Post by Cid on Oct 21, 2009 23:08:01 GMT -5
Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
~Old sailor proverb
---
The shallow gash in Crabs' head was always a point of interest to the men during their long treks out beyond charted territory. To date, this was the longest they'd been stranded amongst the roiling rocks. Stranded, they say, because, despite their forward direction, they never felt like they were gaining any ground. They'd pulled out of some backwater Management Supply Stop and hadn't seen another ship in weeks. The seclusion didn't bother them much, it was the time spent with their fellow pirates that sometimes drove them up the gunwales. There were hardly any brawls--since all the Captain would have to say is, "tut, tut, my dears, or we may have some entertainment yet" and everyone knew what that meant--but some still came to blows. Best thing to pass the time was nudie movies or, if you wanted something a little more group-friendly, a bet.
Crabs' gash, though, was always up for examination, and even on a voyage such as this, everyone found time from their busy swashbuckling schedules to venture a guess as to how he got it. The very nature of the mark led some to believe that it was merely a birth defect that wasn't seen to in its early stages. Some would just guffaw at such a meager claim, produce a ten dollar mark from his purse, and add their own fanciful story to the mix. All the while this is going on, ole Crabs sits, uninterested, on his stool by the galley. Slumped, almost deflated from the day's work. Only other person as uninterested in the whole affair was the capt, but not too many people would dream to bother him about such trivial things.
The Wraith usually took his coffee on the bridge around sup', and wouldn't let a soul disturb him. He'd lock himself in there with a wilted copy of The Waste Lands. This day, though, he was reading Midnight's Children and laughing up a storm. Still, no one wandered anywhere near the bridge (save the helmsman who was a mutie, anyway--someone's got to maneuver this rig), but we could hear him all the way down to the bilge works (the engine room).
"Wraith seems to has his read own, I 'sink," spat Jim Crowley, the so-called "Prince o' the Belt." His family were one of the first to answer the Management's call for colony materials. Although just a bunch of red-necked, inbred rock pushers, they claim to the own the whole place. Not sure if they'd venture such a claim to AXIS, though.
"Oh, true be that, matey, but I hain't seem him read no Salmon Rushdie since way back befo' we pushed out of Joop Sphere." Teddy, Crowley's assistant, had been with ol Wraith since his first wandered his way Earthside (the Belt's as "Earthside" as many of them have gone). Ted never really pushed himself above the call of duty, thus he never was anything more than a deckhand. He was dubbed "Tijuana" due to his nasty port demeanor.
"I wish I was as genteel as Cap, I do," continued Ted. "Readin' as much as he do--usin' all those pert words--I bet I could get all sorts o' tail." Ted giggled to himself, forgetting to press the manual release on the engine oil reservoir before he opened it. A giant wave of black crude covered him. He simply spat to one side and giggled some more.
"I swear, Teddy, you ain't taken a shower in yo' life." Crowley shook his head with disgust and went about his daily cleaning. Captain's orders, everything had to be spotless--save Ted, of course. Although the ship was unarmed at the moment, it had to be battle-ready at a moment's notice. And that meant no shitcans in the middle of halls, fouling up transit from stations.
Back on the bridge, the Wraith had his feet up on an adjoining swivel chair, lightly tracing the lines of his text with an out-stretched pinky. His spectacles were on, and he appeared completely lost in thought.
*BING*
The Captain looked up, visibly flushed with irritation. The mutie ducked behind the helm, quaking in his shoreboots.
*BING*
Four blips appeared on the radar, at very close proximity to one another. They weren't rocks, since rocks don't zig-zag as though they were being chased. The Captain didn't care what they were. They could be Queen Anne's Lace, and he'd just as easily fry it from existence so he could go back to his novel.
"Argh, what be this infernal distraction that takes me away from my stories?" The Captain peered out the viewport, unimpressed at what he saw. Four Zaku's were traveling at a sluggish pace, doing their best to dodge the incessant bombardment of rocks.
The Captain extended his pinky toward the four-foot thick glass, placing his book gingerly on the swivel chair as he got on his feet.
"Raise warning flags," he snarled. "I want a ship-to-ship with that gallin' bastard."
"Ship-to-shi---?" Asked Garcia, having heard the Captain's nasty barks from the galley.
The Captain's eyes merely narrowed.
~Old sailor proverb
---
The shallow gash in Crabs' head was always a point of interest to the men during their long treks out beyond charted territory. To date, this was the longest they'd been stranded amongst the roiling rocks. Stranded, they say, because, despite their forward direction, they never felt like they were gaining any ground. They'd pulled out of some backwater Management Supply Stop and hadn't seen another ship in weeks. The seclusion didn't bother them much, it was the time spent with their fellow pirates that sometimes drove them up the gunwales. There were hardly any brawls--since all the Captain would have to say is, "tut, tut, my dears, or we may have some entertainment yet" and everyone knew what that meant--but some still came to blows. Best thing to pass the time was nudie movies or, if you wanted something a little more group-friendly, a bet.
Crabs' gash, though, was always up for examination, and even on a voyage such as this, everyone found time from their busy swashbuckling schedules to venture a guess as to how he got it. The very nature of the mark led some to believe that it was merely a birth defect that wasn't seen to in its early stages. Some would just guffaw at such a meager claim, produce a ten dollar mark from his purse, and add their own fanciful story to the mix. All the while this is going on, ole Crabs sits, uninterested, on his stool by the galley. Slumped, almost deflated from the day's work. Only other person as uninterested in the whole affair was the capt, but not too many people would dream to bother him about such trivial things.
The Wraith usually took his coffee on the bridge around sup', and wouldn't let a soul disturb him. He'd lock himself in there with a wilted copy of The Waste Lands. This day, though, he was reading Midnight's Children and laughing up a storm. Still, no one wandered anywhere near the bridge (save the helmsman who was a mutie, anyway--someone's got to maneuver this rig), but we could hear him all the way down to the bilge works (the engine room).
"Wraith seems to has his read own, I 'sink," spat Jim Crowley, the so-called "Prince o' the Belt." His family were one of the first to answer the Management's call for colony materials. Although just a bunch of red-necked, inbred rock pushers, they claim to the own the whole place. Not sure if they'd venture such a claim to AXIS, though.
"Oh, true be that, matey, but I hain't seem him read no Salmon Rushdie since way back befo' we pushed out of Joop Sphere." Teddy, Crowley's assistant, had been with ol Wraith since his first wandered his way Earthside (the Belt's as "Earthside" as many of them have gone). Ted never really pushed himself above the call of duty, thus he never was anything more than a deckhand. He was dubbed "Tijuana" due to his nasty port demeanor.
"I wish I was as genteel as Cap, I do," continued Ted. "Readin' as much as he do--usin' all those pert words--I bet I could get all sorts o' tail." Ted giggled to himself, forgetting to press the manual release on the engine oil reservoir before he opened it. A giant wave of black crude covered him. He simply spat to one side and giggled some more.
"I swear, Teddy, you ain't taken a shower in yo' life." Crowley shook his head with disgust and went about his daily cleaning. Captain's orders, everything had to be spotless--save Ted, of course. Although the ship was unarmed at the moment, it had to be battle-ready at a moment's notice. And that meant no shitcans in the middle of halls, fouling up transit from stations.
Back on the bridge, the Wraith had his feet up on an adjoining swivel chair, lightly tracing the lines of his text with an out-stretched pinky. His spectacles were on, and he appeared completely lost in thought.
*BING*
The Captain looked up, visibly flushed with irritation. The mutie ducked behind the helm, quaking in his shoreboots.
*BING*
Four blips appeared on the radar, at very close proximity to one another. They weren't rocks, since rocks don't zig-zag as though they were being chased. The Captain didn't care what they were. They could be Queen Anne's Lace, and he'd just as easily fry it from existence so he could go back to his novel.
"Argh, what be this infernal distraction that takes me away from my stories?" The Captain peered out the viewport, unimpressed at what he saw. Four Zaku's were traveling at a sluggish pace, doing their best to dodge the incessant bombardment of rocks.
The Captain extended his pinky toward the four-foot thick glass, placing his book gingerly on the swivel chair as he got on his feet.
"Raise warning flags," he snarled. "I want a ship-to-ship with that gallin' bastard."
"Ship-to-shi---?" Asked Garcia, having heard the Captain's nasty barks from the galley.
The Captain's eyes merely narrowed.
