[CHAPTER 2] Gypsy In My Soul.   Posted by GM.Group: 0
GM
 GM, 36 posts
Sun 5 Nov 2017
at 19:32
[CHAPTER 2] Gypsy In My Soul


June 15th, 2439
1645 Hours (4:45 PM)


On the Yukon Gypsy Outpost, orbiting the planet Tara...



The Yukon Gypsy Outpost was a bit livelier than usual for this time of the year. The trade station was full of off-worlders, scrambling around to set up shop in time for the Refugee Faire. The event, held every year, drew the attention of many citizens along Revati-Primm's 18 guild-endorsed planets. It all started a decade back or so, when a local conflict forced a surge of refugees along this very highway. The Gypsy's endurance was put to the test, and at the end of it all she emerged as a bonafide, honest to goodness market. Well, I don't know too much about the "honest" part.

Though it was still a solid week away, preparation was key to offloading as much merchandise as possible during the Faire. People docked their ships on one end, cut a linear path through to the other side, then double backed to their vessels. If you didn't catch their attention on the first or second try, that was it.
Alan Kirschner
 Cybersecurity, 24 posts
Mon 6 Nov 2017
at 07:02
[CHAPTER 2] Gypsy In My Soul
A sigh escaped the man's lips as he finished typing away at DASH's Main Terminal, straightening his back with a soft groan before focusing back to the monitor's dull red light. He'd spent the better part of an hour correcting a flaw in the AI's logic caused by a mere joke, something even he could not anticipate would deal so much damage on such short notice.

It all had to do with the AIs' inability to properly recognize humor. He'd mostly made progress with Squid in that regard, but since DASH was an older AI on an even older ship, he didn't want to risk having the ship's AI mistake a mid-combat order for a joke. So, rather than risk the lives of his fellow crewmates, Alan much preferred wasting his free time correcting the occasional mistake in its thought processes.

Even so, the DASH was slowly getting on his nerves. It was mind-bending how it got from battery acid coffee to thinking that all ice-cream should be kept warm in order to protect its crew, and the young man prayed there weren't any other errors in its logic processes, just waiting for an excuse to manifest. He cringed at the thought of last week's shenanigan, when the AI tried to understand why humans regularly washed their clothes to keep them sterile and clean. A few hours and incinerated wardrobes later, Alan had a lot of angry complaints to sort and go through, especially since some of the crew dumped all of their clothes into the washing machine.

Recovering from his reverie, the man touched his earpiece, activating it so as to contact Kara. "Captain, Alan here. DASH's brains are hopefully fixed, so the sludge in the ice-cream container should return to its icy state. I'll be monitoring it for any changes in behavior, but for now I think it's alright. Let me know if you need me for anything else."

With that, Alan also accessed Squid's cameras, revealing it to be working on the ship's hull. Likely noticing its 'eyes' being remotely accessed, the AI began writing a small text in the corner of its HUD, likely so as to inform its creator of its current action.

Squid:
"Currently performing repairs with crewman Faris. Will notify in case of future developments."


Nodding to himself, Alan went to a nearby chair and sat down, allowing himself to relax, even if perhaps for just a moment. "DASH, please play some music, Logic Core only. Progressive metal, 20th century selection." Almost immediately after stating his request, the room was bathed in the sounds of drums and electric guitars, the two instruments producing a tune that was both enthralling with its melodic quality and thrilling with its loud drum play.
Franciszek Gomolka
 Mechanic, 28 posts
 "Pour one more, lads...
 ...gonna be a long trip."
Mon 6 Nov 2017
at 14:49
[CHAPTER 2] Gypsy In My Soul
After all these years, he had almost forgotten about the smell.

France looked about, the gaudy signposts on the promenade lighting up in a thousand different languages, and almost as many colors. Sully strode his way quite easily through the crowd, casting a rather confident figure. France kept his eyes shifting back and forth; he took pains to protect his pockets, despite them being virtually empty. The crowd was magnified by all the visitors preparing for the Faire, and the noise of the haranguing throngs, hawking wares, making deals, shouting, fighting, laughing...for a man who spent his life straining to hear the hum of a satisfied reactor coil, or putting his ear up against the deck plating to feel out the vibrations, it was a true cacophony.

And the smell. It was a smell of sweat, of bizarre substances masquerading as food, of oil and grease and fouler things, of corroded metal and still-unwrapped neoplastic gewgaws, of soiled infants, of methane exhaust from god-knows-where. He had almost forgotten what home smelled like, and he thanked whatever he believed in that his little Hanna never had to grow up with it, even considering the circumstances.

He looked again at Sully, and perhaps hoped that he might absorb some residue of his composure. He didn't know terribly much about him; he knew he had some sort of military background, and that he too was a widower. At first France thought that he may have found a kindred spirit, but Sully understood and dealt with pain in a totally different manner than France. In France's estimation at least, there were no flaws in Sully's armor. He never asked if Sully had children; he remembers someone on board mentioning it perhaps, but he never got any details. At any rate, Sully's propensity to shout down those who displeased him was intimidating to France. He again remarked to himself that boats were much simpler than people. Fewer moving parts.

After turning one more corner, Sully came to a sudden stop. France looked about and realized they must have arrived. The neon sign in the shape of a portly man dancing in a pair of clogs gave it away, rather tastelessly at that:

"The 'Dirty Dutchman,' I take it?" France couldn't really complain; he had eaten at many a dive in his time; some of them even without fire damage. "Anything I should know about our prospective hire? He been vetted by anyone we know?"

This message was last edited by the player at 14:50, Mon 06 Nov 2017.