glass and the group makes a great inhale, and you realize they're about to launch into song. >They lurch into a warbling high note to set the tempo, one or two voices in the small crowd out of tune as the loudest voice bellows into a first verse. You're strapped up in this rottin' barth To find a skully flyin' black, who's name is Marth Riding a booster with wings Ye find 'em hiding in the rings O SWEEP, round the rocks you go! Don't lock up! Keep feeling below! Dashed up on the skies an' fro! THEY'LL NEVER FIND YOUR BODY!! >You recognize the confused, barely musical shouting as a rendition of a folkish tune popular with the pilots of star fighters. >One of the number in the crowd at the bar pitches off his stool onto the floor, the rest giving a hearty cheer as they drunkenly crash into the second verse. >You could keep viewing the spectacle, or find someone with their head screwed on a bit more firmly. >You find a table against the wall as the ramshackle choir continues their bellowing, the few other patrons around you either burying themselves in drink, muttering what few words they know, or trying to plug their ears. So he darts off seeming pale An' you give chase, to catch that tail Buzzing through the dust Ya lost sight, find 'em ya must! O SWEEP, round the rocks you go! Don't lock up! Keep feeling below! Dashed up on the skies an' fro! THEY'LL NEVER FIND YOUR BODY!! >Another of the choir tumbles over himself onto the floor, and a third slumps off his chair. The man in the middle still upright even as he sways dangerously to the tempo, the figures around him in various states of falling over or falling unconscious. >Seem they've been hitting the liquor as hard as they hit the verses, and they launch into the third. An' he flips up o'er head! With dancing silver and flashing red! He's got you in his eye! now it's time to duel, or it's time to die! O SWEEP, round the rocks you go! Don't lock up! Keep feeling below! Dashed up on the skies an' fro! THEY'LL NEVER FIND YOUR BODY!! >A couple more fall over, a woman and an anthro crash into eachother before hitting the floor. A hyena, the man in the center, and a thinner man to the right are all that are still standing. >The thin fellow gives a whooping cheer while the hyena gives one painted with her species' unmistakable cackling. >With the view clear enough you can see loose credits on the bar being shuffled about by paws and hands, seems whoever stays upright gets the pot of pocket change. >All three down another great swig from their glasses and launch into the fourth, and what you hope is the final, verse. Yer bucket's rattlin' fast! Stomach wretchin' turns and dizzying blasts! Stars are dancing in your brain! Shake off the waves, or find your grave! but he comes 'round the rock lookin' mean an' you realize your thrusters are smokin' an' screamin' There's no hope for you to see That pretty cloud, that is your debris O SWEEP! to the void ya go! Where you end up? Nobody knows! Some bastard ought raise a lighter! Because that's the life of a star fighter >The song winds down, and you realize it's over. The thin man and the hyena raise themselves off their stools, legs wobbling, to clink their glasses together over the other man's head in a cheer. >They just barely manage to touch glasses, the hyena's loose jacket hangs open as her shirt straining bust brushes the mess of greasy hair on top of the larger man's head, which he doesn't even seem to notice. Shortly before the smaller man loses his balance and sprawls onto his back below. >The hyena woman titters in victory before her own balance fails her, and she falls directly on top of the thinner man, his head disappearing between her sweater pups with a heavy thud. >As the mess of drunkards collect themselves off the floor, the man in the center quietly shuffles his winnings into his thick coat, and stares silently into his drink. The others wander off in various states of intoxication. The hyena switching between roughly manhandling the thin pilot in her arms and kissing him deeply. >You can't imagine what awaits that group when they wake up in the morning. >Most of the others file out, leaning on eachother. Those that can't walk are dragged out by their peers. The hyena and what you can only assume as either her mate or the unlucky bastard that's going to wake up aside a hungover tank of a woman like that making a scene as they stumble out groping eachother. By the time she finally finds the exit, she has the thin pilot bundled under her arm and stumbles out. >Still at the bar is the fellow in the heavy coat, despite all the activity earlier, he sits still as a rock now. >You're intrigued by the heavy way his shoulders sit, and make your way to the recently vacant stools beside him. Maybe he knows something >The barkeep smacks something on the wall and a set of speakers crackle tinnily before playing something dreadfully ancient. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zjg42Xi65iE) >The heavy lump of a man stares wistfully at the empty glass before the bar tender fills it half way from a nondescript bottle you didn't catch the label of. >His jacket bears a dusty patch for some naval fighter squadron you don't recognize, any other evidence of service long since missing or removed. >He's rather heavy set, strong jawline, and a messy mane of greasy black hair curls around his head like a longhaired cat. >He looks over to you with deepset eyes, the color of cobalt brushed steel, and slurs out his words in a deep rumble of a voice. >"Wha'd you want?" "Call it curiosity, I don't recognize your patch" >His eyes comb you lazily for something he won't find, before he grunts like a large animal being prodded into corral. >"Not many pepul would..." >He swallows a hiccup, lurching slightly as he slurs a single word with all the bitter swill of what's in his glass. >"Disavowed." >Swallowing the rest of his glass, he attempts to get something more, but the bar tender responds with a gesture that makes it clear he's had enough. >The pilot grunts sourly and folds his arms under him. >"You wouldn' happun to know where a stick jockey could find work. would ya?" >His lazy gaze settles on you, attempting to bore a hole through you. >You notice in the heavy shadow of the hard overhead lamps, the five o' clock stubble peppering his jaw only extends about halfway. Some crosshatched scar sits on his chin, and another wires around the right edge of his jawline under the ear. >The shape of his jawbone under the right side looks ever so slightly off. >You parse over the rest of him, the jacket while worn and dusted, is a fine looking leather lined with wool, maybe natural wool. Something like that is worth a pretty penny. >Because of this, and his recent winnings, you have to wonder what would drive him to seeking odd jobs. "You seem to be doing well enough for yourself." >You gesture towards the inside of his coat where he stashed the credits from the odd drinking contest with those other pilots. >Briefly, you look back towards the door out, wondering if that hyena really left, maybe you'd find her in the hall grinding on the thin pilot's face or some other equally spectacular act of drunken revelry. >Hyenas had that reputation and more than indulged in it. >Shaking off your musings, you turn back to the dismal pilot in front of you. "So why would you need work?" >He manages a single, bitter croak of a laugh. >"Would you ask a bird to stop flappin' his wings?" >You suppose not. It's not like it would even understand, but even if it could the question was asinine. "No. I wouldn't" >"Well ya can't ask a star pilot to keep away from the stick neither. I'm sick a' hitchin' on haulers... I want to fly somethin'." >He stares at you again, his face hardening into a moment of startling clarity. His rumbling baritone shaking off its slur for a single question with a point as sharp as a sword. >"So you got something for me to fly?" >You could fly your nippy little runabout on your own relatively fine, but you were far from the expertise at the controls a star fighter pilot could display. >In hunting Harlock's Courtier deep into unsavory territory, whether it be in the nests of pirates, or the terrors of wildspace, your chances would be better with a trained pilot at the helm of your ship. >And hell, anyone that could handle themselves as firmly as this fellow could make a good companion in dangerous situations. >His eyes maintain the icy clear, waiting for your answer. "That I do, small runabout, only needs a single helmsman." >He plants his chin into a curled palm, eyes coursing in thought. >His gaze settles onto a model ship perched behind the bar as he snaps off what you suspect is the first in a round of questions. >"Engines?" "Four outboard mainlines." >"Nacelle pods?" "Yes" >The runabout was quick, and the external placement of her main thrusters was an advantage to staving away the threat of overheating. But God help you if the pods took a direct hit, the only way to repair would be EVA. >"What about manuevering?" "High-bore torch jets in clusters at the edges of the ship." >His gaze hardens. >"Almost sounds built like a fighter... Let me guess, two decks, simple helm scheme without the frills, and a pike nose. You're flying a Fletcher." >You have to pause for a few seconds. He correctly guessed at what class of ship you were speaking of even while tipped off his better judgment by the liquor. >Then again, the Fletcher class runabout was manufactured by the dozen in the Proxima shipyards. You got one secondhand because it was capable, but cheap. >Realizing your prospective pilot is staring at you, you manage to recompose a response. "That would be correct." >He rises from his slouch, the tortured old barstool creaking with the movement. >"She armed?" "Two autocannons under the nose, was a right bastard getting the permits in order." >He cocks one of his hedgerow brows. >"You're taking her somewhere dangerous, aren't you?" >It's by now that you realize the jukebox has warbled onto a slower song while you were talking, one that faded so easily into the background as you and the pilot talked. >You simply nod, adding a note of secrecy. "Not going to talk about it in the open." >You gesture towards the crowds of drunks conspiratorially. >There's no telling what sort could be on these borderland stations, ears open for opportunities both over and under the table. >He twists outwards, eyes some band hunched at the corner table, and turns back to you, a faint light of understanding dressing the corners of his lips. >"There aren't many reasons someone would take a runabout where she wasn't built to go unless they're looking for something... something big." >His large frame shifts towards you, his voice lowering into a growling whisper. >"Just tell me one thing. If I fly your boat..." >... >"Do I get a share?" >Again, you simply nod, his lips curl in tune with the smoke drifting around the room, and he settles back onto his stool. >"I'll meet you at the docks tomorrow, and uh." >He raps a pair of knuckles against the right side of his jaw, producing an entirely unexpected tinking sound. >"Name's 'Wishbone', least that's what I flew under for a while." >He grins cheerfully, and the tension drawing his shoulders melts away as the jukebox crackles onto another track. >You contemplate the faux-wood finish of the bar counter, thinking on just how interesting things would get with this 'Wishbone' character aboard your ship. >The clock in the corner reads 3:56, and the tired rings around your eyes seem to pulse in time with the secondhand. >Rest calls for you, you've been up too long, but you still have one last article of business to attend to before turning in. >The Station master in charge of this bucket might have seen a trace of your quarry, anyone in his position is trusted to keep studious records of arrivals, departures, and sightings. >A tenuous, but reliable method of keeping a rough eye on traffic among the stars. Failing that, he may have heard something through the grape vine. >Something he would be obligated to share, as obstructing an investigator set on the case of a missing ship by the trans-galactic shipping board itself would be an easy way to torpedo his aspirations at rising any higher. >Shaking off the warm coils of sleep, you stand and exit the bar, the jukebox glitching with a crackling hiss before the barman gives it a solid whack. >It shifts into another song on its roster that echoes from the watering hole into the hall outside as you leave. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TvCNjQmhwc) >The trip to the station master's office is long and winding. The head honcho's office and quarters nested at the top of the station as is tradition. >You locate an elevator up, the security console accepting your credentials without complaint as the lift grinds up to the head of the station. >The doors at the top shutter open with bucking hydraulics dragging the old plates apart into a single, long corridor. >A lone strip of halogen lights light your overhead, plush burgundy carpet stained with a handful of mystery splotches and chipped faux wood paneling trying to put up a desperate sham of planet side opulence, plainly forgetting the pipes snaking behind the panels. >The familiar tack of boot on deckplate disappears as you ascend the slight tilt upwards, meeting a humble desk with inbuilt console manned by an apathetic secretary busily scuttling her fingers about the keyboard. >The tabby cat eyes your approach from behind a pair of long worn rose trimmed glasses. No words peal from her drawn lips despite any wisdom the collection of silver hairs around them may hint at. >You flash your credentials, her eyes trace the badging, and she autonomously smacks a button on the far side of her desk. >The door to the station master's office slides open as she returns to her tacking doldrum. >Stepping inside it's similarly decorated to the hall, if in slightly less neglect. The dominant feature of the room is a largely complete circle of window panels providing a panoramic view from the peak of the station. >A corpulant figure sits behind a large semi circle of an oaken desk. It swings the high backed chair around to reveal a brownish fox with puffy cheeks and a figure shaped by muscle atrophy and a prodigious amount of sampling. >You try to avert your eyes from the mossy toupee squatting between his ears or the way his fat cheeks quiver like hairy gelatin as he speaks. >"Can I help you?" >You decide on a little quiz first, something about your new friend demanding that some blanks be filled. "Have anything on a guy going by Wishbone?" >The station master wobbles in his seat for a second, about to raise some sort of questions before you flip open your credentials again. >His puffy face sinks as he rethinks his words, beady eyes growing a hair wider. >"Oh, he hasn't been causing mischief again has he? Those drinking contests always disturb the. *huff*. Peace and quiet on my lovely station." >The answer is a bit strange, his voice clogged with cholesterol like his veins as it chokes on some accent distantly resemblant of a sense of nobility. "No.. I just need anything you can tell me about him." >"Now why would you need such things?" >You point again to the badge dangling from your hand. >A pointed way of telling him that you were the one asking the questions. >"N-now don't be hasty! He wandered onto my station from a passing freighter about a month ago." >He stops again to hork down a breath. >"He looked like a suspicious character so of course I requested a file on him, I don't need Ruffians ruining my community. But I got very little from the endeavor. *huff*. He was once part of a fighter squadron, the 36th Lightning or something. But it was disbanded a few years ago over some hullabaloo about piracy. He's not charged with anything if that's what you're asking. But he hasn't left my station in peace since he got here." >'my station' >He sure likes that phrase. "He actually have a name?" >"Ah, of course! *huff*. Mister Barrak. I don't remember his first name, the ink on the documents got smudged. I think it was Wilhelm, or something." >He looks up at you hopefully. >"Are you here to get him off my station?" >And there it is again. >You leer down at the stubby cutlet of flab wearing his sagging fur coat, wondering just how many more times he's going to huff and puff indignantly that this floating hole in the wall is something to be proud of. >The figure, the overplayed concern about maintaining the status quo, the worming clinging to what little sense of power is present in that chair. A model bureaucrat. >You've done this more than a few times before, just butter him up a little, deploy all of your little white lies, and he'll slide whichever way you push him. "That I am, mister Barrak has information relevant to my current case. So he'll be coming with me." >"Oh, good, grand, wonderful!" "That being said..." >He pauses his blustering, his face shrinking in at the dangerous hint like he just swallowed something sour. "I believe you can be of help too." >"H-How so?" >You have him in your hands like putty, very doughy putty. >Even as tired as you are, someone so large and soft in the spine is too easy to read. "I'm looking for a missing ship, property of the shipping board. A line cruiser by the name of Harlock's Courtier." >He sucks down a breath, but you cut him off swiftly. "An East Zephyr." >He audibly swallows said breath, a slight whimper being smothered behind his neck rolls. >You lean in for the kill, laying your hands on the desk and eying him closely. "If you have anything. Anything at all, on this missing ship. I can put in a good word with the shipping board, about you and, your station." >Of course you're lying through your teeth, but the jiggling fox is too washed over by relief that the near miss turned out to be an 'opportunity' to worm his bloated stomach into a cushier chair to notice. >His fat lips manage to push enough of a window open for his teeth to shine through in a boisterous smile. >"Oh, of course. *huff*. Anything for a fine man such as yourself. I didn't hear anything about the ship itself, but I did hear from the captain of a passing tanker that I invited for some wine that. *huff*. The ship carrying her captain to port Fairbridge was two days late. They claimed engine trouble, *huff*, but one of the tanker captain's yeomen on the docks said that the engines looked just fine." >His sausage roll fingers melt into eachother as he clasps his hands in an offering gesture. >"Quite suspicious if you ask me, their route does take them within twenty lightyears of those pirate sycophants. I do apologize that I don't have anything else, but I'm sure you could find this quite helpful!" >He melts back into his chair pridefully, unaware that he's just been played like a fiddle. >You offered no real promise or contract that you would even mention he existed to the shipping board, but he spilled what little he had as potential leverage. >The fat station keeper makes no sign of seeing through your alligator grin. "Thank you." >"Oh no, thank you, good sir. My lovely station will have much to thank you for." >If only his intellect matched the size of his gut, he'd be unstoppable. >You bid your leave of the station master and resolve to finally collapse into bed. >It's been a long night. >The door slides open ahead of you, the fox calling after you one last time. >"Oh, and if you see that mechanic running around. The white, spry one, tell her that my massage chair is broken again and needs to be fixed immediately." >You wave him off, having no intention to load the friendly spitz with more on her shoulders. >With the door shuttering behind you, the elderly cat at the desk gives you a thoughtful shrug. Pausing from her work for a precious moment. >You swear you can see some modicum of respect flashing behind those rose glasses. How much did she hear? >The trip back down the hallway is uneventful, and the elevator security console beeps cantankerously before you show it your credentials again. >It's when your boots are again producing the rhythmic thump on deck plating in the station proper that you notice something odd. >The lights are softly flickering. >All of them, up and down the corridor. >Strange, usually with these cheap halogen bulbs, it's only one or two at a time. >Maybe the station's lighting grid is experiencing a flicker. >A sound like a great switch being thrown echoes from the hallway. >And the halls plunge into darkness. >The sound clamors again, from somewhere unseen, and the rush of the aircon vents fills the hallway, a cold wind billowing your back as it rushes up the hallway with an empty howl. >You shiver, the malfunction prodding cold fingers under your collar. >The vents stop, and the lights humm back into life, spottily bringing the corridor out from the belly of darkness. >This station is in worse shape than you thought. >But for the briefest second, you almost felt something resembling a presence with you there in the dark. >Something hollow of warmth. >Something that never wants to be seen. >A maw empty of breath, hovering behind your neck. >You shake your head free of the delusion, you've been up too long. The ires of sleep playing with your perception to get you to comply with their demand. >You see no one else roaming the halls as you navigate back to your quarters. You note down the station master's account in your file and climb into the billet set into the wall, drawing the rough hewn covers over yourself. >Sleep does not make you wait long, but coming inside you couldn't resist one last look into the corridor... just in case. [all is well...] >Your sleep isn't particularly at peace, playing images of the late night dance and clash in your head. >Flashing beacons of distant stars hanging between the low boughs of rotting willow trees, luring you towards the swamp and domain of pungent, obese swamp beasts. Shuffling with hoarse breath and ragged sheafs of paper clutched in their mitten like hands. >But they're scared away by the metering buzz of an engine, the corpulent figures diving into the muck as a meticulously maintained boat swings around, its pilot idling the motor and offering a hand doused in prim, trim white fur. >The mechanic pulls you out of the brackish water and sucking mud, her tall frame lending her a distinctly unwomanly strength. But she crosses her legs and sits daintily as she handles the engine, moving the boat through the maze of fern like willows hanging their leaves into the water like fishing line. >Even then, you're still not entirely at ease, feeling eyes peering from the dark interior of the canopy, but eventually your journey concludes at a log cabin perched on the shore. >She still doesn't say a word, but she leans in the open doorway, inviting you with a smile. From inside comes an overwhelming smell of coffee and fire-crackling wood. The time in her home is a blur, but you remember the whole time she was only ever wearing her overalls. >She leans into you, and you're reaching for that spot between her ears again. >Then your alarm chirps. >You stammer your bleary eyes and stare out of the billet towards the clock. Trying fruitlessly to jog the morning fog out of your thoughts. >12:15 >You have a busy day today, your next stop should be Port Fairbridge. >Which means you're going to have to start getting ready to leave, but spending the last four days on this station was mostly a complete bore. >The highlights of last night are still fresh in your memory, and a small yearning calls on you to follow up on some things. >Maybe you should think about taking her with you, there's no telling how useful a good mechanic could be out there.