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Thread: [M] The Andromeda Federation (IC)

  1. #11
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    “Rise and shine, team!” Pedro called into the intercom stalk to emphasise the computer’s tinny-voiced nagging. He pushed the stalk back into its cradle and pulled his chair round with his other hand to begin flipping the interlock switches for the jump drive. Out the corner of his eye he noticed a figure slinking into the bridge: a glossy, purple skinned Zalmade with the species’ distinctive bottom-heavy look and a familiar furtive air.

    “Hi Ayo.” he greeted the ship’s botanist in her native tongue, doing his best to replicate the glottal stops and tongue clicks that were considered polite in Zalmade.

    Ayo made her way up to the pilot's deck. "Hey Pedro..sorry to bother you, but what's going on?"

    Pedro opened his mouth to respond, taking a second to remember the Zalmade word for mayday. As if on cue, the intercom clicked, and the captain’s voice broadcast over the speakers in their customary artificial timbre.

    “[CALM]. Attention crew of the Falcor.” For reasons best known to themself, the captain had chosen a high, girlish vocal set for their working body. Although he was used to it now, Pedro was still glad that during his job interview captain Zya had not been au fait enough with humans to wonder why he was suppressing a smirk the entire time. “Zyaust-jecant speaking. Prepare for FTL jump. Report when you are ready. When we all are, engage the FTL drive, pilot. [DISMISSAL]. The beacon is most probably for a ship that has run low on fuel or suffered engine damage. [ASSURANCE]. All we will need to do is tow their ship to our destination.”

    Pedro, who was still sitting frozen with his mouth open and one finger raised, shrugged and pointed instead at the speaker. “What they said.”

    "Right nevermind that is my question answered..." Ayo slunk back awkwardly and made her way to one of the side seats in the corridor, where she was soon joined by their resident celebrity - who had chosen garish pink pajamas for the occasion.

    “Good evening, Ayo.” said Skylar Hart, in that delicate falsetto voice that most people only got to hear over the hyperwaves. “Looking pretty as always I see."

    "Sickbay ready and standing by," doctor Brz'tek Sirc reported from her usual post, her quiet voice barely registering on the intercom. Pedro didn’t wait for a response from Tink. She’d be ready in the engine deck just below, with omni-tool in one hand and one of her secret stash of nutri-paste tubes in the other, and - more than likely - cursing his name, his face and the parents who had had the bad manners to spawn him after he had woken her up.

    “[CALM] Pilot, we all appear to be ready.” captain Zya’s machine voice broke across the intercom. “Engage the jump when ready.”

    “Copy that.” Pedro responded as he punched in the last codes of the startup sequence. “And the monkey flips the switch.”

    Beyond the panoramic arc of the bridge windows, space twisted, beginning to swirl and dance in surreal colours. Pedro clenched his stomach out of habit, bracing against the slight jolt before the jump drives engaged and the view exploded into the flat white of stars rushing past.

    The count ticked down through the interface puck at his temple, and he braced again as the auto-nav dropped them back to sunlight three kilometres abeam of their stricken target, gas jets slashing from the Falcor’s bow to match course and speed. The hull camera screens gave them their first view of the distressed ship: a long, sweeping wing hulled in obsidian black, but with crushed and tattered ends that spoke of some nasty damage.

    It registered a steady, residual heat bleed on the thermal cameras, but almost nothing in the way of power. The alien ship was dark, derelict, dead.

    It was not a design that Pedro recognised, which wasn’t necessarily remarkable, but the database queries scrolling down the side of the display indicated that the Falcor couldn’t place it either.

    Don’t get excited. There’s a million sentient species in the galaxy, and the shipyard won’t have wasted memory space uploading them all to a hauler like the Falcor.

    “Okay, let’s move.” Pedro urged the others, lowering his grav-couch and sliding down onto his feet.

    * * * * * *

    Magnetic tethers held the two ships together, spinning slowly as the Falcor’s running lights glittered off a thousand tiny pieces of debris, trailing from the obsidian ship like hagfish tailing a carcass. Pedro felt them plinking off the fishbowl helmet of his exo-suit, the vacuum of space turning the sound hollow. He glanced up and watched the air and integrity monitors projected onto his visor settle back to green before thumbing his jet controls and pushing him the final hundred metres to the alien ship.

    “Gravity’s gone.” he remarked as he drifted between exposed metal struts, projecting like ribs from the open hull. “But I’m reading atmosphere in the interior.” He checked the readouts on the panel strapped to his arm. “Cold, but survivable for most sapients. There might still be someone alive in there.”

    He reached out with a stunted arm, and used it to pull himself under an obstructing beam. It was difficult to tell if the spar had been dislodged by damage, or if the species that designed this ship just really hated right angles. As he moved beyond the comforting glow of the Falcor’s running lights, he tapped the side of his helmet, splashing the corridor with white light from his suit torch. Glassy shards twirled in the airless compartment, and a purple liquid was leaking steadily from a split hose, bobbling away in small droplets. Ahead was an oval alcove that ended in what looked very much like a door, with a spiral wheel-lock.

    “I think I’ve found a way in.” Pedro reported, tilting his helmet so that the crew still on the ship could get a better view through the camera mounted below the torch. “I’ll close it behind me to keep the air in. Let me know if the comm-link stays steady.”
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  2. #12
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    Tilted was the best way Tink could think of to describe space. Subterranean mines had the same sort of disorienting feeling, where so far from light and the usual markers of time that humans used were imperceptible. There were a number of ways they combated this problem, including giving an orderliness to the way shafts were sunk and tunneled into the earth. The strange thing about space was that those markers existed, but it was so vast and those indicators so variable that one still felt they lacked them. Or, at least, that's how it seemed to her. The cold, the near-silence when mining operations were halted... Well, those were the same.

    Distracted as they moved into the damaged ship, her scavenger's eye began an appraisal. It looked empty. If someone had been here, she wondered how long it had been. Cave-ins sometimes left miners alive, and while rescue operations were impressive on Dog Rock, many times recovery was deemed not to be cost-efficient. She'd known some fighters though, surviving days or weeks in conditions that should by rights kill a man. Still, it seemed more likely the mayday signal was old. Maybe someone had already recovered - or maybe it was an automatic beacon after the hull breach.

    Glancing around for a quick headcount, Tink set about collecting samples of the purple liquid before clamping the end of the line and tracing it back with her fingers. It would need to be replaced or repaired if the ship was salvageable, but a chemical weld in the presence of an unknown substance was a dicey affair - and that was setting aside the trouble with navigating that sort of thing in a vacuum.

    She was reaching to unwedge a tangle of broken displays and metal from her path when Pedro announced a potential way further inside.

    "Wait, I'll go, too."

    Abandoning exploration of the broken ship for later, she moved off to join the ingress. If by some chance there was actually someone alive inside they might need help stabilising once the door was opened. With a spare exo-suit attached at her back, Tink jarred her shoulder in her impatience to move around the fallen beam in the pilot's wake to join the others.

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

  3. #13
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    As Ayo was strapped in she was bemused by the site of Skylar in his pink rabbit pajamas. He was a newer member and known for being a flirt. He was harmless though and livened things up. She wasn't the best with socializing, but he made it easy for her. "Hello." She gave the simple greeting in return. Not speaking in her native tongue could be hard sometimes. That was why she did appreciate Pedro earlier trying to communicate with her in her languge. It was rare to meet others that even bothered to learn her language.

    Even though Skylar commented on her looks she did not responsed. She knew her appearance was strange to humans. Before their conversation could continue, the ship jumped and her stomach lurched. Her purple tendrils moved around on their own uneasily. This was something she would never get use to. Her usual slick purple skin appeared ashen and dried as she felt sick. She closed her eyes and began to count back slowly. As the ship came to a stop she began to compose herself. Ayo unbuckled herself and made her way to the observatory window.

    Stretched out before her was the glorious cosmos and the infinite darkness. Admist that was a wrecked ship. Parts of it being scattered and floating off in any which way. Her large bulbous eyes stared in wonder.

    -------------------------


    At this point Pedro and Tink had gone out to scavenge the ship. Ayo watched on the coms screen Pedro's broadcast. "Be careful. If there is a life aboard and this turns into a rescue mission I'll get ready with my usual herbs and plants for treatment and nourishment." She said over the communication system matter of factly.

    Ayo loved her plants and she did her best to spread them about the ship. Many had functions and purposes, but some were to liven up the grey drabben atmosphere of the ship.

  4. #14
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    Sirc sighed, looking over the tiny sickbay with its autodoc. A diagnostic and surgical tool, it still relied on someone with the right training to authorize anything above a minor procedure. Especially if the being in the autodoc wasn't a known race....

    Oh no...! What if they found a new race over there? The system wouldn't know how to treat them!

    Her hand pulled out her omni. "Do you see any registration numbers? Flag of registry?"

    Please let it be a known species! Please let any injuries be minor!
    Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

  5. #15
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    Together, Pedro and Tink managed to wrap their hands around the awkward spiral wheel and brace themselves against the walls. Pedro didn’t hear the door unlock, but as the wheel turned a sudden pressure from inside popped the hatch open, and expelled moisture briefly fogged his visor before boiling away once more into the vacuum.

    “Okay, let’s go. Better keep the air in if we can.”

    They pulled themselves inside, and heaved the door closed once more against the sigh of escaping air. It locked once more with a faint thunk, and the two humans were inside the alien vessel, in pitch darkness. Pedro picked at the omni strapped to his void-suit sleeve, teasing out an air sampler and reading it by the soft glow of his arm display.

    “Forty kPa left in this section after we opened the window.” he reported. “Not far off the standard eighty-twenty mix of nitrogen to oxygen. If anyone’s still alive in here they should be able to breathe back on the Falcor.”

    “Be careful.” Ayo warned, her voice crackling slightly as the signal was bounced through the debris separating the two ships. “If there is a life aboard and this turns into a rescue mission I'll get ready with my usual herbs and plants for treatment and nourishment."

    “Good call.” Pedro answered, nodding inside his helmet. “If you go and set up with Sirc in the med-tech module we can jet back to the spinal airlock and take them straight there.”

    “Do you see any registration numbers?” the Dracosian doctor herself queried. “Flag of registry?”

    Pedro panned his torch across the corridor. He recognised handholds, inactive glass screens, ovoid panels that might have been interface keyboards, spread across all four walls.

    “Not that I can see, Sirc. I don’t think this ship even has artificial gravity.”

    They drifted hand over hand to another door, this time hearing the soft hiss of air as the pressure in the two modules equalised. This next one was a hub, branching off into gloomy darkness to either side, but ahead a splash of light was leaking around the edges of another hatch. Pedro’s own torchlight swallowed it as he pulled himself over, but the door itself was jammed - an open lock of pawls and cogs jutting a bent metal bar across the edge of the hatch. Did someone lock themselves in?

    Pedro reached for another handhold to pull himself back. If the ship had a computer system working he might have been able to code his way around it, but wires and gears were Tink’s area of expertise. A little ingenuity from his fellow human and the lock clunked back, the door drifting open on a globular room that was still lit by dim lights.

    Pedro breathed a soft curse in his native Pelion.

    Curled in a fetal ball in the centre of the room, oxygen tube trailing like an umbilical cord, was an alien creature. It was small, and humanoid, with pale skin that blended into white fur. A tail was curled under its legs, with long porcupine spikes laid flat along its length. The black breathing mask hid most of its face, though he could see doglike ears pricking up from the long hair that covered its head. It was like no species Pedro had ever seen.

    He tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue was dry.

    Falcor.” he said, turning his head slightly towards his mic pickup, but unable to take his eyes off the alien. He almost didn’t realise that he was whispering. “We’ve found a survivor.”
    Last edited by Azazeal849; 01-17-2021 at 09:07 PM.
    Spoiler: My RP links 

    PM me for novelised versions of any of my RPs, or ones that I have participated in. Set by the awesome Karma.


  6. #16
    Wolf of the Highlands
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    A dim grey was all she saw through her eyelids, but little registered.
    Muffled sounds that she couldn't make out.
    The only thing she felt right now was the void around her.

    But, soon, she felt something touch her, it was hard to tell what since sensation was hard to grasp in her current state. But she felt almost as if she were moving.
    In moments, she finally began to feel warm again. Her heart rate still yet slow as her body loosened up and adjusted to the warm air.
    The one who will save you, the one who will stick by you, the one that will never back down,
    or maybe the one that finally brings you to your knees and makes you realize what kind of person you are.
    Wastelander

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  7. #17
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    Pausing to tap the thick fingers of her exo-suit against one of the dead displays as they passed, Tink squinted around the torch-limned curves and lines of the interfaces that darkened down the corridor as Pedro moved away beyond them. Switching on the light mounted inside her collar, the ship's mechanic saw the pilot wave to the hatch off of the hub he had encountered.

    She ran her hands along the bent metal bar that secured whatever was hidden away inside once she had trailed nearer. Her lips curved into a smile. Good thing the problem entry was between two rooms that seemed to be maintaining pressure, or getting inside would've been far trickier. Her methods weren't pretty, but they were quick. The satisfying shift of the locking mechanisms giving way allowed her to wedge the bar and shoulder the door so that it floated open into the circular room it had protected.

    Stepping inside, Tink reflexively lifted a hand to run through her hair and simply rested it where it touched her suit upon impact. Her cheeks flushed slightly at the idea that there really had been someone here all along that she had been willing to leave stranded if it weren't for the others. Throwing a look to Pedro as she approached the distressed being, the mechanic cleared her throat and knelt, giving the still form's shoulder a rousing shake.

    Spoiler: Completely Unsolicited, Contextual Praise Definitely not Acquired via Torture 

  8. #18
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    Experiment 19 slowly opened her eyes to come face to face with these odd people covered in white suits and bubble helmets. Their faces only seen by the light in their suits. But sensation was still coming back, and even what she saw now seemed dull and far away.

    She blinked a few times, still trying to make sense of everything before closing them again.
    She was still waking up, she needed more time. She was so cold it was hard to move.
    The one who will save you, the one who will stick by you, the one that will never back down,
    or maybe the one that finally brings you to your knees and makes you realize what kind of person you are.
    Wastelander

    Spoiler: I'm an Ajin! 

    Spoiler: extra 

  9. #19
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    "A survivor?" Sirc asked breathlessly. There was little to see from the exterior views. "A survivor of what?"

    "What species?" she demanded, turning towards the autodoc panel, ready to key in the race. "Diagnostics run faster if I can key it in."
    Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

  10. #20
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    As the jump drive engaged, Zyaust-jecant could hear the contents of their draws rattle. Their body remained rigid, certain that the force was low enough that limb flexibility need not be used to help dissipate it. Their hands might have slid from side to side on the hand holds though. They idly hoped that wasn't happening, as that'd risk wearing down the work bodies hands or the bars themselves. The bars would probably be scratched before their hands. They couldn't remember using particularly expensive material for what was meant to be a cheap and easy solution.

    And just as soon as the jump started, it ended. Or perhaps not. Zyaust-jecant had their vision locked to the motionless space between the computer shelf and hard drive cabinet, with their hands able to do nothing else then grip. They had no sense of touch to feel the subtle changes of temperature and air flow that keep one grounded in the present, and so in such times of inaction, time became the complete interpretation of an unfocused mind. Such a phenomena meant the truly dull bits of life passed quickly, being equivalent to the sleep they no longer experienced; but even so, Zyaust-jecant couldn't help but feel disappointed at the loss of time.

    Not that they had time to ruminate on such things. Releasing their grip on the handholds, their visor sliding back into their protective hood, they reached for the intercom panel. With a few button presses, they could see what the distress signal was originating from. And it turned out to be a scattering of artificial debris that would have once been a starship. Such a realisation hit their mind like a meteor, the impact shockwave condemning any half-formed and wandering thoughts of simulacrums, lost time and what they should do for the next few hours into the mental abyss.

    Well, they certainly hadn't anticipated this. They hastily scrubbed away their plans of ship piloting and captain to captain negotiation from the mental blackboard, and hastily assembled a new surface to plan from. Checking for survivors seemed to be the most obvious thing to do, and something other crew members had already began on. They'd have to do that then.

    --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Next to the airlock, two-hands waiting near an intercom panel, Zyaust-jecant stood on four limbs, their body clad in their space suit – which was really just a thick layer of insulation with an air booster attached to the back and some external cameras mounted on the side and back of the head section. They would have liked to poke through the wreckage with the pilot and the mechanic, but they feared that their bodies bulk would be too great to navigate the ruined ship properly, and the remaining structure too unstable to risk just wrenching open holes big enough to fit through. They really shouldn't have made the body so big. It stood on all fours at 8 feet! It was ridiculous, they'd never even met anyone who was that high! And their organic body hadn't even been that big, only 5.6 or so feet when standing on all fours! Must have thought it'd be impressive or cool or something. Well it meant they had to duck through most doorways and that they took up most of a corridor.

    They would have liked to think of something else other than regrets. Better yet, they'd like to be doing something – they were certainly ready to do something. Was why they'd put the space suit on, in what was perhaps a vain hope that they'd be able to do more than fiddle with the intercom. Technically they could have gone back to work and act like nothing was happening, but they certainly didn't want to do or could do that. Couldn't just go and act like a crisis wasn't happening. So here they waited, ready to boost over to the wreckage in case anything went awry or needed ferrying over. Maybe they should have grabbed a space walkers toolkit before heading to the airlock.

    The intercom relay a message from the pilot. Apparently a section of the ship that still held breathable gas existed – something with oxygen in, supposedly, if it was breathable by everyone on the Falcor. Did they breath oxygen? Probably? Breathing was a novelty Zyaust-jecant rarely thought about. But that was digressing from the issue at hand. Breathable gas was there so something could breath it, and something that could indeed breath was found. Well, presumably breath. All they'd heard through the intercom was that there was a survivor. Who or what that survivor hadn't been relayed. So whether they could or needed to breath was unknown. Regardless, a good turn of events. In truth, the rather infrequent and non-descript reports had been worrying Zyaust-jecant, because that meant things like survivors or intact bits of ship weren't being mentioned.
    The poised hands tapped at the intercom panel as Zyaust-jecant relayed a message to the two space walkers.

    '[CONCERN] Are they capable of movement and geared for void travel? If not, relay the co-ordinates and I can come over with a spacers stretcher whilst you two continue to search for survivors.'

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