Rigby Jess
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Posted - 2010.03.16 21:58:00 -
[1]
Day 1:
My name is Felix Stanbury. I am an astrometric scientist for the Blackbird-class ship Mirror Lake. Maybe...I should say that I was a scientist for the ship. Now it's in a dozen or so pieces thanks to an attack that tore through the aft section approximately three hours ago. I managed to get into an evac suit before the breach sucked me out, but I can't speak for the others. Comms are down and I can't see any of the other ships we accompanied. I've a few days of water and nutritional paste built into the suit to hold me over until help arrives, but in this uncharted corner of the universe there is little chance of a friendly (or even unfriendly. I'd take being ransomed by pirates if it gets me home) hauler catching me on the gravidar.
So I drift.
Day 2:
I tried at least a dozen comms channels this ômorningö when I found out how to adjust the frequency. Each one hissed with static, save the eighth one that I came to discover that it shared one of the frequencies of a nearby pulsar. I can't see it, but its rhythm is unmistakable: Hiss...tic. Hiss...tic. They're rare enough that maybe a search party will know to look for me and other survivors here.
Day 3:
Incompetent *******s! They knew we were going through the wormhole and would survive the trip. They sent a probe through and it came back without a scratch! They should be out here without a shower or good sleep for a few days, not me. When I get back, I'm going to bring this to CONCORD and there'll be Hell to pay for this. I might get a nice settlement instead of that if I make a good case, then I can retire with the wife on some nice property overlooking the ocean. That is if I'm not an old shell of a man when they find me. They will. I know they'll find me.
Day 5:
I bet they heard me say all of that and are cloaked-up somewhere, laughing at me. I take it all back, alright? Just get me out of this suit. I can smell my sweat and grime even with the filters working.
I'll go back to work without a word. Honest! Just pick me up!
Day 7:
I wrote a poem.
There once was a young Caldari
who found his nutri-paste tasted like salami,
and the rescue fleet debated
if the lonely man **********d,
all while he shouted that of his outbursts he was sorry!
Get the message, guys? I really am sorry!
Day 10:
They hated my poem. The pulsar couldn't care less, but I don't see it writing new material.
Day 11:
For ****'s sake! Why can't I stop pitching? It's always a few degrees at a time and I can't make the suit thrusters level it out. STOP PITCHING!
Day 12:
Okay, keep pitching. Just don't ask me to like it.
Hiss...tic. Hiss...tic to you too. I'm sure you're in on this.
Day 16:
You can hear me? Oh...oh my god...YOU CAN HEAR ME! I'M RIGHT HERE! I'm waving both arms! Yes! Yes, I know I'm getting low on nutri-paste, I've been out here for days! I've...oh, ****. You're just the damn suit alert. Do something about it, will you? Pretty please?
...*******.
Day 18:
Plastic's rather chewy when you think about it and it has that nutri-paste residue in it for flavor. Just what the marooned spacer needs.
Day 20:
****ing pulsar's interrupting my feeding-tube spaghetti. Hang on a moment while I give it a piece of my m-....
**Helmet disconnected from suit PAN**
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