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Bad Harlequin
Minmatar
Chiroptera Factor
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Posted - 2008.04.27 18:42:00 -
[1]
I open my eyes, and a hundred virtual eyes open with them. Ship sensors, camera drone inputs, weapons status and more all awaken and glow into life in peripheral vision, while voices whisper information into my subconscious.
Not fully awake, not fully self-aware, identity is submerged in awareness of ship-self: I am a Cyclone. I am the Psyclown. I have these weapons, this shield, that navigation... I am docked instation. I am at...
I am at...
I got here on...
Data fails. More aware now, the calm subself of ship-being is infected with growing alarm. Shaking my head in the suspension of my pod, I attempts to focus. I remember. I remember...
"BH, you still with us? There was a clone glitch, Clown... you'll be okay, we're checksumming stored memory and uploading it to you directly into your pod. Unity Station is coming under attack soon, this is the best place for you... and when you're cleared for action you can undock immediately if necessary..."
The voice is familiar, the face-image fuzzy. I struggle, reach for more, access comlogs.
"...heavy incursion... don't anticipate any emergencies, but disconnecting telemetry from the station just in case. Contact me on this channel :: ENCRYPTED UPLOAD :: when you're up and running. See you in the void, Clown!"
The timestamp is improbably long ago.
I access hangar cameras. The MMS Psyclown is suspended in the center, but floodlights are out. There is debris in the corner. A terminal near the shaft-access door sparks intermittently, throwing glowing orange light and sporadic shadows. The ship egress doors are partially blocked by fallen girders.
What has happened here?
I access interior security cameras just outside the hangar door. I do not have access to any other station systems. I freeze.
Two robed and cowled figures are walking along the station corridor, unhurredly, relaxed. They are conversing in low tones. One is animated, pressing his point. The other, from what little I can see of his face, is older, thoughtful, nodding slowly, considering his companion's words. They each carry a Pax Amarria and the older one refers to it occasionally as they speak.
Where am I?
I access ship logs as it attempts connection to the docking systems of Uni-
-of Providence Reclaimed?!
I summon the starmap with a thought, check the system. Am I captured? Relocated? Why am I in my fully-armed and active Cyclone, if... no. I am in the correct system. This is - was - Unity Station.
The station has fallen.
I attempt to open comm channels. I am confused by a babble of voices I do not recognize; new pod-pilots, exhilarated with their newfound freedom, discussing the beginnings of their careers and hopes.
I am still fuzzy-headed. I assess my status and situation more clearly, for the first time: I am not a member of the Masuat'aa Matari. My status was revoked nearly six months... six months ago... and my tribe, the Sebiestor, duly registered me as an affiliated pilot by default, under CONCORD regulation.
I am chagrined, but cannot find fault. I see now that I have been absent, suspended unmoving in this hangar, for nearly a year and a half. If I had been captured, turned... or worse: mindwiped, transferred to the control of another consciousness, appearing again with my security access and controls to the Matari unchanged, showing a friendly face but far different intentions... I am saddened, but approve of secure thinking.
It is clear and sharp now, cold and bright as those final moments of pod destruction. Unity has fallen. The CVA have taken it, as they have taken so much. And I am cut off from my brethren, from anything familiar, in a hostile region teeming with our most devoted enemies.
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Bad Harlequin
Minmatar
Chiroptera Factor
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Posted - 2008.04.27 18:43:00 -
[2]
I am pondering this when a comm channel does the mental equivalent of politely tapping me on the shoulder and requesting access. It is an old foe, respected if not relished. I open the channel. The voice is cold, mixed between annoyance and amusement.
I don't know where you've been or how you got there, and I'm not sure I want to know. This is against my better judgement, joker, but I take no satisfaction in destroying you until you're back up to your full if meagre capabilities. A smirk. Your ego will be happy to know you're not completely forgotten. In fact, your pathetic attempts at station access and comm broadcasts have set off alarms all over the region... which, in case it hasn't reached your skull through that ridiculous mohawk, is ours now. I strongly suggest you leave as fast as you can - and do not return. Good luck. You're going to need it.
The transmission cuts.
Oh good, I think. I bring up a map and chart a course back to the Republic. I try to find a safe route. The map doesn't quite laugh at me, but I think it would like to.
There is not much of a presence here, but there are pilots converging on the system. I see several other pilots registered as docked within the station - looking askance at their own lists, no doubt, as they can surely see me.
Some quick refitting of the Psyclown is in order. Regretfully, I strip the "MMS" prefix. It is not, technically, true now anyway. I wipe my public Pilot Profile of Ushra'Khan slogans and info, as well. Not enough to hide me from anyone my reluctant informant warned me about, but hopefully enough to fool any of the newer pilots who may look me over.
I electronically look around my hangar one last time. It is still secured; it is partially cut off from the rest of the station; a combination of old damage from the station's capture and its own security locks. They must have just assumed this hangar was too damaged to use and haven't gotten around to fixing it, I think.
Time to go.
I look one last time at the accumulation of years strewn about my hangar, shrug, and trigger the undock request. The bay doors groan against the metal junk leaning against it, trying to shove aside the blockage. The noise is awful for a brief instant until hungry vaccum steals the air and sound ceases. I wait until a Cyclone-sized space appears, and shoot out like a Cruise from a Raven. Or a, well, any Minmatar ship, really...
Warp is triggered to the first gate. So far, so good. Several other ships are in the area: no names i recognize right off, but given my mental state this is not terribly meaningful.
"Move along, nothing to see here," I mutter. "Nothing of interest in my Corp history records, honest..." I arrive at the gate. Other ships arrive with me. I power towards the Jumpgate, beginning to feel the first bits of relief.
Then the shooting starts. So much for anonyminity.
Damn, passively locked. The shields soak the damage easily; it becomes obvious that they will hold until jump. The familiar whine of power-up starts, and I am hurled to the next star system...
One down, 12 to go.
-----
"...haven't seen him either, not in ages," Conrad is saying. I am pleasantly surprised to find a Wolf of mine in Istodard, unmolested and maintained dutifully by station crews. It doesn't hurt to have the Republic Fleet like you. I am more pleasantly surprised to run into some old friends. "We were all sort of wondering what happened to you."
"I'm still kind of wondering myself," I laugh. "What the hell have you been up to? And tell Bastelus I'm underwhelmed with his logo-designing skills."
Conrad smirks. "Why don't you join us and tell him yourself? You need to get back up to speed, catch up with current - hell, even far-distant - events, learn your way around a bit. We're trying to figure out what to do next. It'll be like Oracle again, when none of us knew what was going on..."
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Bad Harlequin
Minmatar
Chiroptera Factor
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Posted - 2008.04.27 18:43:00 -
[3]
"Except the repair costs will be a bit higher," I grin. But I think about it, and decide quickly. These were the pilots I entered space with. It was most fitting to close this circle, and I am looking forward to flying with them again. "You got me. I'm in, if you can deal with the terrible jokes in Corp comms and the very likely event that I'll manage to get us all killed before the week is out."
Conrad laughs. "See, that's how we'll know it's really you!" He only laughs harder as I make a rude gesture.
-----
My old Wolf, the Rictus Grin, comes apart spectacularly in the hail of missiles, while the drones that have been chewing on it back off slightly to avoid the explosion. It has been a lazy sort of patrol; Bast, Conrad and I have been, frankly, looking for trouble, and we had found it. Cleverly, we engage a likely candidate - bad negsec, local reputation for attacking anyone - but we are separated when I tackle her. After a few moments of being scrammed by me, she gets smart and tackles me right back.
Then the missiles and drones come.
I do not recognize the ship type that has destroyed my Wolf. It is new to me, having been invented at some point during my suspension. I consider this, and clinically, as the ship finishes coming apart and my pod disengages from its control systems, I take note of my (soon to be former) fitting, noting what worked well, what worked less well, and what I should never attempt again. The Rictus Grin is frowning now, and my pod's warp engine comes online.
Firstly I think that I should have done this with a Jaguar, perhaps. Secondly I think that of all the things I've missed experiencing, clone activation is not one of them and it's time to get the pod out of here.
-----
The Psyclown is perfectly motionless, hanging near the Jumpgate as the Sacrilige approaches. Sure enough, he can't resist and locks me. My rusty reflexes lack the focus to crisply command my ship's responses, still: too slowly, I lock him back, scramble him, and activate weapons systems. Somewhat belatedly, I realize I should probably do something about the damage I'm taking. I am losing armor faster than I can do anything about it; I am not doing a great deal of damage, really; and I am stubbornly maintaining my tackle on the Sac. The opposing self-styled "Pirate" pilot must think he has found an easy victory.
Then Bast and Conrad arrive.
As we gather the impressive array of Tech-II designated modules from the wreckage, my mood is improved greatly over the loss of the Wolf. "I think I'm vaguely remembering how this works," I remark as we scatter around the system from the Sac's vengeful Megathron friend, actively searching for us. "It's good to be back in space with you lunatics again. This seems like a good area to get some practice in." Bast laughs, Conrad nods sagely. "Ayeah," he says drily, "this is where he waves his cane at us and tell us how back in his day, we had real pirates, not these puffballs..."
"Hey, my day was your day too. You can refit to Old Man Mode any time you want. What's the point of being around forever if you can't tell kids to get off your lawn..."
I return home, surprise my old Agent with my existence, discover that neither she nor Fleet has forgotten me.
I don't know what the future holds for me. I don't know how long it'll take before I'm caught up with everything that's happened since I last undocked. I can't believe how many freedom-fighters have gone missing, either into Alliance regions or simply vanished, like I had...
There's time enough to figure this all out later.
For now, it is simply good to be in space again.
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Hardin
Amarr
Praetoria Shipyards
Amarr Builders Consortium
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Posted - 2008.04.28 13:15:00 -
[4]
*Bzzzzt...*
*Bzzzzzzzt...*
*Bzzzzzzzzzzzt...*
*BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTT...*
*-Click-*
"Yes Ensign, what is it now?"
"Sir, we've just received a Friend or Foe request from the 9UY system and wondered if you could take a look at it!"
Hardin sighs.
"Ensign you know that FoF requests are the responsibility of pilots Ramruqai and Equinox Daedalus. Why are you bothering me?"
"Erm...well sir...they were both unavailable and this one falls into a grey area. It's an apparent neutral sir but his employment history looks a bit dubious."
"Okay send it over"
A millisecond later an image flashes up on Hardin's comm screen jolting him into full wakefulness...
Hardin ponders for a moment or two.
"Well, well Ensign this is an interesting one! Where did you say this chap had been reported?"
"In 9UY sir, docked in 'Providence Reclaimed'."
"Okay ensign, I can confirm that this pilot is Kill on Sight. Very very kill on sight. Please update the databank and ensure everyone in the area is alerted."
*-Click-*
Hardin pauses for a minute before reaching for his commset.
"Deliverance Reclaimed Comms Centre. How can I help you?"
"Kindly connect me to the pod pilot by the name Bad Harlequin who is currently docked there. Then please alert the Station Master to revoke docking and cloning privileges for the same pilot. Make sure that when he leaves he can't come back!"
"Yes, Sir! Connecting you now..."
The screen flickers for a second and suddenly Hardin is looking into the face of one of his oldest adversaries. He begins to talk...
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Bad Harlequin
Minmatar
Chiroptera Factor
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Posted - 2008.04.29 01:15:00 -
[5]
I have boarded the station one last time. There is some confusion on the comms, and I know I cannot stay long. Security is being tightened and my lack of any broadcast identity will not hold them off for long.
I attempt to access the cloning systems and install a jump-clone. I am negged, as a haughtily superior voice informs me that i am persona non-grata in extremis.
Something new has appeared at the bottom of the terminal: the CVA logo, prevalent on every screen before, has been enhanced (depending on one's point of view) by the slogan Amarr Victor.
I stare. That wasn't here last time. It's a personal message and the last warning I'm likely to get. It's also quite to the point and indisputable, given the new management of the station I'm standing in. That I helped build, so long ago...
Once more and for the last time, it is time to go. What few loyal crew members, ex-Marines, and freed Slaves remain in my personal spaces, hiding, I equip as best I can with Small Arms, explosives, various drugs to sneak into food/water systems and, as an afterthought, all the Tobacco and Spirits I can find. No way to move all this out of system anyway, and they'll have more use for it than I will...
I have a feeling that even if we never return, they will remain safe from the slavers here. I leave them enough ISK and valuable minerals to book passage quietly on any neutral ships that may come through, and then I take my leave. I hand the most senior of the ex-Marines my Khumaak.
I undock and vanish.
Hmm. I am now an expatriate twice over.
Annoying.
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