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The Return
*This is a couple weeks late and such but hey, why not start my first RP story while I feel up to it, aye?
Chaakin slipped a brown leather jacket with a shearling lining on the inside that resembled those worn by American bomber pilots in the mid-20th century of old Earth; it was what he traditionally wore in the glory days of the Syndicate and had recently been accumulating a lot of dust. He got it at the peak of his old pirating career a long time ago when he was given a share of loot from a convoy that failed to pay a toll, and loving the history of his origins of old Earth (though it tended to puzzle other pilots), he took the replica bomber jacket among all the other 120 cargo boxes. It had been more than half a year since it last felt a human hand and so Chaakin viewed it as the best symbol of him canceling his retirement as a pilot.
Said retirement hadn't lasted very long at all (almost a year). However hard Chaakin would try, he would always find himself back at dock A-36 at his home of Sedina Sector, D-14 Sedina V Hold tightening the bolts and buffing out his pale-green Corvus Vulturius. He stopped and looked at himself in a cracked mirror in his dim, smokey apartment (He didn't smoke, but the ventilation wasn't necessarily shared. This rat hole [no pun intended] definitely played a role in his decision to cancel his retirement.). He had grown pale as the place he decided to retire at wasn't necessarily all that close to Sedina's sun, his hair was messy, matted, and colored dark brown with a few smears of black from the times he had spent all day working with the inards of his lucky Fast Charge Power Cell that had one day caught him many a traders in the old days, and his pants had a few stains and rips, but he concealed them by scrunching them up a tiny bit and tucking them into his steel-toed boots. The action he was going to face, this day, would be in the void of space; but he grabbed his plasma blaster pistol and holstered it one his belt, just in case. He was ready to return.
--- (switched to first person, Chaakin Tockoa)
The station, being Corvus guarded and off in the corners of nowhere, had been skimping on the artificial gravity lately. The simple remedy was to refit the station with a revolving section like the nearby Xang Xi station, but even that is too expensive for the kind of people I do business with nowadays. On one of the first days the power for the gravity was being conserved, I tripped from the velcro flooring and glided right into a VPR meeting with its door open; I couldn't grab a hold of a single thing that wasn't built to stay put on the walls until I was flying through the room, blasters drawn at me, and smashing head first though their coffee maker. I got away with some minor third degree burns from the coffee, but I'm still glad I made it out in one piece (especially since they might have thought it was an economic strike against their coffee supply or something crazy like that). Their fault for leaving their door open and cutting off the funding for the damned Corvus artificial gravity in Sedina, but this time I think I'll stick to the handle bars.
I slipped my key card into the automatic door and it let me pass from the apartment halls to the main docking index. When I switched from the dim, smokey, compact rooms and halls to the high-ceilinged, well lit and loud port of the station I had to allow a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Usually I would check out the bar and see if there were any other pirates I knew that might like to help with the daily hunt, but with the Syndicate apparently dying I reckoned that my days as Kalb's wingman were over. Also, with the Syndicate's weakening diplomatic statements and a new generation of pirates setting in, I wasn't eager to run off and find the very first CLM that I spotted without having known them, first. Nowadays I wouldn't be surprised if one of the newbie CLM pirates wouldn't resist taking a shot at me if they found me flying the Behemoth I use for picking up the cargo of the convoys I've ambushed. This time I would have to go solo.
I walked to my second home of dock A-36 and slipped in my keycard. Puffs of gas came from the vents to my left and right and I had to wait a few moments until the first air lock door of my dock opened to reveal my pale-green Vulture. I slipped on my maintenance gloves from the back pocket of my pants and began my routine flight check. First I opened the hatch under the large metallic bird and inspected that the local station grease monkeys hadn't put the power cell in backwards (never try it, you'll end up with a mess), second the weapon slots: two Law Enforcement Neutron Blasters disguised as Neutron Blaster MKII's (the Corvus grease monkeys don't care, but other stations certainly do as I have discovered personally on one occasion), and finally, I ran my fingers across the hull of the ship and made sure there weren't any hole, scratches, or problems with the air tight features. I was ready for take off... I peeked at the dock across from me: a trading variant centaur as I could tell by the mines being loaded on it. Its pilot was standing at the cockpit and waved at a passing friend who took the liberty of pressing the button to close the airlock door. I took of my gloves and stuffed them in my back pocket; I ran over and pressed the airlock button and leaped back onto my ship's side of the door as it was closing. I dashed up the ladder, landed in place in my seat and pulled down the cockpit window as the gas began to vent from the room... My first hunt in months had just begun.
Chaakin slipped a brown leather jacket with a shearling lining on the inside that resembled those worn by American bomber pilots in the mid-20th century of old Earth; it was what he traditionally wore in the glory days of the Syndicate and had recently been accumulating a lot of dust. He got it at the peak of his old pirating career a long time ago when he was given a share of loot from a convoy that failed to pay a toll, and loving the history of his origins of old Earth (though it tended to puzzle other pilots), he took the replica bomber jacket among all the other 120 cargo boxes. It had been more than half a year since it last felt a human hand and so Chaakin viewed it as the best symbol of him canceling his retirement as a pilot.
Said retirement hadn't lasted very long at all (almost a year). However hard Chaakin would try, he would always find himself back at dock A-36 at his home of Sedina Sector, D-14 Sedina V Hold tightening the bolts and buffing out his pale-green Corvus Vulturius. He stopped and looked at himself in a cracked mirror in his dim, smokey apartment (He didn't smoke, but the ventilation wasn't necessarily shared. This rat hole [no pun intended] definitely played a role in his decision to cancel his retirement.). He had grown pale as the place he decided to retire at wasn't necessarily all that close to Sedina's sun, his hair was messy, matted, and colored dark brown with a few smears of black from the times he had spent all day working with the inards of his lucky Fast Charge Power Cell that had one day caught him many a traders in the old days, and his pants had a few stains and rips, but he concealed them by scrunching them up a tiny bit and tucking them into his steel-toed boots. The action he was going to face, this day, would be in the void of space; but he grabbed his plasma blaster pistol and holstered it one his belt, just in case. He was ready to return.
--- (switched to first person, Chaakin Tockoa)
The station, being Corvus guarded and off in the corners of nowhere, had been skimping on the artificial gravity lately. The simple remedy was to refit the station with a revolving section like the nearby Xang Xi station, but even that is too expensive for the kind of people I do business with nowadays. On one of the first days the power for the gravity was being conserved, I tripped from the velcro flooring and glided right into a VPR meeting with its door open; I couldn't grab a hold of a single thing that wasn't built to stay put on the walls until I was flying through the room, blasters drawn at me, and smashing head first though their coffee maker. I got away with some minor third degree burns from the coffee, but I'm still glad I made it out in one piece (especially since they might have thought it was an economic strike against their coffee supply or something crazy like that). Their fault for leaving their door open and cutting off the funding for the damned Corvus artificial gravity in Sedina, but this time I think I'll stick to the handle bars.
I slipped my key card into the automatic door and it let me pass from the apartment halls to the main docking index. When I switched from the dim, smokey, compact rooms and halls to the high-ceilinged, well lit and loud port of the station I had to allow a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Usually I would check out the bar and see if there were any other pirates I knew that might like to help with the daily hunt, but with the Syndicate apparently dying I reckoned that my days as Kalb's wingman were over. Also, with the Syndicate's weakening diplomatic statements and a new generation of pirates setting in, I wasn't eager to run off and find the very first CLM that I spotted without having known them, first. Nowadays I wouldn't be surprised if one of the newbie CLM pirates wouldn't resist taking a shot at me if they found me flying the Behemoth I use for picking up the cargo of the convoys I've ambushed. This time I would have to go solo.
I walked to my second home of dock A-36 and slipped in my keycard. Puffs of gas came from the vents to my left and right and I had to wait a few moments until the first air lock door of my dock opened to reveal my pale-green Vulture. I slipped on my maintenance gloves from the back pocket of my pants and began my routine flight check. First I opened the hatch under the large metallic bird and inspected that the local station grease monkeys hadn't put the power cell in backwards (never try it, you'll end up with a mess), second the weapon slots: two Law Enforcement Neutron Blasters disguised as Neutron Blaster MKII's (the Corvus grease monkeys don't care, but other stations certainly do as I have discovered personally on one occasion), and finally, I ran my fingers across the hull of the ship and made sure there weren't any hole, scratches, or problems with the air tight features. I was ready for take off... I peeked at the dock across from me: a trading variant centaur as I could tell by the mines being loaded on it. Its pilot was standing at the cockpit and waved at a passing friend who took the liberty of pressing the button to close the airlock door. I took of my gloves and stuffed them in my back pocket; I ran over and pressed the airlock button and leaped back onto my ship's side of the door as it was closing. I dashed up the ladder, landed in place in my seat and pulled down the cockpit window as the gas began to vent from the room... My first hunt in months had just begun.