Post by EmperorMyric on Dec 16, 2017 18:02:31 GMT
Introduction by the author:
I intend to write a series of episodes building up to a particular event I’ve been planning for a considerable while with the Flux Ascendancy. In their own way, these stories will be a tribute to the serials, quests, and Westerns which I’ve always been inspired by. Expect a good many guest characters, intrigue by the bucketload, cliffhangers, detours, and twists and turns. Have fun, and please do comment as much as you feel inclined to.
--oOo—
Rigby’s Bar, Tau Epsilon VII
Ellen Koller was not her father’s daughter, not ever since he left the last time. The last time. She hated words like that.
“Thanks for the tip!” She cried out over the counter as the bar’s last patron left. It was a measly three credits, but she forced a smile as she slipped it into her apron. She didn’t take the time to think about how miserably small her life was. Not now. That came later. First she had to clear the bar and wash the counters and restock the reserves and she hated it. Hated it with a fiery passion. It wasn’t that she complained about it so much as she resented the fact that it was Old Bastard Rigby’s bar, not Koller’s. She should be running this place by now, but Old Bastard Rigby-whenever she thought of his name, it was always Old Bastard-well, he stamped his name on everything. He hadn’t stopped by his own bar in a month, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time either-
The door abruptly swung open, and she looked up from wiping the bar down to see a man back into the room.
“We’re closed, bud…” She began to say, but he spun around and stumbled towards her. He was wearing civie clothes over a still discernible but quite dirty uniform, one of the Union boys for certain. Clutched in his arms was a small leather bag, and she looked up from it to his face. It might as well have been leather as well.
“Hide me.” He mumbled, as he fell to a crouch and slithered under the bar. He was halfway through behind the bar when she put her foot down in front of his path.
“We’re closed.” She repeated patiently, as the door again opened. Looking back at it, a pair of other Union crewmembers stood in the threshold, with that permanent fog that shrouded the streets of Tau Epsilon VII drifting in behind them.
“Sorry to bother you ma’am.” The one in the back-his face was obscured by the night-stated politely. “We’re pursuing a deserter.” He added simply, as the second man stepped altogether through the doorway and moved towards her. She knew better than to look down at the man hiding by her feet.
“Are you now?” Ellen Koller replied evenly, as she heard the boards creak as the second man moved towards her. “Hopefully you haven’t come too far.” Her hands went back towards her rag, but her movements moved the rag swiftly so it was right over that convenient spot where the stub-nosed spread gun was slung under the counter.
“In point of fact,” the man outside replied, a trace of an accent in his voice becoming evident, “we’re several light years from our usual patrol. Our man stole a shuttle, and we’ve tracked it to just outside this town.” His voice had a particular air of nobility to it, but the way he stayed outside was unsettling. The man who’d come inside reached towards his back pocket, and she braced herself to dive behind the bar if necessary, her freehand gently running along the gun’s barrel.
The Union sailor produced a holographic emitter from his pocket, and projected an image upon the countertop of the man lying at her feet behind the bar. He was much cleaner in the image.
“He’s dangerous.” The man outside said as he scratched his chin. “He-“
“Can’t you talk?” She asked crossly towards the sailor across the bar from her. He had a strangely empty look in his eyes…
“No ma’am.” He answered without inflection, and she shrugged in response.
“Well I’m afraid I’ll be of no help to you.” She answered honestly, as she maintained eye contact with the sailor before her.
“Would you object to our looking around?” The accented man asked politely, causing her to frown. The bastard was persistent.
“In point of fact,” she said forcefully, “I would. I can’t let ever man who wants to find someone have the run of the place. This is a business, not a game of hide and seek.”
“That’s rather inconsiderate of you ma’am, if you’ll permit my saying so.” The man outside noted with a trace of disappointment to his voice. “I apologize for the intrusion then, and wish you goodnight.” Abruptly, the man before her turned and moved swiftly towards the door.
“I would hope that you’re thoroughly aware that harbouring defectors isn’t the wisest of moves to make?” The accented man asked as his companion passed him. She shot a sharp look towards him in response.
“Are you calling me a liar?” She said in warning.
“No ma’am. Just a friendly reminder. Goodnight ma’am.” And with that, the accented man closed the door behind himself. Immediately, Koller slipped over the countertop and moved towards the door-the man lying on the floor apparently had passed out during their short conversation. Locking the door, she turned back and walked up towards him.
“You better have a really good story to tell me for putting my ass in the fire like this.” She warned as she pulled him off the ground. “What’d you do anyway? Frak his wife or something?”
The man coughed, and rubbed his hand over the dry skin on his face. It was peeling rather visibly.
“You’re Koller’s girl, aren’t you? I’m parched…” He thrust his hands out, producing the worn leather bag that so nearly matched his face. She plucked the bag out of his hands and set it on the counter, than began pouring him a glass of water. The rascal probably didn’t deserve alcohol anyway…
Kneeling down next to him, she put the glass in his hands. He looked at it with curiosity.
“No, I’m Parched. Samuel Parched.” She snorted rudely at this, and rolled her eyes.
“Well you certainly look the part.” She laughed, before nudging him with the toe of her shoes. “Get up Parched, and get your ass out the backdoor. Take you bag with you-“
“It’s yours.” Parched murmured, as he drank the water anyway. She looked with curiosity at him, then without pause reached into the bag. She pulled out a well worn leather bound book. She began reading the print on the cover, heavily faded and obscured by grime. PERSONAL LOG, JERICHO-
“What the frak?” She murmured as her free hand wrapped around the handle of the spread gun and pointed it towards the man on the floor, who immediately began backing away from her, bumping his head on the swinging portion of the counter.
“You think this is funny, asshole?!” She pumped the slide on the gun, causing it to whine menacingly as it charged for firing. “You know how many people come to mock me about him-no, you know what, get out. Front door. Now.”
Parched looked up penitently at her. “Jesus lady, chill for a second!” He hissed, his voice faint and distant. “They’ll kill you too-“
“NOW!” She yelled loudly, and jabbed the barrel into his face as she grabbed his collar and lifted him to his feet. It probably surprised him that she could do that-she was stronger than she looked-and she began pushing him back towards the door. “You…frakking…dumb shit pile of meat!” She pushed the man against the door and jammed the barrel into his gut.
“He wrote it for you!” He hissed, a desperate look in his seemingly too small eyes. She froze for an instant.
“It’s on the first page. He wrote it for you!” He repeated, and she hesitated. The book lay where she had dropped it on the counter, and she abruptly released him and backed towards it.
“If it’s not in here, you’ll be lucky if you get outside by the time I look up.” She warned as she flipped the book open.
--oOo—
Outside, the man with the accent froze, and sniffed. The thick fog of frozen gasses swirled by his feet, and gradually he looked back over his shoulder at Rigby’s Bar. His silent companion turned as well, and with a nod from the accented man, began moving into the night, leaving a thin trail through the fog. He felt sorry for the dumb girl. Only fools try to be heroes.
--oOo--
She paused…and it was a long pause; the sort of thing that happens when what you secretly hoped wasn’t there-hell, you even publically didn’t want it to be there-turned out to be written in a familiar scrawling fashion.
She looked back up at him, and he winced. Back at the book. Back at him.
“Where did you get this?” She whispered in a stunned voice, as she dropped the spreadgun onto the counter.
Parched gently pushed himself off the door, but stood about as far away from her as he possibly could.
“I bought it.” He answered, causing her to shoot another look at him.
“I swear,” he repeated with concern, “I bought it. It was in a safebox that these mercs found. Couldn’t get the damn thing open, but I used some of the highpowered equipment in the Rightful Honour’s machine shop to get it open…”
She poured over the pages with an intense enthusiasm that was otherwise rare for her. This was real…
“Why’d you bring it to me?” She asked him, and he shrugged wearily.
“It had your name on it, and Remmer was going to kill me. Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he added, “before I found out you were psychotic.”
She snorted without looking up from him, thumbing through the pages with fascination. She hurried towards the back of the book; she was compelled too. What if the legends were true?
I intend to write a series of episodes building up to a particular event I’ve been planning for a considerable while with the Flux Ascendancy. In their own way, these stories will be a tribute to the serials, quests, and Westerns which I’ve always been inspired by. Expect a good many guest characters, intrigue by the bucketload, cliffhangers, detours, and twists and turns. Have fun, and please do comment as much as you feel inclined to.
--oOo—
Rigby’s Bar, Tau Epsilon VII
Ellen Koller was not her father’s daughter, not ever since he left the last time. The last time. She hated words like that.
“Thanks for the tip!” She cried out over the counter as the bar’s last patron left. It was a measly three credits, but she forced a smile as she slipped it into her apron. She didn’t take the time to think about how miserably small her life was. Not now. That came later. First she had to clear the bar and wash the counters and restock the reserves and she hated it. Hated it with a fiery passion. It wasn’t that she complained about it so much as she resented the fact that it was Old Bastard Rigby’s bar, not Koller’s. She should be running this place by now, but Old Bastard Rigby-whenever she thought of his name, it was always Old Bastard-well, he stamped his name on everything. He hadn’t stopped by his own bar in a month, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time either-
The door abruptly swung open, and she looked up from wiping the bar down to see a man back into the room.
“We’re closed, bud…” She began to say, but he spun around and stumbled towards her. He was wearing civie clothes over a still discernible but quite dirty uniform, one of the Union boys for certain. Clutched in his arms was a small leather bag, and she looked up from it to his face. It might as well have been leather as well.
“Hide me.” He mumbled, as he fell to a crouch and slithered under the bar. He was halfway through behind the bar when she put her foot down in front of his path.
“We’re closed.” She repeated patiently, as the door again opened. Looking back at it, a pair of other Union crewmembers stood in the threshold, with that permanent fog that shrouded the streets of Tau Epsilon VII drifting in behind them.
“Sorry to bother you ma’am.” The one in the back-his face was obscured by the night-stated politely. “We’re pursuing a deserter.” He added simply, as the second man stepped altogether through the doorway and moved towards her. She knew better than to look down at the man hiding by her feet.
“Are you now?” Ellen Koller replied evenly, as she heard the boards creak as the second man moved towards her. “Hopefully you haven’t come too far.” Her hands went back towards her rag, but her movements moved the rag swiftly so it was right over that convenient spot where the stub-nosed spread gun was slung under the counter.
“In point of fact,” the man outside replied, a trace of an accent in his voice becoming evident, “we’re several light years from our usual patrol. Our man stole a shuttle, and we’ve tracked it to just outside this town.” His voice had a particular air of nobility to it, but the way he stayed outside was unsettling. The man who’d come inside reached towards his back pocket, and she braced herself to dive behind the bar if necessary, her freehand gently running along the gun’s barrel.
The Union sailor produced a holographic emitter from his pocket, and projected an image upon the countertop of the man lying at her feet behind the bar. He was much cleaner in the image.
“He’s dangerous.” The man outside said as he scratched his chin. “He-“
“Can’t you talk?” She asked crossly towards the sailor across the bar from her. He had a strangely empty look in his eyes…
“No ma’am.” He answered without inflection, and she shrugged in response.
“Well I’m afraid I’ll be of no help to you.” She answered honestly, as she maintained eye contact with the sailor before her.
“Would you object to our looking around?” The accented man asked politely, causing her to frown. The bastard was persistent.
“In point of fact,” she said forcefully, “I would. I can’t let ever man who wants to find someone have the run of the place. This is a business, not a game of hide and seek.”
“That’s rather inconsiderate of you ma’am, if you’ll permit my saying so.” The man outside noted with a trace of disappointment to his voice. “I apologize for the intrusion then, and wish you goodnight.” Abruptly, the man before her turned and moved swiftly towards the door.
“I would hope that you’re thoroughly aware that harbouring defectors isn’t the wisest of moves to make?” The accented man asked as his companion passed him. She shot a sharp look towards him in response.
“Are you calling me a liar?” She said in warning.
“No ma’am. Just a friendly reminder. Goodnight ma’am.” And with that, the accented man closed the door behind himself. Immediately, Koller slipped over the countertop and moved towards the door-the man lying on the floor apparently had passed out during their short conversation. Locking the door, she turned back and walked up towards him.
“You better have a really good story to tell me for putting my ass in the fire like this.” She warned as she pulled him off the ground. “What’d you do anyway? Frak his wife or something?”
The man coughed, and rubbed his hand over the dry skin on his face. It was peeling rather visibly.
“You’re Koller’s girl, aren’t you? I’m parched…” He thrust his hands out, producing the worn leather bag that so nearly matched his face. She plucked the bag out of his hands and set it on the counter, than began pouring him a glass of water. The rascal probably didn’t deserve alcohol anyway…
Kneeling down next to him, she put the glass in his hands. He looked at it with curiosity.
“No, I’m Parched. Samuel Parched.” She snorted rudely at this, and rolled her eyes.
“Well you certainly look the part.” She laughed, before nudging him with the toe of her shoes. “Get up Parched, and get your ass out the backdoor. Take you bag with you-“
“It’s yours.” Parched murmured, as he drank the water anyway. She looked with curiosity at him, then without pause reached into the bag. She pulled out a well worn leather bound book. She began reading the print on the cover, heavily faded and obscured by grime. PERSONAL LOG, JERICHO-
“What the frak?” She murmured as her free hand wrapped around the handle of the spread gun and pointed it towards the man on the floor, who immediately began backing away from her, bumping his head on the swinging portion of the counter.
“You think this is funny, asshole?!” She pumped the slide on the gun, causing it to whine menacingly as it charged for firing. “You know how many people come to mock me about him-no, you know what, get out. Front door. Now.”
Parched looked up penitently at her. “Jesus lady, chill for a second!” He hissed, his voice faint and distant. “They’ll kill you too-“
“NOW!” She yelled loudly, and jabbed the barrel into his face as she grabbed his collar and lifted him to his feet. It probably surprised him that she could do that-she was stronger than she looked-and she began pushing him back towards the door. “You…frakking…dumb shit pile of meat!” She pushed the man against the door and jammed the barrel into his gut.
“He wrote it for you!” He hissed, a desperate look in his seemingly too small eyes. She froze for an instant.
“It’s on the first page. He wrote it for you!” He repeated, and she hesitated. The book lay where she had dropped it on the counter, and she abruptly released him and backed towards it.
“If it’s not in here, you’ll be lucky if you get outside by the time I look up.” She warned as she flipped the book open.
--oOo—
Outside, the man with the accent froze, and sniffed. The thick fog of frozen gasses swirled by his feet, and gradually he looked back over his shoulder at Rigby’s Bar. His silent companion turned as well, and with a nod from the accented man, began moving into the night, leaving a thin trail through the fog. He felt sorry for the dumb girl. Only fools try to be heroes.
--oOo--
She paused…and it was a long pause; the sort of thing that happens when what you secretly hoped wasn’t there-hell, you even publically didn’t want it to be there-turned out to be written in a familiar scrawling fashion.
She looked back up at him, and he winced. Back at the book. Back at him.
“Where did you get this?” She whispered in a stunned voice, as she dropped the spreadgun onto the counter.
Parched gently pushed himself off the door, but stood about as far away from her as he possibly could.
“I bought it.” He answered, causing her to shoot another look at him.
“I swear,” he repeated with concern, “I bought it. It was in a safebox that these mercs found. Couldn’t get the damn thing open, but I used some of the highpowered equipment in the Rightful Honour’s machine shop to get it open…”
She poured over the pages with an intense enthusiasm that was otherwise rare for her. This was real…
“Why’d you bring it to me?” She asked him, and he shrugged wearily.
“It had your name on it, and Remmer was going to kill me. Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he added, “before I found out you were psychotic.”
She snorted without looking up from him, thumbing through the pages with fascination. She hurried towards the back of the book; she was compelled too. What if the legends were true?