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THE EXPANSE: Whispers From Above (Expanse/Flying Circus AU quest)
- Thread starter DragonCobolt
- Start date
- What if? Crossover Sci-Fi
0.7: The Ex
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You look at Wulfe, then Alex, then Amos, then Arren, then Shed. At the people that you'd need to depend on to survive the next few hours, let alone the next few days.
You can't lie to them.
No matter how insane it sounded.
"The gods guided my finger," you say, quietly. Then, grinning shyly. "...I pushed random buttons." You chuckle, seeing their expressions. "B-But, uh, statistically, prayer plus unlikely event equals miracle. Right?"
Everyone was silent.
Amos laughs, quietly. "I like her, Cap," he says to Wulfe. "Can we keep her?"
HENRICH
You're halfway to work, excitement buzzing in your belly, when the four goons emerge from around a corner and start to walk briskly towards you. "Ah hell," you whisper, and step backwards, before the first of them hefts up his pipe and reveals that he has the small spade tattoo of a hardcore Goth fanatic.
Well.
Today was going so very well.
Yesterday, after the news about the Goth battleship had broken, the entire solar system had gone from buzzing to swarming like a hive of hornets. The first chunk of news would have been big enough all on its own. Everyone knew that the old battleships - the Donnagers and the Spitfires - were still around. Most had been destroyed in the war, but most wasn't all. Old government factions held onto them, shepherded them until they could be used again - no one could build them anymore…well, no one except for Hugo Station, maybe, and they were too busy trying to figure out how to turn a colony ship once meant for a pre-war religious cult into something worth having in the current system.
But no one had thought Goths had had a Donnager.
No one had even imagined it - because, like, if they had had a Donnager, why hadn't they used it? They weren't above raiding colonies, attacking shipping lanes, and generally being assholes. And if they were able to kill entire planets, how had they resisted the urge to go into orbit around Erde and finish what Marco Inaros and his buddies had started? Which meant…that…there was a piece of the puzzle that was missing.
There was something about the Scopuli.
About Julia Sigaurd Thele-Mao.
Something that had caught the OPA, the Goths, maybe even what was left of the League of Nations, all of it caught up in something big enough and bad enough to pull one of the last battleships in the solar system out of mothballs, crew it up, and send it out.
Something…
That had then led to someone killing the Donnager.
That was what had made the news go from fission to fusion. No one knew how. No one knew who. But someone, somehow, hadn't just damaged the Donnager. They had destroyed it. Current speculations were someone had set a goddamn nuke off in her hold, or hit her with a stealth torpedo. There were rumors about stealth ships that had swarmed her, invisible in the magnetosphere and moons and rings, and they had gotten a lucky shot and pierced her drive core. There were rumors that magic witches had done it, riding on brooms with spacesuits, like a modern update of Himmilgaurd legend.
Honestly, you were shocked no one had claimed a goddamn dragon had done it!
But the instant you had seen that grainy footage, you had known that you needed to know. Fortunately, you had the Scopulai. And you had the name Polanski. Checking that had given you the full name Marek Polanski. Now, you just needed to find out more about him - which was why you had been off to work, to report all of this to Shaddid, to get your money for your hard work, and to maybe get to access Blue Helix's big computers and their big, juicy memory banks.
Which was why seeing the Goths between you and the tunnel that led from your shitty niche to the main thoroughfares was so…disconcerting.
You stepped backwards. Your instinct, even now, was always to talk. "Gentlemen, what seems-"
The Goth swung at you. He had an Inner's build, not quite as short and stocky as an Erde born man, but still shorter than you. He took advantage of that strength, ignoring the spoiling punch you threw at his jaw to drive the pipe into your stomach. Air rushed from you and you stumbled backwards, clutching at yourself. You reached for your pistol, by the other Goth grabbed your arm and casually bent it back behind you. The third Goth slapped some duct tape over your mouth, while the one who had hit you with the pipe pulled a knife.
Your eyes widened.
They weren't here to rough you up.
They were here to kill you.
Time seemed to slow as the knife drew back and you struggled with all your might. The Goth holding your arms against the wall had fingers like strength, and his eyes were utterly pitiless.
The Goth with the knife began to thrust.
His head snapped to the side. The blood that flecks your face isn't his. A bit of brain gets into your eye. Your muffled cry of alarm and disgust comes at the same time as the gunshot. The two Goths grabbing your arms whirl, the fourth is pulling at the hem of his pants.
Bullet holes bloom on his chest. He drops to the ground bonelessly as you fall backwards, hitting the ground yourself - it seems to be the safest place.
The second Goth screams a war cry, a literal bellow, as he rushes at the corner - but then his head snaps backwards, his skull turned into a crater of gore. The last Goth jumps over his body, lands, and then a barrel presses against his jaw and the top of his head comes off. The Goth slumps - it all had taken, what, three seconds? And in that time, six shots and four lives had been used up. Spent. Expended.
You wriggle onto your side, sitting up, your arms aching too much to lift them currently - they had practically ripped them out of your sockets.
A tall, rangy figure steps from the shadows and plucks your hat from the ground, then sets it on your head - while his revolver pops and shell casings start clattering to the ground, cast about by the faint coriolis effect on this level.
"...you okay, Henrich?" Josephus Müller asks, reaching down and yanking the tape off your mouth. You hiss.
"I'm…fine," you say, primly.
Then you turn your head and vomit into the side of the corridor, heaving up your rice and mushrooms. You cough, wheeze, then start to stand up, wobbling slightly. Your hand wipes at your mouth, and you wish you could taste anything but the acid bile of your own stomach as you glare at Müller. At…Jos…
At your ex.
He looks exactly like how you'd expect him to look, having gunned down four people.
Like nothing had happened at all.
The bullets clack into his chamber as he reloads his revolver - plastic rounds against ceramic. "Ya know, usually, people say thank you when you save their lives." He says, giving you that hang dog look he uses so effectively.
You look down at the four corpses. "...you couldn't have…at least tried to arrest them, Müller?" It comes out harsh and ragged and you can't tell if it's because it's Jos or if it's because you had almost died or if it's because you had just seen four people - yes, Goths, but still people - shot dead in front of you or…or…
Jos shakes his head. "They were two centimeters away from putting your guts on the floor, Heinie."
"Heinrich," you say. "Or, alternatively, Engles."
Jos' eyes get all sad.
"So, Engles, why you got some…" He pushes at an arm, revealing the tattoo as he looks down at it. "...fuck. These are Goths."
"You didn't know?" you ask. "You just shot them without knowing who they even were?"
Jos shrugs. "I figure, I come in to check on my partner-"
You purse your lips.
"On…my…co-worker," he says, shaking his head. "And I see him getting jumped, I figure it'd be by OPA dickheads who don't know how much theory you've read. Or Grigas who think they can kill a cop without retribution cause you're so loud about how you're just a…private investigator."
"Fuck you, Müller," you say.
Jos shakes his head and mutters. "Thought that was the problem…"
You feel the…the…jaggedy…spikey ball that was your relationship over the last disastrous months before you had finally broken it off. You had known, at least a month before you finally told Jos that either he had to change or you were leaving…that…he wasn't going to change, that you should have just left. But you had spent a month hemming and hawing, then a month waiting to see if Jos could magically turn into…not Jos.
Instead, the last dregs of what had made you two happy together had just become all…
Knives.
Knives and hard corners and walls. And you two had been in a grapple - with plenty of chances to bounce heads off walls and slam body parts against those corners.
Jos frowns. "Shaddid says you had a simple ass kidnap job. What the hell gets Goths out to come after you?"
—
What do you say?
[ ] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
[ ] Whoever said you got a chance to know? You're not assigned to this case.
[ ] Tell him you still love him
[ ] Write in
You can't lie to them.
No matter how insane it sounded.
"The gods guided my finger," you say, quietly. Then, grinning shyly. "...I pushed random buttons." You chuckle, seeing their expressions. "B-But, uh, statistically, prayer plus unlikely event equals miracle. Right?"
Everyone was silent.
Amos laughs, quietly. "I like her, Cap," he says to Wulfe. "Can we keep her?"
—-
HENRICH
You're halfway to work, excitement buzzing in your belly, when the four goons emerge from around a corner and start to walk briskly towards you. "Ah hell," you whisper, and step backwards, before the first of them hefts up his pipe and reveals that he has the small spade tattoo of a hardcore Goth fanatic.
Well.
Today was going so very well.
Yesterday, after the news about the Goth battleship had broken, the entire solar system had gone from buzzing to swarming like a hive of hornets. The first chunk of news would have been big enough all on its own. Everyone knew that the old battleships - the Donnagers and the Spitfires - were still around. Most had been destroyed in the war, but most wasn't all. Old government factions held onto them, shepherded them until they could be used again - no one could build them anymore…well, no one except for Hugo Station, maybe, and they were too busy trying to figure out how to turn a colony ship once meant for a pre-war religious cult into something worth having in the current system.
But no one had thought Goths had had a Donnager.
No one had even imagined it - because, like, if they had had a Donnager, why hadn't they used it? They weren't above raiding colonies, attacking shipping lanes, and generally being assholes. And if they were able to kill entire planets, how had they resisted the urge to go into orbit around Erde and finish what Marco Inaros and his buddies had started? Which meant…that…there was a piece of the puzzle that was missing.
There was something about the Scopuli.
About Julia Sigaurd Thele-Mao.
Something that had caught the OPA, the Goths, maybe even what was left of the League of Nations, all of it caught up in something big enough and bad enough to pull one of the last battleships in the solar system out of mothballs, crew it up, and send it out.
Something…
That had then led to someone killing the Donnager.
That was what had made the news go from fission to fusion. No one knew how. No one knew who. But someone, somehow, hadn't just damaged the Donnager. They had destroyed it. Current speculations were someone had set a goddamn nuke off in her hold, or hit her with a stealth torpedo. There were rumors about stealth ships that had swarmed her, invisible in the magnetosphere and moons and rings, and they had gotten a lucky shot and pierced her drive core. There were rumors that magic witches had done it, riding on brooms with spacesuits, like a modern update of Himmilgaurd legend.
Honestly, you were shocked no one had claimed a goddamn dragon had done it!
But the instant you had seen that grainy footage, you had known that you needed to know. Fortunately, you had the Scopulai. And you had the name Polanski. Checking that had given you the full name Marek Polanski. Now, you just needed to find out more about him - which was why you had been off to work, to report all of this to Shaddid, to get your money for your hard work, and to maybe get to access Blue Helix's big computers and their big, juicy memory banks.
Which was why seeing the Goths between you and the tunnel that led from your shitty niche to the main thoroughfares was so…disconcerting.
You stepped backwards. Your instinct, even now, was always to talk. "Gentlemen, what seems-"
The Goth swung at you. He had an Inner's build, not quite as short and stocky as an Erde born man, but still shorter than you. He took advantage of that strength, ignoring the spoiling punch you threw at his jaw to drive the pipe into your stomach. Air rushed from you and you stumbled backwards, clutching at yourself. You reached for your pistol, by the other Goth grabbed your arm and casually bent it back behind you. The third Goth slapped some duct tape over your mouth, while the one who had hit you with the pipe pulled a knife.
Your eyes widened.
They weren't here to rough you up.
They were here to kill you.
Time seemed to slow as the knife drew back and you struggled with all your might. The Goth holding your arms against the wall had fingers like strength, and his eyes were utterly pitiless.
The Goth with the knife began to thrust.
His head snapped to the side. The blood that flecks your face isn't his. A bit of brain gets into your eye. Your muffled cry of alarm and disgust comes at the same time as the gunshot. The two Goths grabbing your arms whirl, the fourth is pulling at the hem of his pants.
Bullet holes bloom on his chest. He drops to the ground bonelessly as you fall backwards, hitting the ground yourself - it seems to be the safest place.
The second Goth screams a war cry, a literal bellow, as he rushes at the corner - but then his head snaps backwards, his skull turned into a crater of gore. The last Goth jumps over his body, lands, and then a barrel presses against his jaw and the top of his head comes off. The Goth slumps - it all had taken, what, three seconds? And in that time, six shots and four lives had been used up. Spent. Expended.
You wriggle onto your side, sitting up, your arms aching too much to lift them currently - they had practically ripped them out of your sockets.
A tall, rangy figure steps from the shadows and plucks your hat from the ground, then sets it on your head - while his revolver pops and shell casings start clattering to the ground, cast about by the faint coriolis effect on this level.
"...you okay, Henrich?" Josephus Müller asks, reaching down and yanking the tape off your mouth. You hiss.
"I'm…fine," you say, primly.
Then you turn your head and vomit into the side of the corridor, heaving up your rice and mushrooms. You cough, wheeze, then start to stand up, wobbling slightly. Your hand wipes at your mouth, and you wish you could taste anything but the acid bile of your own stomach as you glare at Müller. At…Jos…
At your ex.
He looks exactly like how you'd expect him to look, having gunned down four people.
Like nothing had happened at all.
The bullets clack into his chamber as he reloads his revolver - plastic rounds against ceramic. "Ya know, usually, people say thank you when you save their lives." He says, giving you that hang dog look he uses so effectively.
You look down at the four corpses. "...you couldn't have…at least tried to arrest them, Müller?" It comes out harsh and ragged and you can't tell if it's because it's Jos or if it's because you had almost died or if it's because you had just seen four people - yes, Goths, but still people - shot dead in front of you or…or…
Jos shakes his head. "They were two centimeters away from putting your guts on the floor, Heinie."
"Heinrich," you say. "Or, alternatively, Engles."
Jos' eyes get all sad.
"So, Engles, why you got some…" He pushes at an arm, revealing the tattoo as he looks down at it. "...fuck. These are Goths."
"You didn't know?" you ask. "You just shot them without knowing who they even were?"
Jos shrugs. "I figure, I come in to check on my partner-"
You purse your lips.
"On…my…co-worker," he says, shaking his head. "And I see him getting jumped, I figure it'd be by OPA dickheads who don't know how much theory you've read. Or Grigas who think they can kill a cop without retribution cause you're so loud about how you're just a…private investigator."
"Fuck you, Müller," you say.
Jos shakes his head and mutters. "Thought that was the problem…"
You feel the…the…jaggedy…spikey ball that was your relationship over the last disastrous months before you had finally broken it off. You had known, at least a month before you finally told Jos that either he had to change or you were leaving…that…he wasn't going to change, that you should have just left. But you had spent a month hemming and hawing, then a month waiting to see if Jos could magically turn into…not Jos.
Instead, the last dregs of what had made you two happy together had just become all…
Knives.
Knives and hard corners and walls. And you two had been in a grapple - with plenty of chances to bounce heads off walls and slam body parts against those corners.
Jos frowns. "Shaddid says you had a simple ass kidnap job. What the hell gets Goths out to come after you?"
—
What do you say?
[ ] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
[ ] Whoever said you got a chance to know? You're not assigned to this case.
[ ] Write in
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- Pronouns
- She/Her
We totally just wasted a battleship by accident, didn't we?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
you turn an Epstein drive on inside of a hanger, that ship...gonna have a bad day.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
ThatGazzer
Minds Eye Bind
- Location
- PNW
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Least we got our Legitimate Salvage!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
- Location
- USA
[x] Whoever said you got a chance to know? You're not assigned to this case.
Tabascoheath
Unkempt, Evil-eyed Charlatan, and Pseudo-Mystic
- Location
- Your Nearest Orbital Habitat
[X] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
[X] Write in. "It's probably better if you don't know..." You say without thinking. You realize you are trying to protect him. Maybe it's your own messed up way of returning the favor...
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] They're related to the case - they must want me to stay back too.
If it's possible for us to know ... how would the ears thing have gone over?
If it's possible for us to know ... how would the ears thing have gone over?
0.8: Off the Case
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You rub at your cheek. You try and…not look at the bodies. You don't want to think about how your ex boyfriend has just…killed four people. Like it's nothing. That…that really was the beginning where everything went wrong, wasn't it? The unlicensed brothel you had busted together, a year into Star Helix coming here…
You force it out of your head and turn back to Jos. "They're…related to a case."
"You're investigating Goths now. Kind of a bad idea for someone who hasn't shot anyone," Jos says.
"Fuck you, Müller," you say, voice tight, eyes flashing. "I didn't know the case involved Goths until…a few days ago."
Jos shakes his head. Gives you that hang dog look. "And you kept it to yourself instead of bringing it up around the station…"
"Yeah, cause I'm not a cop, setara mali," you say.
Jos points his finger at you. "Don't call me that," he says, pulling out his handheld.
"Oh, would darling be better?" you ask, voice acid.
He looks up, his thumb still tapping at his handheld. His dark, brown eyes are unreadable. "How about we stick to Müller," he says, his voice tight. "And you can stick to merely unbearable levels of asshole and not excruciating."
"Oh excuse me, darling," you say. "I didn't ask for you to come poking around my business. Funny, I always thought that that was what you got on my case about. Henie, honey, I love you, but could be a bit less of a nosy tightass, I think was the sentence you used."
"Yeah, well, maybe you could have been less of a nosy tightass," Jos snaps, reaching up to brush his flop of hair back with his free hand and stabbing down with his thumb using his other hand. His handheld chimed.
"What's that?" you ask.
"Oh, you know, reporting the four bodies on the deck," he says, dryly.
"Oh we're reporting dead bodies now?"
"Don't start with this again-"
"Oh I'm sooo sorry that I expect police officers to be accountable for being roving gangs of executioners for the state and capital," you snap.
"So, you're saying I shouldn't have shot a guy pimping six year olds?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't cover it up so you don't have to explain the fact your first, last, and final option in any goddamn case is to pull out that six shooter of yours and start playing old world Flying Circus pilot!" you say, stepping away from the wall.
"I can't believe this," Jos says. "We meet, five seconds after I save your life, and we're back on the merry go round of bullshit."
"We live on Sigdrifa, Müller! It never stops spinning!" you say.
Silence.
Jos chuckles.
You laugh. Adrenaline and tension buzz and bubble in your belly, and you laugh, and laugh, then lean forward and see the corpse of the Goth that almost stabbed you. In the distance, you can hear the sirens of the police carts, trundling through Sigdrifa's corridors. You feel your stomach clenching. Wanting to release, but…
You close your eyes, then stand up as Jos sighs.
"What's the case about?" you ask.
You're quiet until the rest of the cops arrive.
Shaddid's office is sparse and has a little steam-pump thing. It kind of looks like an orb, and all it does is spit out a constant low level of scented steam into the air. You're not sure what the scent is and you never asked. Shaddid read your report on her desk terminal, her lips pursing slowly. "Well," she said, quietly. "It looks like I'm going to be asking the Governor Council for permission to bust out the riot gear."
"Ah, a proportional response…"
"Considering these individuals, who are not representing any actual government, came after one of my people - as little as I personally like you…this is pretty measured," Shaddid said. "The Governor's Council has been rumbling about wanting to kick them off Sigdrifa for years. I should thank you for giving them the excuse."
You purse your lips.
"And the Thele-Mao case?" you ask.
Shadidd frowns. "As of right now, it's off your docket."
You feel a cold weight drip onto your shoulders.
"I'd have thought, and forgive me if this is presumptuous…with the Goths coming after me and the fact that an actual, factual, two kilometer long battleship got destroyed by what seems to be an atomic attack, I'd have thought that looking after this case would be a top priority. It's obviously linked."
Shaddid frowns, harder now. "Obviously? Debatable." She says. "But I'll be blunt, Engles, because you have an annoying habit of not noticing innuendo: We have received new walking orders from our shareholders. They wanted this case picked up. Now they want it dropped. I'm not paid enough, and you're not paid enough, to ask why. Now, you're no good in the riot squad, so we'll have to find something else for you to do - there should be plenty of softball cases on the board."
"But-"
"You're not going to be this dense, are you?" Shaddid asks, sounding more…tired than anything else.
You sit there for a while, then start to stand up, then turn and walk out of the room.
Well, you thought. I quit. I quit? I…quit.
It didn't sound as unthinkable as it used to. People were willing to kill. People had killed. And it was something big enough to drag a battleship out of mothballs. You glanced around the Star Helix offices.
Jos was at his desk, watching you through the thin fringe of his hair. He had it cut short at the edges, with a middle flop that he could slick back or hang forward, depending on how much he wanted to annoy you, specifically. The tactile memory of burying your hands in his scalp, gripping him, tugging his head back, kissing his throat, is so intense that you almost shudder.
Your hand goes to your hat, tugging it. Not quite tipping it at him.
You start towards the door.
Then…
Hesitate.
—
…hm…
[ ] That's a bad idea. Go, withdraw your accounts, and find where the Scopulai had been going. Pick up the trail there.
[ ] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
[ ]Put this case out of your head, kid. It's not worth dying for!
[ ] Write in
You force it out of your head and turn back to Jos. "They're…related to a case."
"You're investigating Goths now. Kind of a bad idea for someone who hasn't shot anyone," Jos says.
"Fuck you, Müller," you say, voice tight, eyes flashing. "I didn't know the case involved Goths until…a few days ago."
Jos shakes his head. Gives you that hang dog look. "And you kept it to yourself instead of bringing it up around the station…"
"Yeah, cause I'm not a cop, setara mali," you say.
Jos points his finger at you. "Don't call me that," he says, pulling out his handheld.
"Oh, would darling be better?" you ask, voice acid.
He looks up, his thumb still tapping at his handheld. His dark, brown eyes are unreadable. "How about we stick to Müller," he says, his voice tight. "And you can stick to merely unbearable levels of asshole and not excruciating."
"Oh excuse me, darling," you say. "I didn't ask for you to come poking around my business. Funny, I always thought that that was what you got on my case about. Henie, honey, I love you, but could be a bit less of a nosy tightass, I think was the sentence you used."
"Yeah, well, maybe you could have been less of a nosy tightass," Jos snaps, reaching up to brush his flop of hair back with his free hand and stabbing down with his thumb using his other hand. His handheld chimed.
"What's that?" you ask.
"Oh, you know, reporting the four bodies on the deck," he says, dryly.
"Oh we're reporting dead bodies now?"
"Don't start with this again-"
"Oh I'm sooo sorry that I expect police officers to be accountable for being roving gangs of executioners for the state and capital," you snap.
"So, you're saying I shouldn't have shot a guy pimping six year olds?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't cover it up so you don't have to explain the fact your first, last, and final option in any goddamn case is to pull out that six shooter of yours and start playing old world Flying Circus pilot!" you say, stepping away from the wall.
"I can't believe this," Jos says. "We meet, five seconds after I save your life, and we're back on the merry go round of bullshit."
"We live on Sigdrifa, Müller! It never stops spinning!" you say.
Silence.
Jos chuckles.
You laugh. Adrenaline and tension buzz and bubble in your belly, and you laugh, and laugh, then lean forward and see the corpse of the Goth that almost stabbed you. In the distance, you can hear the sirens of the police carts, trundling through Sigdrifa's corridors. You feel your stomach clenching. Wanting to release, but…
You close your eyes, then stand up as Jos sighs.
"What's the case about?" you ask.
You're quiet until the rest of the cops arrive.
—
Shaddid's office is sparse and has a little steam-pump thing. It kind of looks like an orb, and all it does is spit out a constant low level of scented steam into the air. You're not sure what the scent is and you never asked. Shaddid read your report on her desk terminal, her lips pursing slowly. "Well," she said, quietly. "It looks like I'm going to be asking the Governor Council for permission to bust out the riot gear."
"Ah, a proportional response…"
"Considering these individuals, who are not representing any actual government, came after one of my people - as little as I personally like you…this is pretty measured," Shaddid said. "The Governor's Council has been rumbling about wanting to kick them off Sigdrifa for years. I should thank you for giving them the excuse."
You purse your lips.
"And the Thele-Mao case?" you ask.
Shadidd frowns. "As of right now, it's off your docket."
You feel a cold weight drip onto your shoulders.
"I'd have thought, and forgive me if this is presumptuous…with the Goths coming after me and the fact that an actual, factual, two kilometer long battleship got destroyed by what seems to be an atomic attack, I'd have thought that looking after this case would be a top priority. It's obviously linked."
Shaddid frowns, harder now. "Obviously? Debatable." She says. "But I'll be blunt, Engles, because you have an annoying habit of not noticing innuendo: We have received new walking orders from our shareholders. They wanted this case picked up. Now they want it dropped. I'm not paid enough, and you're not paid enough, to ask why. Now, you're no good in the riot squad, so we'll have to find something else for you to do - there should be plenty of softball cases on the board."
"But-"
"You're not going to be this dense, are you?" Shaddid asks, sounding more…tired than anything else.
You sit there for a while, then start to stand up, then turn and walk out of the room.
Well, you thought. I quit. I quit? I…quit.
It didn't sound as unthinkable as it used to. People were willing to kill. People had killed. And it was something big enough to drag a battleship out of mothballs. You glanced around the Star Helix offices.
Jos was at his desk, watching you through the thin fringe of his hair. He had it cut short at the edges, with a middle flop that he could slick back or hang forward, depending on how much he wanted to annoy you, specifically. The tactile memory of burying your hands in his scalp, gripping him, tugging his head back, kissing his throat, is so intense that you almost shudder.
Your hand goes to your hat, tugging it. Not quite tipping it at him.
You start towards the door.
Then…
Hesitate.
—
…hm…
[ ] That's a bad idea. Go, withdraw your accounts, and find where the Scopulai had been going. Pick up the trail there.
[ ] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
[ ]
[ ] Write in
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
He may be a murderous wacko, but he could be our murderous wacko. And where we're going, it would be good to have a murderous wacko as backup.
He may be a murderous wacko, but he could be our murderous wacko. And where we're going, it would be good to have a murderous wacko as backup.
Last edited:
- Location
- USA
[x] That's a bad idea. Go, withdraw your accounts, and find where the Scopulai had been going. Pick up the trail there.
- Location
- Phoenix, Arizona
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
Tabascoheath
Unkempt, Evil-eyed Charlatan, and Pseudo-Mystic
- Location
- Your Nearest Orbital Habitat
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
-[X] But also try and find a suitable chaperone to discourage you two from making FURTHER bad decisions. And maybe help with the case too, sure.
And let's be real, bad decisions are gonna happen anyway with these two. But it'll be funnier with a straight man.
-[X] But also try and find a suitable chaperone to discourage you two from making FURTHER bad decisions. And maybe help with the case too, sure.
And let's be real, bad decisions are gonna happen anyway with these two. But it'll be funnier with a straight man.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
disaster lesbians gotta have disaster gays' backs, y'know?
disaster lesbians gotta have disaster gays' backs, y'know?
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
dragonkid11
A random creator
[X] Text Müller to meet you at…you know…the old noodle shop.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The only problem is, I'm not sure either Heinrich or Muller have friends, lol
0.9: The Ghost of the Free Navy
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This is a bad idea.
You pull out your handheld and tap out a single name.
You're at the counter of Rotti's for an hour and a half, nursing some truly abysmal tea that couldn't decide if it was black, green or some kind of curdled yellow. You kept waving off the request for an orders and the owner of Rotti's - Rotti - scowled at you.
"You're making a bad decision again, pampaw," he says, which is what he's been calling you since your first time you ate there, two years ago.
See, it was funny because Rotti is a grizzled old rock faced Belter who has soaked up enough rads with his face to count as a kind of lead lining. His eyes are milky white and he gets around with a cane and his own sense of hearing, while you're twenty one years old. But he's calling you the pampaw.
You smile at him, then tense as the stool next to you gains something rawboned and rangy.
You glance over.
Jos nods at you.
"Nice hat," he says.
"I can't find anything reasonable to compliment about your hair," you say.
Both of you chuckle. Nervously. Warily. Like two ships that have no transponders and are settling into an orbit that is almost firing range, not quite not firing range, dark enough that you can't tell who's carrying what until the guns warm up.
"So," Jos lifts two fingers. Rotti, shaking his head and muttering obscenities under his breath about idiots and airlocks, turns. When he turns back, he puts down two mushroom sakes on the counter. "Tell me about them Goths, Engles."
ISA
"No. I'm captain."
Wulfe's ears are pinned back against her head - but rather than looking dangerous, she's just looking increasingly cute. You do your best, in your slightly addled state - too high on adrenaline, on whatever drugs Shed had put you on, on the dizzying possibility that you barely even had the courage to…that…
That the Gods might…
You pushed it out of your head, but before you could stop yourself, you say: "Well, that's weird. Ship, who do you think is captain?"
A synthesized voice plays from the console. "You are, User 1."
You spread your arms while remaining strapped down in the seat. "I mean, I dunno about you-"
Wulfe snarls slightly. "Hey-" she starts forward, but is stopped by Amos hooking a big finger through her collar.
"Whoa, Cap," he says, casually. "Lets all calm down here. If you swing, then I gotta swing, and then Sharky's gotta swing, before you know it, everyone here's dead except me, and…honestly, I don't wanna be captain." He shakes his head. "So, lets all just settle down and talk this out."
"...damn, Amos," Alex says, laughing. "You sound almost like the Old Man."
"He's never aimed me wrong so far," Amos says, shrugging.
Wulfe huffs. Her ears twitch, wriggle, then settle. She closes her eyes. "Okay," she says. "Now, I admit…you have technical control over my ship-"
"Our ship?" you say, trying to be amenable.
"...our…ship," Wulfe says. "But I'm still the captain with experience. So…" She holds out her hand, then grins. "Co-captain?"
You nod, slowly, glancing at Arren. He nods as well.
"Co-Captain," you say.
"Now, the big question: Where do we go from here?" Alex asks.
"We should return this ship to the proper authorities at the Herja Congressional Republic," Minna says, immediately. "T-There…might not have been any at the Academy. On Herja. But…but there has to be some somewhere."
"Oh, darlin'," Alex says, quietly, reaching out to squeeze Minna's shoulder. "I know this is hard to take, but…Herja's…not…a thing anymore. It was dying well before the War. Now, it's just got right assholes who are stealing her honor and using it to excuse all kinds of crimes."
Minna ducked her head forward. She lifted it, opened her mouth, closed it, then ducked her head back down again. "I see…" she says.
"But hey, uh…" Alex's eyes soften. "Think on it like this, this makes this legitimate salvage."
Amos nods. Minna doesn't look particularly cheered up.
"How about Briganti?"
The voice is Shed's, pushing into the room, looking at the lot of us with a little smile.
"That's not a half bad idea," Alex says.
"No," Wulfe snaps. "Not Briganti."
"Come on, Patches," Amos says. "Your mom and dad have to be missing you by now."
"Yeah, that's why not Briganti!" Wulfe says, her ears pinning back.
"Your mom's a great programmer," Alex pipes up. "Never seen a sysop she can't crack."
"Hey!" you say.
Wulfe does perk up.
"And Briganti is a free port - they let you approach without transponders if their IR doesn't show any weapons hotted up," Shedd says, his voice excited. "We can remass, get some fuel pellets. Maybe…get a job? With our fancy new ship? Eh? Ehh?"
Wulfe nods. "True…"
You and Arren exchange a glance. He subtly nods - he thinks Briganti is a good idea. And you have to admit…you don't have any better options. And without a change on the transponder and the name, this ship is going to be hotter than plutonium. You sigh, quietly.
"Okay," you say, quietly.
"And you get to meet Wulfe's mom and dad," Amos says. "You'll like em, Lucky."
"Isa," you say, absently.
"Yeah, like I said, Lucky," he says, slapping your shoulder.
"Burning to Briganti is going to take ages if we do it at a tenth of a G," Wulf says, the smirks at you and Arren. "Unless you two think you can adapt?"
"Oh, we can totally adapt," you say.
Wulfe's grin is…
Well.
Woflish, you suppose.
The less said about the four days between the expanding cloud of complex vapor that was the Donnager and Briganti Station, the better. You were on so many drugs, and had to do so many horrible exercises to adjust to 1G of acceleration, that it felt a bit like torture. But…to your shock, you and Arren adapted to it faster than anyone else on the ship. Shed, who was an Erder born, kept whistling and shaking his head with your daily checkups.
You didn't know what everyone else did with their spare time. Your time was mostly spent being miserable, eating, sleeping - and having horrible dreams of being slowly squashed by freezing ice or blazing hot boulders, being trapped between layers of something vast and alien. When the torment came to an end…you had to admit, you appreciated the new muscles you found growing in your arms and belly. It was a workout you hated, but…hey, workout plus drugs plus literally not being able to slack off because you were always doing it equaled Arren looking cut.
You…
Maybe had to thank Wulfe.
Eventually.
When your bones stopped aching.
Briganti Station itself was quite a place, viewed through the crisp, clean cameras on the skin of your legitimate salvage. It was a double torus station, big enough for thousands of people, parked next to the hollowed out shell of the asteroid. It had been cut open and mined and mined and mined - and now was nothing but a bunch of rock around a big cavernous space that could be used as an 'in void' construction yard. It was nothing next to the biggest yards of the system…but even being in fifth or sixth place made it astoundingly busy.
"Dang, I think some of these ships are only slightly less well armed than ours," Shed says, counting hulls as the legitimate salvage (no one had come up with a name yet and no one wanted to bring it up while you and Wulfe were being 'co-captains'), while Amos nods.
"Plenty of pirates," he says. "If we have a bounty on our heads, we should be ready."
Wulfe nods. "Yeah, let's leave, uh, Shed and Minna on the ship. You two can keep an eye on things. Turn the PDCs on and fricassee anyone who looks at us funny."
"What?" Shed asks.
"I will not abandon my co-former-captives," Minna said, stubbornly.
"Then we leave behind Arren," Wulfe says.
"No," Arren says.
"Listen, cap, it's fine," Alex says. "I'll stay behind with Shed."
"He's one of Wulfe's!" Minna says, but you put your hand on her shoulder, gently. She blushes, her dark skin going darker. "...but he is also a good Herjan."
"Why thank you!" Alex says, smiling at her.
You smile. "So, me, Wulfe, Amos, Arren and Minna visit Wulfe's parents."
Wulfe groaned.
"Fine."
When you head to the airlock, Minna whispers into your ear. "Do you know her parents?" she asks.
You shake your head. "Her surname is Inaros, I think."
Minna frowned. "...Inaros…" she says, quietly, as the airlock doors open and you drift into the axial corridor of Briganti, where circular rings of handles set against the wall at the end of spiderweb catwalks. Snagging them, you were swept to the elevators that freighted people up and down to the rings of Briganti. Minna was looking deep in thought. Arren, though, was tapping away at his handheld, skimming through files - right, you hadn't had access to the solar network until now…sending up a long distance com request might have twigged any number of people as to your ship being flying free and easy.
Wulfe lead you along the surprisingly broad set of corridors and intersecting open areas that made up the inner edge of the Briganti's upper ring - and then stops before a doorway leading into an apartment complex area. Arren grabs your sleeve and you glance his way as you step in after Wulfe. He stumbles with you.
"...Isa…" he whispers. It's not physically possible for his face to pale and, yet, somehow, he looks completely bloodless as he holds up his handheld.
The newsfeeds are bright red and stark…and from years ago.
That doesn't change what they say.
INAROS CLAIMS CREDIT FOR ERDE ATTACK!
15 BILLION DEAD - AND COUNTING
ECOLOGICAL COLLAPSE?
ASTEROID STRIKE: FREE NAVY CREDITED
Your blood runs as cold as the ice under your homeworld.
The face of Marco Inaros shines from Arren's handheld - and you can see how he might have led to Wulfe. She has his angular beauty and his eyes and wolf ears. But his smile lacks all of her playfulness - his eyes are burning bright, even in the photographs. You and Arren freeze - while Minna whispers. "Oh. That's where I heard that name before."
The door Wulfe stands before opens as she turns to face you, unaware that you have a picture of her father floating right under the door in your field of view. "Okay, guys. Uh…this is my dad." She jerks her thumb as a shockingly beautiful, tall-for-an-Erder man with raven black hair and faintly watery blue eyes steps out. He has a thin layer of cheek fuzz that is dark black against his pale skin, but his black T-shirt is tight to his muscles, which are clearly well defined. He's holding a cup in his hand that he's in the middle of drying off with a hand towel.
You blink at him.
Look down at the photo of Marco Inaros.
Up at him.
Down at the photo of Marco Inaros.
Up at him again.
"That's…your Dad?" Arren asks, as Wolfe scowls, then snatches his handheld from his nerveless grip.
Wulfe's…Dad (?) laughs as he leans over her shoulder. "I thought you were going by Wolfe Nagata these days?"
"Yeah, well, I…shut up…" she mutters as…an ice pick realization slams into the back of your brain, forceful and pointed. You scramble, pull out your handheld, but it's not the internet you go to. Media. Books. You tap, then look down at the camera of your most read book, then up…
At…
"James…fucking…Holden," you whisper, slowly.
James Holden chuckles. "Hey," he says, holding his hand out. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
You gape at the hand of your biggest idol ever and start to hyperventilate.
—
What do you do?
[ ] Faint
[ ] Scream
[ ] Bombard him with questions
[ ] Write In
You pull out your handheld and tap out a single name.
—
You're at the counter of Rotti's for an hour and a half, nursing some truly abysmal tea that couldn't decide if it was black, green or some kind of curdled yellow. You kept waving off the request for an orders and the owner of Rotti's - Rotti - scowled at you.
"You're making a bad decision again, pampaw," he says, which is what he's been calling you since your first time you ate there, two years ago.
See, it was funny because Rotti is a grizzled old rock faced Belter who has soaked up enough rads with his face to count as a kind of lead lining. His eyes are milky white and he gets around with a cane and his own sense of hearing, while you're twenty one years old. But he's calling you the pampaw.
You smile at him, then tense as the stool next to you gains something rawboned and rangy.
You glance over.
Jos nods at you.
"Nice hat," he says.
"I can't find anything reasonable to compliment about your hair," you say.
Both of you chuckle. Nervously. Warily. Like two ships that have no transponders and are settling into an orbit that is almost firing range, not quite not firing range, dark enough that you can't tell who's carrying what until the guns warm up.
"So," Jos lifts two fingers. Rotti, shaking his head and muttering obscenities under his breath about idiots and airlocks, turns. When he turns back, he puts down two mushroom sakes on the counter. "Tell me about them Goths, Engles."
—
ISA
"No. I'm captain."
Wulfe's ears are pinned back against her head - but rather than looking dangerous, she's just looking increasingly cute. You do your best, in your slightly addled state - too high on adrenaline, on whatever drugs Shed had put you on, on the dizzying possibility that you barely even had the courage to…that…
That the Gods might…
You pushed it out of your head, but before you could stop yourself, you say: "Well, that's weird. Ship, who do you think is captain?"
A synthesized voice plays from the console. "You are, User 1."
You spread your arms while remaining strapped down in the seat. "I mean, I dunno about you-"
Wulfe snarls slightly. "Hey-" she starts forward, but is stopped by Amos hooking a big finger through her collar.
"Whoa, Cap," he says, casually. "Lets all calm down here. If you swing, then I gotta swing, and then Sharky's gotta swing, before you know it, everyone here's dead except me, and…honestly, I don't wanna be captain." He shakes his head. "So, lets all just settle down and talk this out."
"...damn, Amos," Alex says, laughing. "You sound almost like the Old Man."
"He's never aimed me wrong so far," Amos says, shrugging.
Wulfe huffs. Her ears twitch, wriggle, then settle. She closes her eyes. "Okay," she says. "Now, I admit…you have technical control over my ship-"
"Our ship?" you say, trying to be amenable.
"...our…ship," Wulfe says. "But I'm still the captain with experience. So…" She holds out her hand, then grins. "Co-captain?"
You nod, slowly, glancing at Arren. He nods as well.
"Co-Captain," you say.
"Now, the big question: Where do we go from here?" Alex asks.
"We should return this ship to the proper authorities at the Herja Congressional Republic," Minna says, immediately. "T-There…might not have been any at the Academy. On Herja. But…but there has to be some somewhere."
"Oh, darlin'," Alex says, quietly, reaching out to squeeze Minna's shoulder. "I know this is hard to take, but…Herja's…not…a thing anymore. It was dying well before the War. Now, it's just got right assholes who are stealing her honor and using it to excuse all kinds of crimes."
Minna ducked her head forward. She lifted it, opened her mouth, closed it, then ducked her head back down again. "I see…" she says.
"But hey, uh…" Alex's eyes soften. "Think on it like this, this makes this legitimate salvage."
Amos nods. Minna doesn't look particularly cheered up.
"How about Briganti?"
The voice is Shed's, pushing into the room, looking at the lot of us with a little smile.
"That's not a half bad idea," Alex says.
"No," Wulfe snaps. "Not Briganti."
"Come on, Patches," Amos says. "Your mom and dad have to be missing you by now."
"Yeah, that's why not Briganti!" Wulfe says, her ears pinning back.
"Your mom's a great programmer," Alex pipes up. "Never seen a sysop she can't crack."
"Hey!" you say.
Wulfe does perk up.
"And Briganti is a free port - they let you approach without transponders if their IR doesn't show any weapons hotted up," Shedd says, his voice excited. "We can remass, get some fuel pellets. Maybe…get a job? With our fancy new ship? Eh? Ehh?"
Wulfe nods. "True…"
You and Arren exchange a glance. He subtly nods - he thinks Briganti is a good idea. And you have to admit…you don't have any better options. And without a change on the transponder and the name, this ship is going to be hotter than plutonium. You sigh, quietly.
"Okay," you say, quietly.
"And you get to meet Wulfe's mom and dad," Amos says. "You'll like em, Lucky."
"Isa," you say, absently.
"Yeah, like I said, Lucky," he says, slapping your shoulder.
"Burning to Briganti is going to take ages if we do it at a tenth of a G," Wulf says, the smirks at you and Arren. "Unless you two think you can adapt?"
"Oh, we can totally adapt," you say.
Wulfe's grin is…
Well.
Woflish, you suppose.
—
The less said about the four days between the expanding cloud of complex vapor that was the Donnager and Briganti Station, the better. You were on so many drugs, and had to do so many horrible exercises to adjust to 1G of acceleration, that it felt a bit like torture. But…to your shock, you and Arren adapted to it faster than anyone else on the ship. Shed, who was an Erder born, kept whistling and shaking his head with your daily checkups.
You didn't know what everyone else did with their spare time. Your time was mostly spent being miserable, eating, sleeping - and having horrible dreams of being slowly squashed by freezing ice or blazing hot boulders, being trapped between layers of something vast and alien. When the torment came to an end…you had to admit, you appreciated the new muscles you found growing in your arms and belly. It was a workout you hated, but…hey, workout plus drugs plus literally not being able to slack off because you were always doing it equaled Arren looking cut.
You…
Maybe had to thank Wulfe.
Eventually.
When your bones stopped aching.
Briganti Station itself was quite a place, viewed through the crisp, clean cameras on the skin of your legitimate salvage. It was a double torus station, big enough for thousands of people, parked next to the hollowed out shell of the asteroid. It had been cut open and mined and mined and mined - and now was nothing but a bunch of rock around a big cavernous space that could be used as an 'in void' construction yard. It was nothing next to the biggest yards of the system…but even being in fifth or sixth place made it astoundingly busy.
"Dang, I think some of these ships are only slightly less well armed than ours," Shed says, counting hulls as the legitimate salvage (no one had come up with a name yet and no one wanted to bring it up while you and Wulfe were being 'co-captains'), while Amos nods.
"Plenty of pirates," he says. "If we have a bounty on our heads, we should be ready."
Wulfe nods. "Yeah, let's leave, uh, Shed and Minna on the ship. You two can keep an eye on things. Turn the PDCs on and fricassee anyone who looks at us funny."
"What?" Shed asks.
"I will not abandon my co-former-captives," Minna said, stubbornly.
"Then we leave behind Arren," Wulfe says.
"No," Arren says.
"Listen, cap, it's fine," Alex says. "I'll stay behind with Shed."
"He's one of Wulfe's!" Minna says, but you put your hand on her shoulder, gently. She blushes, her dark skin going darker. "...but he is also a good Herjan."
"Why thank you!" Alex says, smiling at her.
You smile. "So, me, Wulfe, Amos, Arren and Minna visit Wulfe's parents."
Wulfe groaned.
"Fine."
When you head to the airlock, Minna whispers into your ear. "Do you know her parents?" she asks.
You shake your head. "Her surname is Inaros, I think."
Minna frowned. "...Inaros…" she says, quietly, as the airlock doors open and you drift into the axial corridor of Briganti, where circular rings of handles set against the wall at the end of spiderweb catwalks. Snagging them, you were swept to the elevators that freighted people up and down to the rings of Briganti. Minna was looking deep in thought. Arren, though, was tapping away at his handheld, skimming through files - right, you hadn't had access to the solar network until now…sending up a long distance com request might have twigged any number of people as to your ship being flying free and easy.
Wulfe lead you along the surprisingly broad set of corridors and intersecting open areas that made up the inner edge of the Briganti's upper ring - and then stops before a doorway leading into an apartment complex area. Arren grabs your sleeve and you glance his way as you step in after Wulfe. He stumbles with you.
"...Isa…" he whispers. It's not physically possible for his face to pale and, yet, somehow, he looks completely bloodless as he holds up his handheld.
The newsfeeds are bright red and stark…and from years ago.
That doesn't change what they say.
INAROS CLAIMS CREDIT FOR ERDE ATTACK!
15 BILLION DEAD - AND COUNTING
ECOLOGICAL COLLAPSE?
ASTEROID STRIKE: FREE NAVY CREDITED
Your blood runs as cold as the ice under your homeworld.
The face of Marco Inaros shines from Arren's handheld - and you can see how he might have led to Wulfe. She has his angular beauty and his eyes and wolf ears. But his smile lacks all of her playfulness - his eyes are burning bright, even in the photographs. You and Arren freeze - while Minna whispers. "Oh. That's where I heard that name before."
The door Wulfe stands before opens as she turns to face you, unaware that you have a picture of her father floating right under the door in your field of view. "Okay, guys. Uh…this is my dad." She jerks her thumb as a shockingly beautiful, tall-for-an-Erder man with raven black hair and faintly watery blue eyes steps out. He has a thin layer of cheek fuzz that is dark black against his pale skin, but his black T-shirt is tight to his muscles, which are clearly well defined. He's holding a cup in his hand that he's in the middle of drying off with a hand towel.
You blink at him.
Look down at the photo of Marco Inaros.
Up at him.
Down at the photo of Marco Inaros.
Up at him again.
"That's…your Dad?" Arren asks, as Wolfe scowls, then snatches his handheld from his nerveless grip.
Wulfe's…Dad (?) laughs as he leans over her shoulder. "I thought you were going by Wolfe Nagata these days?"
"Yeah, well, I…shut up…" she mutters as…an ice pick realization slams into the back of your brain, forceful and pointed. You scramble, pull out your handheld, but it's not the internet you go to. Media. Books. You tap, then look down at the camera of your most read book, then up…
At…
"James…fucking…Holden," you whisper, slowly.
James Holden chuckles. "Hey," he says, holding his hand out. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
You gape at the hand of your biggest idol ever and start to hyperventilate.
—
What do you do?
[ ] Faint
[ ] Scream
[ ] Bombard him with questions
[ ] Write In
ThatGazzer
Minds Eye Bind
- Location
- PNW
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Wulf being The Phillip was a twist!
Btw what's it like when the grandparents visit? James has like…7? Genetic Parents
Btw what's it like when the grandparents visit? James has like…7? Genetic Parents