1.1 - Welcome to Torpol (Closed)

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Urien, Rhane, Lindsey, Eirene, Kesperziaiepr, Mahan
Arriving in the Torpol System, out of jump
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

Fetching passengers and cargo on Drinax is an easy enough task after the crew give the vessel a brief orbital shake-down. She responds decently to inputs at the controls, the turrets seem fine, and she holds together well enough... though there was a concerning groaning that some could hear in the cargo bay when she first entered into proper vacuum and slipped free from Drinax's atmosphere. It was a sound that repeated the next time the vessel headed up, though softer that go around, and the passengers 'upstairs' didn't seem to notice or take mind to it as they settled in their quarters.

Certainly, the ones downstairs in the cooler were even more agreeable about the whole thing.

When you made your intentions clear that you would be heading to Torpol first, you were advised to check the ship's library as it had been updated prior to your taking the ship - a practice normally done automatically by the ship's computer whenever a vessel comes out of a jump in a system with available network access. Those of you who choose to spend the week in jump space doing that find it can be a quick read to get an idea of what you can expect when you land.

Torpol has both a Highport and a Downport, though ostensibly the Highport is chiefly only for refueling and ferrying the crew of those vessels not capable of atmospheric flight down to the planet. The Downport is sat on the southern pol and is led by Provost Martial Haddo Farx - the youngest Provost to ever hold a seat on the council, and likewise the youngest to ever be given the prestigious position of being the Marshal of Torpol's Downport.

The planet itself primarily plays off of tourism. This is both serving as a waystation for far-faring cruises to use as a place to stop for fuel and shore-leave for crew and passengers, and for the rich elite of the Trojan Reach who would fancy an opportunity to relax in luxurious private rooms with scenic views of the exotic sea-life one could find miles below the ocean's surface.

Which is another point you learn.

Torpol doesn't have much in the way of land. A great deal of the planet's surface is rolling waves, crashing storms, and oceans deep enough to instill thalassophobia into the stoutest of terran sailors. Thus, the Downport on the southern pole is going to be the first stop of most vessels that arrive in-system with intent to land.

But, all of that aside, the travel goes well enough.

Astrid is... mostly well-behaved. Only the occasional teleportation into the open 'foyer' that is the dining area, shocking guests. And those guests are a mixture of Drinaxian lower nobility - called "upper working class" anywhere else - embracing a touch of wander-lust, and off-worlders making use of your trip as a means to get back home after time spent studying at the Tower. You're a convenience that they are more than happy to pay for, and they are by-and-large respectful to the Solomani steward who tends to them, and the rest of the crew as they meet in passing.

Maybe that peacefulness is why the warning broadcast when you come into system is so jarring to the mood.

A broadcast on repeat, from the Torpol Commerce Board and Torpol's Customs Patrol broadcasting on all channels.

Clearly on a loop, it is prefaced by an automated and crackling, robotic voice before a stern, elder gentleman can be heard speaking, each time.

 

ALL RECEIVERS, THIS STATION  -  STAND BY FOR BROADCAST FROM THE PROVOST MARSHALS

All vessels approaching are to be advised that the Highport of Torpol is off-limits at this time. All vessels are to maintain a distance from the Highport of no less than 7,500km unless otherwise advised by the appropriate authorities. All vessels requiring assistance with ferry services to the surface are to contact the Highport tower for appropriate staging. We apologize for this inconvenience, and thank you for your patience and undrestanding on this matter.

 

And as you draw closer to the planet, you can pick up the signals from beacons marking out limits of approach as you draw closer. At present, it seems, despite the congestion of orbital traffic that you should have an easy enough time of making it to the Downport if that is what you want.

Edited August 20, 2023 by DJ P4NTSL3SS (see edit history)

[Niraverine]

The journey, as far as Eirene’s experiences went, was dreadfully uneventful. The ship proved to have a stern and reliable construction, even if occasional whizzing and rattling annoyed her. After the first 3 days, few near falls, and gaining two new scratches she learnt to pay attention to the floor and the four-legged haughty trespasser (as well as the bloody cleaning droid). That led to slight resentment towards the machine and a talk with the good doctor who, after the second Astrid incident, was kind to inform her about the existence of a “cat scratch disease“ and was met with a blank stare from the unamused corsair.

The rest of the trip was equally boring. She managed not to get into any fights with Urien – mainly due to the avoidance tactics (and the fact that the furball thankfully hasn't developed the ability to speak and repine). She was caught yet again scouting the pantry, came out of the encounter unscratched and with confused realisation that Lindsey was serious about leaving things for her – and clearly it was a point of professional pride for the steward to leave things that were to her taste too - her current drink was a proof of that. Eirene solemnly promised herself that the good will won’t be forgotten nor taken for granted. She had a hunch the woman won't turn her nose up at the bottle of quality alcohol - or any quality good for that matter. The Zhodani looked like a decent and quiet fellow who probably didn’t look into her head… too much... and the ensign didn’t decide to press for details regarding her business dealings in the Drinax cluster.

Life, Eirene decided begrudgingly, was for the moment on the right course. She reclined in her chair, glanced at one of the many screens that cluttered her station on the bridge and grimaced slightly upon seeing masses of water that covered the planet. The corsair reached blindly for the cup and lifted it to her lips, the other hand pressed lightly to the receiver she had in her ear. She listened with a furrowed brow while sipping on her creamy drink.

“I’d say we may safely assume that it’s the Highport that was hit”, she drawled lazily, “and they really don’t want anyone to see the extent of damages.” She had a momentarily idea of trying to sneak close to the place and dismissed the thought as quickly as it came to her. Waste of time. Risky one at that.

She turned to Mahan. “I’d try to land in the Downport, boss. And we should decide how to proceed from there. I’d advise splitting up since we don't have infinite timeon our disposal.” She was still unsure about his attitude towards authority, chain of command nor cheeky companions and so there was question in her eyes - how did he wish to proceed?
 

[Emmettmcglynn]

Mahan remained relatively distant throughout the week's travel, mostly appearing to interact with the passengers in his formal capacity as captain but otherwise remaining sequestered in his office or in his room and emerging only when sought out by crew or passenger. Aside from day to day administrative tasks or polite interactions, he spent most of his time in front of a mirror talking to himself. It felt silly, but he'd been raised by a clerk and a journalist and so never gained a real grasp on interacting in formal circumstances. That hadn't bothered him before, the Star Guard had taught him most of what he'd needed to know for military conduct, but now that he was acting as an unofficial agent of the King he needed to be able to handle himself and he couldn't rely on Zhukova to hold his hand among elites. Thus, he stood in his room and he practiced bowing and saluting and pleasantries for hours on end.

When they arrived in-system at Torpol he finally emerged in full, assuming the Captain's seat and piloting the ship into stable orbit around Torpol. He remained quiet when Eirene spoke up, focused on his task, but when his direct imput was no longer required he spoke up to answer her question.

"Agree on all counts. I'll take Zhukova and try to apply to the Provost Marshal's office as bounty hunters chasing information, see if they can't at least point us in the right direction. I'm not a policeman, so as long as you all have a good plan on getting a lead or contact pursue it. My only requirements is that you each pick a buddy and stick to them, and that you tell us all what you'll be doing now so we can try and find you if we need to."

With that he leaned back in the Captain's chair and rested his arm on the hilt of his personal blade in the seat's sword stand, then waited on the rest of them while adding tobacco to his pipe.

[Sneaksby]

Eirene's rueful expression didn't go unnoticed by Kesper, and he couldn't resist teasing her a bit.

"Shouldn't a pirate be happy to see all this open water? Where's your swashbuckling spirit?"

He chuckled sensibly, his jibe having no rancor behind it. While he couldn't help but bristle a little initially on learning of the corsair's occupation, it wasn't long before he accepted how silly it would be to treat her any differently for it. No doubt the both of them had done their share of shady things in the eyes of the other, the only difference being their motives. Kesper killed and destroyed without qualm or hesitation on the orders of his government, and perhaps someone with an independent streak would think ill of him for it. Besides, they were all pirates now, in spirit if not yet in deed.

"Eirene has the right of it I think. A tourist trap like this place would be pretty worried about optics as well as security. Nothing to choke off the flow of offworld tourists quite like bodies and bullet holes on the news feed. I think we ought to all head to the downport and present ourselves as bounty hunters to the authorities after finishing our incidental business. From there we can see about splitting up. Some go to investigate the highport - with permission, unless we feel like getting reduced to atoms by orbital defenses - and others sniff around groundside."

[Kiro Haas]

The ship's doctor had spent the time it took to travel from Dirnax to Torpol getting acquainted with the ship's layout. That it lacked it's own medbay was concerning, but it wasn't the first time she'd been aboard a ship without a medbay. She'd simply have to adjust. That it lacked a science lab was a minor annoyance compared to the lack of medical facilities. Without such facilities, the doctor had found herself a bit listless, after making sure their passengers had a clean bill of health. So she had spent most of her free time either exercising - to keep herself in shape - or studying the science behind Astrogation, considering the crew didn't have a dedicated Astrogator. There was frankly a stupendous amount of things this crew and ship was lacking.

When the ship came out of the jump, and the robotic announcement was broadcast across the ship's speakers, the doctor hurried into the bridge, still in what anyone who had spent time in any armed forces of any of the humanoid cultures would immediately recognize as the bog standard Exercise Uniform, though this one in the cut and colours of the Darrian Confederacy's navy. She arrived in time to hear Eirene's suggestion, and Kesper's teasing barb.

"You should have seen Zlodh. Entire city, and the university, was underwater, at the northern pole," she replies, as if to distract Kesper perhaps... or entirely horrify Eirene. As for the rest of it, she has to agree with her new crewmates' assessments, but hasn't anything particularly relevant to add to the discussion. She knew how to infiltrate a city, if need be, not how to be a detective or a law enforcement officer.

"I have no objections to these plans. Just give me a moment to get properly... attired," the pointy-eared doctor murmurs, gesturing to her exercise clothes.

[Dastardly Tristar]

Chambered away in a pressurized container, hurling through space at beyond lightspeeds sounded a lot more exciting than it really was. Astrid, used to her environments, mostly kept to herself during the waking hours. She was either in the vents, slinking off on the next great furry adventure, or otherwise screeching murder at the ship's steward when she believed it was time to be fed. Urien kept himself busy doing one of either three things, depending on his mood: he was either studying  the fascinating qualities of volatile reagents and its many 'explosive' uses, gambling with the passengers, or kept to himself within the sensops section of the ship. 

Admittedly, there was some overlap in between all of his activities. There was also the times he would be wolfing down Lindsey's kimchi (he had better), playing hide-and-seek with Astrid (she always cheated) or shuffling his deck of cards whilst staring at the ceiling, waiting for something else to do. He didn't want to admit that he had hopes something would go wrong on the way to Torpol, like pirates or an engine failure, but boredom was excellent fertilizer for intrusive thoughts. 

Luckily the passengers were gracious enough in their defeats in a game of cards, and loose with their lips (some had to be oiled with enough liquor, of which the Reclaimer had an abundant supply of). He kept his ideas of the Provost to himself, and toyed with the many possibilities, mostly to keep himself active. There was still too little to work on. 

Why, the Provost could genuinely be an upstanding citizen of Torpol. 

But Urien didn't stay in the galaxy's most cutthroat intelligence agency by accepting the facts as is. There was always something to dig up, and he had another name to lead on. 

As the ship lurched out into Torpol's orbit, Urien made sure to keep Astrid on a leash, clipped to his belt. She struggled, but ultimately her feline wits was no match for 'psst psst psst' and a can of wet food. He threw on his protective trenchcoat and kept his third arm coiled around his mid-riff, hiding it from view. 

He strode to the bridge with Astrid by his feet, swishing her fluffy tail lazily. Together they had the resemblance of a tired parent and his malicious child. "Word is bound to travel fast between dock workers. If it is alright with the rest of you, I aim to make my acquaintance personally with a few of them. Get to know the locals better. If anyone wants to join, feel free to follow." He said plainly, crossing his arms. 

"I would not trust the Provost - from what little I have gained from our passengers, he looks to be the ambitious type. The dangerous kind, at that." He added, as he checked his holstered silenced pistol. 

 

[kostyora]

So, they were finally here. Lindsey supposed she should feel glad that they'd made their first step without any undue complications, but something niggled regardless, and it bothered her that she didn't know what it was that was bothering her. The crew had been pleasant enough, doing their own myriad things. Mahan with his retreats to practice his comportment and speech... perhaps the Solomani blood in the Drinaxian drove him to be better; Eirene practicing her larcenous raiding (though with the knowledge that her quarry was made for her in advance); the doct-- Rahne she had not spoken much to. Indeed, they only really saw each other when Lindsey finished preparing her meals and when they passed each other using the ship's space for exercise. She was not overfond of doctors, but that was hardly the Darrian's fault... so she determined to be polite and wait for whenever the doctor judged it appropriate to be closer.

Urien and Kesper she saw hardly at all. Their duties meant they almost never crossed paths with her, and in truth Urien made her uneasy; he acted unlike any Captain she had known, even reservist ones and she wondered if it were significant somehow. Astrid however was another matter, every moment was brighter when the little furball was around; hell, she even deigned to let Lindsey pet her now. It had taken many surreptitious snacks given and many embarrassing attempts to coax her to let her be closer whilst down on her knees... but it was progress. But there was only so much time where you could be professional and helpful on this ship, and she inevitably had some downtime -- which she filled with singing when she was sure she would not be overheard. And studying when she almost certainly was.

It was almost embarrassing really. She was never going to star in any operas, but she had a pleasing enough voice and it made her happy to indulge herself in daydreams (or whatever passed for them in an environment when day and night had no real meaning) for a while. As for studying, it didn't escape her notice that of all the current crew of the ship she was by far the most useless if there came to an occasion where there was violence involved. It was true that she knew the basics of gunnery thanks to her time in the Navy, but others knew far more than her -- so she directed her efforts in directions where they were still lacking. Namely, Electronics, or to be even more specific, the use of the ship's sensors. It wasn't easy but it was rewarding. Despite her distaste for Sindalian decadence it at least appeared they were rigorous with their training materials.

---

Lindsey had been among the first to arrive but sat quietly with a simple coffee and a few sticks of shortbread she had baked herself, while the others contributed first. She considered trying to tempt Astrid to leave Urien's orbit and come to her but she dismissed it. Time enough for that later.

"Are you quite sure?" she muttered to Mahan, standing ramrod straight with her arms crossed across her chest. "I do not exactly resemble a bounty hunter, you understand. But, if you are sure, I will of course comply." She nodded a touch at Urien's comment before adding to it: "The well to do on any planet don't tend to like anything unexpected or destabilizing too; be they noble or nouveau-riche. They have too much to lose to chaos, and so no doubt know something through their own networks -- every day that port is out of commission is a fortune lost. I could try and shake the figurative tree and see what falls loose. Between us, we can probably at least eliminate the hearsay from the facts when we pool all of our available knowledge."

[Niraverine]

Eirene looked up from her console. "The recruiters said I can have either swasbuckling spirit or a working eye and a whole hand. I decided to haggle, they tried to sweeten the deal by adding a cussing parrot and I had to politely decline. As it happens pet birds annoy me even more than big masses of cold water." It was stated in a dead serious tone and with a straight face but her eyes glinted ironically. 

"That said, I am still adventorous enough to try to learn something from Torpol's criminal underground. Someone can tag along", she side-eyed the gathered, "-as long as they know when not to antagonize people", she murmured under her breath and took another sip of her brew with a frown. She could swear that during her career she heard something about the place that could be useful in her planned dealings and so she was racking her brain to remember even a tiny piece of information that would give her upper hand.

 

[Dastardly Tristar]

Urien's ears twitched at Eirene's murmured sentence, though he made no show of it. Whatever it was that she said, he was fairly sure it was directed at someone in the room. He took a pause to collect himself with a dry expression as he addressed Lindsey's comments. "Pass. I have had enough experience with nobles for a lifetime." He shrugged at Lindsey. "You clearly have more patience dealing with social parasites than me." 

The man knelt on the floor to play with Astrid, who had rolled on her back, exposing her fluffy belly. "I tend to be more comfortable with the run-of-the-mill types. Your Rosie Riveters, Johnny Blues and the odd smuggler or two."

He left it at there. Linsey was not an idiot, and Eirene already knew his background. All the better for him if she kept thinking he was purposely crass and rude towards the nobility. It kept a good distance between him and the rest of the crew, and more time for himself. He wasn't paid to be well-liked anyhow. 

Dusting his knees and hands, Urien got back on his feet. Snapping his fingers twice, Astrid similarly got on her soft paws and leapt into his arms, trilling mid-air. "I will get ready for the landing pad. See you all there." He passed by Eirene without giving her a glance, but as he moved by Lindsey, Astrid started batting at the woman playfully. Urien exclaimed loudly, as Astrid jumped from his arms to the floor and sped out of the bridge. Apologizing profusely, he dusted off the cat hair from Lindsey's shoulder. 

Eventually he did leave the room, though his eyes had a sharp glint to it. 

 

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Urien, Rhane, Lindsey, Eirene, Kesperziaiepr, Mahan
Arrival, landing at the Torpol Downport
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

Landing takes... time.

First, when reaching out to traffic control, radio communication is still being run through the Highport, but they are only conducting staging and traffic management. For a planet that thrives on its tourist industry, something like the Highport being damaged could jeopardize their entire economy and livelihood. And anybody who comes to the bridge - or who turns the display to the front displays on the screen in the crew lounge and dining area as some of the passengers take to doing - will be able to see the glistening lights of numerous vessels in orbit ferried into long lines.

You are directed past a trio of subsidized liners, with each one of the comparatively larger vessels drifting in wide-arching orbital patterns. As you set on a path drawing closer to the disc-like, bulbous bow of one of them - "The Singer's Coachman" emblazoned on her hull - her launch slips from the docking bay at the rear and falls in alongside your vessel. She keeps forward and to your starboard side, though keeping a respectful distance, and just before she banks away you can almost swear the pilot gives a farewell by wobbling the 20-ton cylindrical vessel before dipping into the shadow of one of the other two liners - the plates glowing blue in the darkness as she slips away.

It takes two hours before you are finally authorized an approach to the Downport directly - though the route itself adds another hour of flight time as it requires a partial rotrograde 'burn' before you are breaking atmosphere to avoid interrupting the flow of ships around you by having a 200-ton bird-of-prey-styled warship turning about on everybody else. Instead you are able to slip from the 'side' of that traffic flow, bank accordingly, and before you've hit atmosphere the Downport uplink has already provided a data packet of meteorological data for your designated approach path that can be glanced at readily by whoever as the helm on your descent.

The path has you come in over the top of a howling polar blizzard sweeping over the water. You end up racing it to the Downport landing pads.

Your path leads you to a long, dispersed series of artificial metal islands. Each one large enough to host a vessel of at least 500 tons. The one designated for you has an elevator already rising up as you come in to land, and when you have confirmed with the ground control on the radio that you have firm contact, the pad slowly lowers down into the hangar-proper, and heavy shutters come closed overhead to mask your vessel from the rough seas and coming storm outside.

When you step off of the vessel, you are able to access the more public parts of the station - a place with an aesthetic that works to remind all those in the Downport that Torpol is a wild party planet, and a safe place in equal measure. Crisply uniformed security officers at major intersections to ensure that passers-by feel secure, and holograms of tropical beaches with sun-kissed seascapes to block the view of the dark wall of clouds that draws closer.

 

---

 

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Kesper, Mahan
Provost's Office, Torpol Downport
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

For Kesper and Mahan, it is easy enough to find the office of Provost Falx. You pass by multiple shops advertising artificial tans, beachwear, and numerous white-collar bars between where your vessel is docked and the office. You pass by numerous terminals displaying maps, with vibrant marks that read "YOU ARE HERE" showing you the layout of the various levels of the station, with a search function. Provost Falx's office is on the first level - the surface level of the Downport. The only downside to the trip is all of the nouveau riche who you pass by that give you odd looks when it is apparent you don't match their more pedestrian - but colorful - sense of style.

The front office is lavishly appointed, with holograms of beaches and tropical waves. Sound-proofing stops the sounds outside from disturbing business, and there are even real palm trees that flank the entrance when you walk in. Though, the artificial scent of what you can assume is a beachside bar might be a bit much for some peoples' tastes...

The clerk at the front desk is a human woman with a neat blonde pixie cut, dressed in a white button-down blouse and simple skirt - though the blouse seems deliberately 'disheveled' and the whole ensemble is accented with a brightly colored necklace of flowers that may or may not be artificial at a glance over the desk. She gives a warm smile, but doesn't stop tapping at the computer in front of her when she turns her head to meet the two of you, "Hello. Welcome of the Provost's office. How can we be of assistance, this morning?"

 

---

 

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Urien, Rhane, Eirene
Arriving in the Torpol System, out of jump
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

"Bagged soup! Get ya' bagged soup!" The vendor cries out to the crowd, waving around a bag of milky, too-viscous liquid in one hand.

Stepping off the elevator lands you in something of a large bazar. Various shops and stalls offer assorted goods. Cooked food, off-brand technology, clothes, and other things that might fit the surlier sorts who spend a great deal of their lives aboard a vessel traveling from one system to another.

The 'shady' part of the Downport isn't necessarily exactly what you might be used to, but after perusing one of the map terminals and asking a nearby Downport guard where most ships' crews went to relax, you were able to find where to go. Four levels down - several meters below the increasingly rolling surface of the water - and you are just deep enough that windows seem to be replaced with digital display screens like the ones that are in the bridge of your raider.

You can see various sea-life in the green water flick about behind the various projected holograms on either side of the main walkway, sometimes drawing close to the hull before darting away, further into the shadowy depths as you pass. You can find any manner of bars and greasy diners where more surly Travellers, and ship crews of various merchants and passenger liners come to unwind away from the prying eyes of the very passengers and vendors that they rely on for their business. After all, many of them know well enough that some of the people on the higher levels aren't keen to actually see the "help" when they aren't subserviently hard at work.

And for many Travellers like yourselves, this sort of company is simply more comfortable.

There are any number of bars, diners, clubs, and shops you might see to here.

[Emmettmcglynn]

Mahan moved slowly through the crowd alongside Kesper, using the time to catch up on the several years since they'd last seen each other. Though he'd kept a distance on the ship to maintain an air of impartiality as Captain now that the two were alone he could cut back and chat more freely. After a time, his attention drifted more towards the tackily dressed crowds. When a lull in the conversation emerged, he made a comment on it.

"I'd hoped to buy a new set of clothes for our new roles, but I'm starting to think all they have here are floral shirts and flip-flops." He said dryly. "Honestly, people here dress for space travel like they're dressing to use the bus."

---

By the time they reached the office he'd finished disparaging the locals lack of taste. Mahan paused outside the door to smooth back his hair and straighten his clothes before stepping in — it never hurt to make a good first impression even if they couldn't dress themselves. When he stepped through the door he flashed a grin and a bow to the woman behind the desk before speaking.

"I am Captain Mahan, of the ISV Reclaimer's Intent recently docked, and my compatriot and I have come to help the Provost with a request he's made. We understand that some raiders have recently struck at your home and we have come to help track them down and bring the fugitives to justice. We were hoping to have a meeting with the Provost to see if he could provide us with useful information in the pursuit."

It made him uncomfortable to be this friendly with a stranger but if he was to assume the role of a rake on this mission then he may as well assume the public persona of one.

[Sneaksby]

Kesper took in his surroundings with mixed feelings. It felt artificial. Curated. A bit too clean. He could practically feel the money being coaxed from his person, like an insistent magnetic pull. Why resist?

He bought and ruthlessly consumed a series of snacks on the way to their destination, starting with a kind of neon green stretchy candy and ending with a tuber cut into sticks, fried, and salted. He also picked up a seashell necklace, a pair of sunglasses, and a hat bearing a stylized image of Torpol as seen from space, which he of course wears. The transformation into a tourist was swift.

"These people have no class." He agreed with Mahan, noisily sucking salt off his fingers.

With Mahan frontloading their mission on his behalf, Kesper merely tipped his new hat and gave the receptionist a lopsided smile.

"Kesper, at your service. Here to kick pirates in the ass."

Edited July 10, 2023 by Sneaksby (see edit history)

[Niraverine]

The Downport had two serious flaws. The holograms proudly presenting the bustling sea life that were an uncomfortable reminder that they are currently below the rolling waves and the mixing smells coming out from various establishments. Sure, the ventilation was working just fine, but for the corsair the air was still a little suffocating.

Eirene slightly raised aviator sunglasses that up until that moment she used as a disguise of sorts then glanced around the place with raised eyebrows and an unimpressed expression. A giant fish visible on one of the screens caught her attention. It stared at her. She stared back. The creature puffed itself, clearly trying to make itself bigger and more threatening. Eirene sighed, decided that staring contest with what was basically an element of an interior design was beneath her, and lowered her sunglasses down.

She side-eyed Urien who clearly had some ideas regarding bagged soup. “Would not recommend that”, she drawled, “you have a nice Steward on-board, try to get friendly. It does wonders to the personal menu.”

She sighed and decided to take the leadership. Gods help us, she thought with autoirony, I might be the most diplomatic here. “Where to? I’d propose some club or a tavern. One with a more, uh, diverse, crowd.”

Edited July 15, 2023 by Niraverine (see edit history)

[Dastardly Tristar]

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Urien, Rhane, Eirene
Arriving in the Torpol System, out of jump
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

 

Pushing his retro round sunglasses up his nose, Urien held a bag of soup - not the weirdest purchase he had made in his life - and bit into one corner, chewing into the plastic until he could taste the milky contents. The suckle of questionable flavour did not suit Urien's palate initially, but the more he sucked, the more he seemed to tolerate the slight acrid bitter taste, until eventually he held an empty plastic bag, and craved more.

Throwing the plastic away, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and suppressed a belch. "It is surprisingly good." He nodded to himself, navigating the thick crowd of people with ease. It was this dark and dingy environment that he wanted, did he not? All the drama-vids, the mystery talk shows. It all lead to here, on a distant planet, without SolSec jurisdiction and bureaucracy. That last part was the most important - bureaucracy. It rankled him in no way other disgusting objects could.

Except maybe that bagged soup, now that he had time to digest it. He shuddered, and hugged Astrid around his shoulders more. His cat mewed, her curiosity embiggening her eyes into saucers. It was a new experience for her as well, and as such, so much to be consumed across all of her cat-like senses.

He nodded at Eirene's suggestion. "Let us look for a gambling den. A common watering hole for all manner of informed folks." He side-stepped a broken down food cart in the middle of the way, eyeing their brewing pot curiously. "And if that does not work, I know a trick that can work."

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Kesper, Mahan
Provost's Office, Torpol Downport
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

The woman at the front desk gives you both a warm smile, "Ah, here about the bounty the Marshal posted? With a ship of your own? Wonderful!" She taps at her keyboard and if you peer around, you might be able to see that she is pulling up the camera lists for the landing pads - organized by vessel names. She pulls up the cameras in the bay for the Reclaimer's Intent and... her smile turns decidedly more professionally polite, "Yes, of course." She taps on her computer a bit more, sending a message, before there is an audible sound from a response in the messenger system.

She regards the two of you for a moment, double-checks her screen, and finally offers, "The Provost is willing to see you now." She motions to an elevator just behind her desk, "He's on the second floor of the office. You just follow the signs. You can't miss it." And she quickly turns her attention away from the both of you, redoubling on her work at her console as she does.

Following her instructions is easily done and when the elevator opens, you find yourself having to navigate a short series of rather... gray halls. There are multiple signs on the walls as you go indicating directions to various individuals offices. Typically its little more than some variation of a three-letter acronym and what you may reliably assume is a surname. Occasionally one of the doors you pass pops open to admit some office busy-body stepping out on their way to other business, or the two of you are able to catch sight of such a person stepping in to an office or conference room. And that deliberately disheveled appearance to things doesn't disappear just because you are in these back halls.

When you reach it, free to take any time you need to prep what it is you'll discuss or how you'll approach him before you step in, you can enter the The Provost's office. When the door opens, you are almost immediately assailed by the thick scent of sea salt and tropical flowers. The sound of sea waves washing up the beach stands at odds with the gray and snow-blasted waters you flew over on your way to land here, and the three massive panel windows are most definitely not real - showing a populated beach with a large yellow-white F-class star setting on the horizon at the front and center of the whole scene.

Watching it with his back turned to the door and hands clasped behind his back, a young man in a set of flowing orange robes, and an oddly decorated fez atop his head stands. When you cross the threshold and the door shuts behind the pair of you, the sound seems to snap him out of his thoughts and he turns to face you so quickly that he shoots a hand up to the fez to hold it in place. He smiles, "Ah, you're here! Wonderful!" He speaks as if he is always just on the verge of laughter, "Please, please! Come in, sit!" And he beckons to the trio of curved couches in front of his massive marble-topped desk, arranged in a semi-circle in front of it, "Would you like something to drink? Of course you would!" He presses a button on a small console at his desk, "Justodd, could you bring us a... " He regards the two of you, "We'll say six Delights!"

Another voice comes back in response, "Yes, Provost. Of course, Provost."

With that, he circles around to the front of his desk, hopping up slightly to come to sit on one corner, "Its wonderful to see we have garnered some interest from some rough and tumble sorts, finally!" His smile grows, "You know I was something of a sailor myself, back in the day! A proper soul of the stars! All these soft sorts we've had showing up just don't cut it! Proper Navy types!" He nods as if to himself, "And I doubt the poor Keepers on Clarke are having any better luck!"

The door opens and a young man steps in carrying a tray with six drinks on it. The drinks look creamy, predominantly white, with thick streaks of blue throughout. Each drink is decorated with a small umbrella speared through a tiny red cherry-like fruit, and a slice of citrus on the rim. And they smell and taste similar to very sweetened rum if you take one. The young man sets the tray on the desk and without instruction, profers two to each of you. When that is done, he steps off to the side, waiting patiently, and watching the Provost as if for instruction.

If you are worried about looking silly in present company, Provost Falx is happily holding two himself. He takes a long pull through the winding and twisting straw of one before he speaks again, "Now, how can I help you help me help you?"

 

---

 

Tlaiowaha Subsector
Urien, Rhane, Eirene
Torpol Downport, Lower Levels
012 (Week 1) 1105, Imperial

The pot of the broken down cart is filled with what the cart advertises as a sampling from the "infinity stew" of a K'Kree by the name of Ekroogritz. An individual who is advertized on the cart as being a novel, award winning chef who has traveled charted space for many years with a pseudo-slogan that anybody who isn't following a K'Kree-friendly diet just haven't had a vegetable dish they like, yet. But once Urien side-steps that little distraction, the two of you can properly set to work trying to find a venue.

Three stand out based on an initial search, perusing the streets and seeing what the locals have to offer when asked.

The first that comes to your attention is the Belter's Gambit. The Belter's Gambit is a dimly lit and semi-clandestine gambling den notorious for its suprirsingly high-stakes tables, and rumors of alleged illegal fighting rings. It serves as a home to smoke-filled rooms and discrete alcoves that attract all manners of thrill-seekers, smugglers, and cunning gamblers who want to test their luck and their wit. Its known as the sort of place for those who want to keep their vice of choice - drugs, fate, or flesh - hidden away from prying eyes.

The second is the Rusty Rogue. A weathered bar that sits tucked in one of the darker pseudo-alleys of the downport, the peeling paint and flickering neon signage set a tone for a more gritty and edgy atmosphere that suits the name. The word is that it serves as a refuge for bounty hunters, criminals, and refuges trying to escape reality for a short while. Even from outside you can hear the clink of credits and the whisper of secrets and business as spacers and station residents gather around to pass the time over their drinks and cards or pool.

The third is location that stands out is the Starfall. It is a bright spot amid a labrynthine maze of alleys and station halls that you have to navigate to reach it. It has a reputation as the epicenter of raucus parties and underground betting circuits. Its neon signage flickers and blinks to draw the eye, advertising tables and imported liqour of all sorts. And the mix of aliens and Humanitii seen lingering outside and passing through the door show the place to be a melting pot of all sorts - you are as likely to see a floral shirt and flip-flops step inside, as you are to see a spacer's softsuit.

There are others, of course, and you might take the time to find them. But these are the first three to stand out.

Edited July 23, 2023 by DJ P4NTSL3SS (see edit history)