Hopeless Storyline

The temporarily-named Hopeless Storyline is an ongoing tale of the whacky adventures of the crew of the dilapidated training ship Hopewell, or as it is more unfondly known, the Hopeless.

The Characters

• Jarn Farron
• Maryn Nea
• Iskander Tamarack
• Joseph Reynolds
• Christopher Tharen
• Derrek O'Sullivan
• J.B. Fizzwinkle
• Pags Matris

Episode Breakdown

A message from Cody

The Story Thus far

Below is everything so far, along with the crazies responsible for each post.

Kaz

The Strike Cruiser Hopewell glided silently against the backdrop of stars silhouetting her dark, graceful lines. She was a perfect symbol of New Republic military might…..or rather she would be if not for the fact that her current gliding motion was more akin to being adrift, a situation courtesy of her malfunctioning sublight engines.

The engines, along with pretty much every other remotely significant onboard system had been prone to random failures since the day the ship had launched, leading the beleaguered techs on her maiden voyage to rechristen the ship the Hopeless. Since then the crew of the cruiser had gradually come to accept exploding power conduits and coolant leaks as a normal part of everyday life.

Currently on the ship’s bridge, Colonel Maryn Nea, Commanding Officer was rubbing her eyes to ward off an impending migraine as she struggled to deal with her ship’s newest orders, which were very much not a normal part of everyday life.

“They’ve got to be kidding” she said to no one in particular, considering the bridge crew had long ago learned that the very worst thing to do was actually acknowledge their CO in the midst of a good rant.

“The Outer Rim! I say a prayer in every religion I know every time this tub manages to make a hyperspace jump without falling apart, and now they want us to make it all the way to the flippin Outer Rim?”

A few of the more veteran members of the crew suddenly found reasons to go and check on technical readouts towards the other end of the ship, leaving the poor newly recruited souls to bear the brunt of the verbal outburst.

Colonel Nea abruptly stood up from her command chair, beginning to pace back and forth across the bridge, wildly flailing the datapad in her hand as if the information it contained might up and bite her if she gave it the chance.

“And flight training? Flight?! As in flight deck? AS IN THE FLIGHT DECK NO ONE’S EVER ACTUALLY FINISHED CONSTRUCTING?!”

The formerly clueless recruits suddenly realized it was well past their lunch break, and quietly made their way toward the exit, doing their best to avoid eye contact with the raging Colonel before them.

As the door slid closed behind the last crewman, he was just able to hear the following words before they were cut off by the thick durasteel frame.

“FARON?! THEY’RE PUTTING JARN FARRON ON MY SHIP?! OH SWEET MOTHER OF…..”

Giz

The subject of this brief personal history would comment, only if prompted, on their progress through life to date as, “Still trying to find himself.” Anyone who knew him, or for that matter looked at him, would give the slightly different opinion that he was, in fact, an abject failure.

From the tender age of six Joseph Reynolds had been constantly frustrating and disappointing his father, William Reynolds, a well to do entrepreneur who dealt mostly in shipping and specialised delivery. Despite good teachers and insistent prompting from his parents, Joseph did not do well in the realms of academia. He wasn’t much liked by his peers, but there were one or two that didn’t regularly try to stove his head in with various pieces of classroom equipment, and those few knew him as Jo. With them he formed steadfast bonds of agreement not to hit each other and they remained in correspondence for some time, mainly attempting to call on or shirk off various debts and favours.

At the age of seventeen his father took him out of school and as a last resort decided to bring him into the family business and have him trained as a specialist delivery pilot, leaving him in the capable hands of his best and most trusted instructor. After many offsets that extended his training period of a year to two and a half, breaking a total of thirty eight bones and several ships (the exact number appears to have been covered up in the company archives), Jo’s instructor deemed him ready to take his delivery flight, graduating him into the company’s pilot corps with no honours and some unhealed scar tissue.

Joseph was to deliver a package of great importance to his father, a piece of invaluable art that would stand in exhibition at the centre of his new venture, a state of the art cruise liner. Jo made company record time, flying his retrofitted snub fighter through a small asteroid field and plotting a hyperspace course that shaved off a few minutes from the standard jump calculations used by most employees. His father’s eye had twitched several times upon being informed of his arrival, more so when he came within visual range, those near thinking themselves capable of understanding the emotions he was going through as a proud parent; what little they knew.

The reports of the incident are still sketchy at best. Local authorities are yet to gather all the statements and indeed recover all the bodies, although what is certain is that Joseph Reynolds somehow managed to find a weak spot on his father’s mammoth ship and smash his snub fighter into it at high velocity. On the rescue ship, in front of all the crew and other rescued passengers, William Reynolds disavowed and disowned his son, after which his left eye was seen to twitch a great deal more before he marched into the craft’s cockpit and sealed the door behind him, never to see his son again.

Jo did not fair well alone. He received a little money from his mother, but lost most of it through muggings, the odd stint of gambling and reparations (which he is still paying off) for ships he would damage upon trialling for companies looking for pilots.

In the end, a bleak future ahead of him, Jo decided that the best course for him and the galaxy as a whole was to do what was right, to move on to a more noble cause, a purpose greater than he himself; to sign up for the NR military and pay off his debts.

Jo’s cadet profile shows him to be physically 23 years of age, with a face that is not unpleasant to look and could be construed as ruggedly handsome if viewed in bad light and through thick beer goggles. His eyes are blue and while not piercing, do not appear sappy or lifeless. His frame is broad, yet not filled out and he stands at six feet and one inch tall, although it is said he spends most of his time sitting or lying down.

---

Major Dunstable looked up from the informal intelligence briefing he had before him. He recognised the sardonic prose and wondered at the officer whom he assumed had written it, one whom he knew from a past life, somewhat saddened that such potential and previous acts of fealty to the Rebellion had gone to waste, reporting on the likes of this candidate rather than the secrets of the Empire.

The youth fidgeted slightly, but met the Major’s gaze squarely as he notice it fall upon him. Dunstable looked at him more closely, taking note of the well tailored yet drab and worn clothes. Jo sat with his legs spread slightly, hands clasped together, his frame slumped slightly in the chair. Dunstable raised an eyebrow,

“It states on your record that you have well over two thousand hours of flight in various snubfighter craft types? That’s quite impressive for a non-com who’s been flying for as short a time as you have.”

The youth shifted in the chair, sitting more upright, an almost relieved look about him, “Yes sir, that’s correct.”

“Good. Perhaps then you could clarify something for me; despite your logged flight time, I see you have only twelve logged landings. Is that correct?”

Joseph swallowed hard, the colour draining from his face slightly. Dunstable kept his polite yet quizzical gaze firmly on him and Jo shifted once more in his seat, managing to mumble, “I haven’t quite mastered that part yet.”

Dunstable’s face remained emotionless, taking no small effort on his part. He looked down at the datapad once more as if to study something. A thought struck him; the lad had passed the required reflex tests and this little discrepancy must have gone unnoticed by any of the bean counters for him to reach this stage in the process. He smiled broadly and looked up at Jo, who in turn shifted uncomfortably.

“I think I have just the thing for you son. You’ll do fine in the fighter corps, yes.” He paused for a moment, as if considering something, “I think you’d do best as an Xwing pilot. Your instructors will finalise that decision of course, but I’ve an X-wing oriented course in mind. I’m assigning you to an old colleague of mine and I’m sure he’ll be glad to have someone with your flight time.”

Jo beamed at the Major, “Thank you sir, thank you.”

“No need son, now just sit tight while I push a few buttons and send you on your way.” His smile widened, “Your CO and instructor will be a Lieutenant Jarn Faron. Please do pass on my regards and greet him with my compliments.”

“Oh yes sir, I’d be happy to sir.”

The Major finished with the datapad and then looked up again, his face a picture of sincerity, “There, all set. There’s a shuttle that leaves on the hour, be sure not to miss your flight.” He passed over a data cylinder, “Here are your assignment orders and travel pass, you’ll be assigned your gear and billet upon arrival at your place of instruction, the Strike Cruiser Hopewell.”

“A ship, sir?”

“Yes son, a ship, you should count yourself lucky to be one of the few trained on one.”

Jo stood at the Major’s gesture, data cylinder in hand, “Thank you sir.”

“Welcome to the fighter corps son, good luck..”

Joseph nodded, beaming, “Thank you sir.”

When the recruit had gone the Major placed his elbow on the desk and lowered his forehead into his hand, doing his best to stifle the noise that seemed to be attempting to escape his nose and mouth, then added under his breath, “You’re gonna need it.”

‘Ah Faron, I don’t mean to kick you while you’re down.’ He thought, ‘But I find sometimes, I just can’t resist.’

His data pad beeped, alerting him to the fact a new recruit was ready to be seen to. The Major pressed a virtual button on the pad to acknowledge and waited to see what type of moron would be sent to him this time.

Raven

Doctor Strangelove couldn't help but stare at the flight cadet sitting in the middle of his medical ward, a bloodied towel pressed against his face. He brings up the cadet's medical records, looking through them at a glance; before pausing and reading more. A minute or so later he raises his head, his brow furrowed heavily. 'You have got to be kidding me.' He thinks to himself before raising one hand and beckoning the young man over. "Mister Tharen?"

The cadet rises to his feet as anyone would, stepping over toward the station that Strangelove was sitting behind. He is silent as any good cadet would be; only raising his unoccupied hand to adjust the jet black helmet that adorns his head.

"What happened, exactly?" The doctor asks, not quite believing the initial report he had received minutes earlier.

"Uh... Well... I was trying to get something off the floor and bumped my face on the nose cone of the Z-95 Headhunter I've been assigned and well..."

"...That's not what I heard." The doctor interrupts, narrowing his eyes slightly at the cadet.

"I ran into my Z-95." The cadet says slowly, slightly embarrassed.

"You RAN into your Z-95?" The doctor repeats in disbelief.

"Yes, sir..." He nods slightly after the affirmation, his embarrassment growing.

"Alright... step over here and take that towel off, Mister Thar... Chris, is it?" The doctor says, knowing he would most likely be seeing this one again... frequently. "Just step over here."

"Yeah, Chris works." He steps toward the doctor, before taking a seat on the examination slab; slowly removing the towel from his face. His nose seems slightly broken, with half of his face swollen and bruised. The doctor is slightly taken aback by the injury, having expected a bloody nose or something simple.

"...Exactly how hard did you hit the ship?"

"I was run..." The cadet stops and suddenly grins from ear to ear, brandishing his teeth. "Haha... run... I like runnnnning." He bounces once in his seat. "I wanna run more! I wanna run more! I wanna run more!" After a few moments of downright staring from the doctor Christopher stops bouncing, his face going stoic again.

"So can you take care of this, sir? I need to get back to my duties." Christopher suddenly says, completely flat.

Strangelove had seen strange things in his life as a doctor, had patched up hundreds of pilots coming back from missions... but never something quite as unique as this man. "I'll... uh... right... Give me a moment..." His skilled hands quickly patch up the cadet's bloodied nose before injecting a neurostim into his neck to control the bruising. After a few more pricks and pokes with various instruments to assure that no further permanent damage had been done to the young cadet, the Doctor motions for him to dismount the slab. "You're all set... try to be more careful."

The cadet suddenly grins again from ear to ear and wraps his arms around the doctor, hugging him. "Thank you!! You're very niiice!" The cadet says before stepping back. He shakes his head slightly. "Thank you sir!" He salutes and walks out of the infirmary at a brisk military pace.

Almost as quickly, the doctor leaps back to his console to bring up the cadet's full medical records... and take a stiff swig of a container he keeps hidden under his desk.

---

Minutes later, the doctor sits flabbergasted at his console, his jaw slightly slackened. His right finger moves from line to line through the medical reports for one Christopher Tharen. A young pilot of 21, Christopher had been a decent pilot for the New Republic 314th Strike Fleet. On a routine escort flight the convoy he was attached to was ambushed by an Imperial Victory I-class Star Destroyer. His flight was able to easily dispatch the Imperials and drive off the Star Destroyer. Feeling cocky, the young pilot rammed his X-wing into an enemy TIE Fighter at maximum acceleration...

He awoke three days later in the medical ward on the Nebulon-B Medical Frigate 'Lotus'. While able to save him, the medical droids and doctors onboard the frigate were unable to remove a piece of the TIE's radiator panel sticking out of the top of his head, cleanly penetrating his skull and slicing into his brain. Using the latest in medical technology they were able to fabricate a special flight helmet for him to keep the radiator panel from causing permanent damage. Unfortunately, a side effect of the impact and injury causes him to lose his mental control from time to time... The effect on his flight was minimal; and he was assigned to remedial starfighter training to assure his ability to pilot a starfighter was still intact. Medically approved, he was assigned to the Hopewell during the past week, and is scheduled to serve for a very, very, long time.

Doctor Strangelove closes the medical record while taking another long swig from his flask. Rubbing his temples, he sighs. "...I am going to be seeing that kid more often... I need a bigger flask..."

Cable

"Jarn Farron? Must be quite a guy to have the Colonel worked up like that." "I dunno, but I could really go for a sammich." "Ooooh yeah, a sammich."

The banter continued between the two recruits as they made their way to the bar, conveniently open at all times. Luckily, the ship had two backup systems dedicated to keeping power to the bar, so even in the midst of a total systems failure, the bar could be kept running for...oh, seven years.

Flight Cadet Hoozier Dahdi strolled in first, followed by another cadet by the name of Mahboob Ishari. Hoozier, of Corellian descent, slid into a stool at the bar, eyeing up the slender form of the bartender. Deep blue eyes crawled up and down that curvaceous figure, wet tongue raking across tender lips as he focused on the bartender's firm chest and ample rear. Before his gaze went any further, however, Mahboob's hand slapped his shoulder. "Come on, give DUI-40 your order already!" Whoops, that's awkward!

After giving their subsequent orders to the droid, they eagerly awaited the intoxicating sustinence that would keep them going for the next few hours of their shift. It was easy to say that the bar was the nicest area on the entire ship, especially with the GAPING HOLES AND UNFINISHED DECKS RAMPANT ACROSS THE ENTIRE SHIP! Ah, crap, I went off on a tangent again. Anyways, Mahboob eyed up an actual human female, hair streaming down her back, eyes that you could get lost in, a rack that you could cure meat on, and a rear end like a Star Destroyer. Okay, maybe not THAT big, but it was nice nonetheless.

A few swigs of his beverage were taken before Mahboob got up the courage to walk up to the gorgeous female, his eyes never leaving her boo........tiful face. His smile could melt ice, and he started to use that charm on her.

"Hello, gorgeous, what's your sign? Slippery when wet? Yield? Dangerous Curves?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm just trying to become more acquainted with you."

"Do you REMEMBER who I am?"

"Uh...we've met before?"

"You dumbass, I'm Colonel Nea, your commanding officer. Remember?!"

"Oh...have we met before?"

"Yes, I just yelled at you on the bridge!!"

"Ah, right. Umm...who are you again?"

With a yell of exasperation, Colonel Nea stormed out of the bar, a puzzled look taking over Mahboob's face as he made his way back to the seat next to Hoozier. "You know, she looks kind of familiar." "Yeah, but she's probably a lesbian anyway." "Good point, dude."

Markus

Derrek O'Sullivan glanced about the flight deck... What there was of it. He shuddered to think that he'd be... flying off of this. As he debarked the shuttle he'd flown in on, he couldn't help but wonder how it was that a fresh flight cadet who performed reasonably well during his initial flight training could get assigned to this... heap.

He only hoped that his squadronmates and his commanding officers would turn out to be better than this pile of scrap.

He hadn't heard too much about them- he'd only completed flight training three weeks ago, and had spent the last two weeks in hyperspace to link up with the Hopewell. What he had heard was a mass of conflicting information. It was said his new instructor was supposed to be an expert pilot. It was also said that he'd been busted back from a much higher rank, and was an incompetent buffoon. He wasn't sure what to believe.

...If he only knew what he was getting himself into...

As he briskly strode away from the shuttle, Derrek shouldered his duffelbag, and looked for SOMEONE to report in to...

Cody

.....'n not colorful like 'rainbows and puppydogs" colorful....

Warning to Children: I curse like a fucking sailor, so don't fucking read any further if you're a bitch, and by bitch I don't mean like "bitches" bitch, I mean like "emo" bitch.

---

Iskander Tamarack stood in front of the judge, ready to face the facts and just head off to jail. He’d run out of luck. Fuck it, he pondered, jail couldn’t be all that bad. Least he’d get the holo-net and 3 meals. He was resigned to his fate. The judge looked him up and down.

“Mr Tamarack, you’ve burned enough bridges around here for me to suggest locking you up for a good portion of the best years of your life…but I’m a forgiving man. We’re at war here, and we need every man we can get to sign on the dotted line. That’s why I’m glad your lawyer suggested that you’d be willing to trade prison for military service. The discipline should do you some good. I hope to never see you again here. You’ll be shipping out later today. Good luck, son.”

Iskander had been winking at one of the nearby jurors, a young woman in her mid twenties, making various signs for “call me,” completely ignoring the judge. That’s when his lawyer nudged him back to reality.

“Wait a fucking second? Militar…..” His lawyer nudged him again, this time a bit harder. He was fucked now. 3 square in jail sure as hell beat 3 square fighting in some mudhole or in the void of space. Shit, sometimes they didn’t even get 3…and what the fuck was wrong with his lawyer? That motherfucker sold him up the creek.

His lawyer smiled a devious smile. “You’re check bounced, have fun in wildspace.”

Iskander’s blood rose to boiling, and there was no one that could stop him quickly enough. In seconds he was on top of his ex-defender, wailing on his face with both hands until teeth and blood were flying everywhere. “I’ll kill you, you fucking douche.”

It took about 20 tasers to shut him down and he was thrown onto a shuttle for basic within the hour…but she did call him…

---

Iskander stood in front of his unit CO, smoking a cigarette while starring vapidly at the no-smoking sign. He’d been standing before a lot of douches lately. Perhaps this was his lot in life. He was trying desperately to get kicked out of this basic star fighter training, but his damn scores were fairly good, despite his attempts to just wash out…either that, or they just needed some bodies strapped to engines to send out there into the mix. His CO huffed and sighed, the same old routine.

“Cadet, we have a videotape of you selling your Awing’s circuit boards planetside for banned substances and whiskey. I don’t know what to say…”

“I might suggest kicking my ass out of the unit and maybe sending me to jail.” He avoided the customary sir, hoping anything might up his chances of leaving this shitshow. On the brightside, military jails were even cushier than regular prisons.

“No cadet, we can’t afford to lose a pilot of your caliber, you’ve done amazingly well on your tests, when your ship actually has all its parts to fly. We’re sending you out with a very special ship. You’ll get your orders within the week. Until then, yes, you’ll be spending some time in the brig.”

“Sweet.” At the thought of some peace and quiet, he turned around and let the military police escort him to his new bed.

---

At the bar of the “Hopeless,” Iskander was already scamming drinks off some off the ship’s crew. Pilots always have more charisma than the various sensor losers and engineers and shield adjusting fucks. They saw hanging around with him as their opportunity to get with some of the female ship crewmembers in the bar, his charisma and pilot status drawing them in. Iskander saw it as a chance to get them to buy drinks for him and the women, and then let him go off with those same girls.

He looked around the bar and smiled, “This might beat prison….”

Kaz

Major Jarn Faron's career as a starfighter pilot had started off as promising as could be hoped for. He'd finished at the top of his class back in the academy, had a drawer full of commendations and was quickly working his way up the fast track towards his dream job a wing commander aboard a Mon Cal.

Of course, then had come a particular nasty misunderstanding involving a few bottles of Corellian Brandy and a Vice Admiral's youngest daughter. The end result saw him become Lieutenant Jarn Faron for the second time, along with the greatest humiliation a combat pilot can face, being forced to pilot shuttles for a living.

He'd spent much of his new found free time in the intervening three years getting reacquainted with the finer points of binge drinking, and playing a fun game where he'd send up weekly transfer requests and count the number of days it took before they came back denied. Any New Republic military form baring the name of Faron that wasn't a death certificate was going to be summarily ignored by the powers that be and he knew it, but well what else was there to do?

So, when a set of approved transfer orders unexpectedly came down the wire a week ago, it’d be an understatement to say he’d been just a little bit surprised. That surprise grew into genuine excitement when further reading showed that someone somewhere had decided to give him a second chance and put him in charge of a new experimental training unit. He’d boarded a waiting shuttle with a smile, even giving a nod to the poor bastard behind the controls who for once wasn’t him, and looked forward to a fresh start for his floundering career.

Approximately one week later, any excitement Jarn Faron might have previous felt about his new position had been in his mind, pretty successfully drowned out by copious amounts of whiskey.

He’d spent almost the entire week locked away in his office, primarily to avoid the baleful glares of one Maryn Nea, ship’s captain and coincidentally the eldest daughter of the same Vice Admiral who’d had such a terrible misunderstanding with him in the past.

Initially, Jarn had tried to focus on the work needed to get his new squadron off the ground, but after thumbing through the personnel files for some of his pilots, he decided they’d look a lot better viewed through the bottom of an empty shot glass or twelve.

Currently he was situated on the Hopewell's flight deck, staggering slightly as he looked for his pilots who supposedly had arrived early that morning while he was passed out under the desk in his office.

Raven

After his slight run in with his Z-95, Christopher Tharen made haste back toward the flight deck of the Hopewell. He wanted to make a good first impression on his CO so that he could get back into space as soon as possible. Grasping a datacard in his right hand he quickly runs through the hallways of the Hopewell while en route to the hangar.

*Oh man, I hope I'm not late.* He thinks to himself, his eyes wandering to the datacard in his hand.

*Nineteen hundred hours... oh man I'm gonna be late, I'm gonna be look at the pretty colors!* He ponders, his eyes running up and down the text on his datacard. He continues running, not watching where he is going; forcing other members of the crew to dive out of the way or be smitten by the sprinting pilot.

*I like blue, green is pretty too...* He continues parsing through the orders, sprinting along as if nothing was wrong. A few moments later his head rises again; just in time to skitter to a stop infront of the closed blast doors to the flight deck. His boots squeal against the ground as he stops just shy of the door.

"That's funny... why is it closed?" He says to nobody in particular, slapping the controls to open the doors. He stares at the unresponsive doors, furrowing his brow, and continues to hit the controls. "Open up you damned door... OPEN! OPEN! OPPPPENNN!" He starts slapping the controls like a school girl. Amazingly enough, one of the flailing impacts of his noodle-like arms causes the door to reset and slowly slide open. Adjusting his flight jacket as if he meant to do that, he steps into the hangar; eyes scanning for his CO.

"...Where is he?" Christopher mutters to himself, looking from person to person, noticing that absolutely nobody held any sort of rank that would indicate them as a commanding officer. Just about to give up, he spots a figure passed out infront of one of the X-wing starfighters that actually has wings. He jogs over toward the figure, slowing down once he closes within a meter. Kneeling down, he cocks his head to the side and stares hard at the man. Christopher's eyes seem to glaze over for a moment, and a large grin crosses his face. He breathes in deeply....

"HEY MISTER WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! IT IS NOT TIME FOR SLEEPING! IT IS NOT NAPPIE TIME... IS IT NAPPIE TIME?! I WANT TO TAKE A NAP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

Staring at his CO with a dumb grin on his face, glazed eyes the size of saucers; he waits for the man to awaken.

Eric

Pags Matris walked along the unfinished Strike Cruisers deck, wondering to himself how he had be assigned to this ship. He hadn't done anything wrong that he knew of, and had passed within the top 25 of his class. He kept walking, thinking to himself as he passed an officer and forgot to salute.

"YOU! Pilot stop, and come to attention now!" the officer said as he stopped and turned to look straight at Pags.

Pags immeditaly come to attention. "Sey ris, tahw I od?"

"What the hell did you just say??" the officer said glaring at Pags.

"Ris, I ksa tahw I did ris!"

"Son you better start talking basic or I am going to though you out of a airlock!"

Pags gulped for a second and then responded "Ris, I ma kaeps cisab ris!

The officer stared at Pags for a long moment and then just walked away "What kind of idiots did they put on this ship?"

Pags watched the officer walk away and shruged. *Damnit what did I do now???* He continued walking down the corridor, still wondering why he was on this ship

Josh

Born of noble descent, J.B. Fizzwinkle the Third knew he would be good at everything he did, after all he was nobility. At the age of 21 J.B. was forced to join the Military, which he was very much opposed to, but after what happened he had no choice. See, J.B. was caught in a political scandal, and the only way out of it was either death, or the military. Any other option would have brought shame to the family, and the lack of any inheritance. J.B. is not going to give up his money, so he went to the military.

The written tests to the military were a bore to J.B., he was so arrogant that when his tests came back almost perfect, he demanded that they let him be an officer now and forgo any further training. The only thing he wasn't good at was that his piloting skills left a lot to be desired. To further assist J.B. in his training they set him up in simulators and eventually on the real thing. Slowly, J.B. got the hang of flying and eventually started to like it. His arrogance and lack of courtesy with every one made life difficult for him, for you see he didn't understand why people don't salute him more often, he deserved it after all. Eventually he started to figure out that if make these people happy, you can manipulate them to do your bidding. However, he learned to late. He was called to his CO's office for some rather distressing news.

"J.B., you've been assigned to the Hopewell, it's a training ship designed to perfect your skills as a pilot and a member of the military. You leave in the morning."

"Oh, so I am finally going for officer training, and getting my own ship as well. This is wonderful, thank you, Sir."

"You misunderstood J.B., they will be training YOU, there are still some things you need to learn. Now, I suggest you get packing son, you don't have much time. Dismissed!"

Upset, but having enough common sense to hide it, J.B. saluted and walked out and headed for his bunk to make preparations to transfer to the Hopewell. *Why don't these people understand that I'm better than they are? I could be running this place if it wasn't for daddy screwing things up for me.*

The next morning came and had J.B. entering the shuttle taking him to the Hopewell. "Take me to my new home pilot." J.B. said to the shuttle pilot in a very demeaning tone. "Aye sir." The shuttle ride was a long but uneventful trip, uneventful until they tried to dock on the Hopewell. It seems the landing bay wasn't entirely finished, so upon entering the shuttle made a safe, but shaky landing. It was also very short, the shuttle pilot wasted no time helping J.B. off into the ship and escaping.

Once on the Hopewell, J.B. tried to find anyone who would carry his bags to his new room. Looking around, he was hard pressed to find anyone at all to talk to. To J.B. he thought everyone was off preparing his new suite, so he didn't mind doing some manual labor and decided to carry his own bags for once. Heading towards the nearest computer terminal to find out exactly where everyone is and where his new room is.

"Landing bay isn't completed, and the computer doesn't work. Just how do these people expect me to live anyway?" Gathering his things, J.B. walks off in search of anyone on board this ship.

Kaz

Lieutenant Faron stood before the closed blastdoors of the STRKC Hopewell's newly completed hangarbay. Assembled before him were the members of the ship's flight training wing, most of them in various stages of hangovers from the night before.

During the two weeks without a functioning flightdeck, the pilots of the Hopewell had taken it upon themselves to make the best of the situation....generally by spending equal amounts of time between fighting in the bar and being passed out in the brig. Today they'd been roused from every dark corner of the ship for their first day of flight training orientation, and after close to an hour, most of them had even shown up to hear what their CO had to say.

Jarn nodded as the last pilot ceased his slurred mumbling, cleared his throat and began the lecture

"The Incom T-65 X-wing has been the backbone of the New Republic starfighter corp since the days of the Rebellion. It's versatility and resillancy have proven it as a superior starfighter time and time again. Since it's inception, the X-wing has recorded kill ratio....."

Faron paused, sighed and tossed the datapad he was reading aside, partly because half of his audience seemed close to drifting to sleep, but mostly because of how ridiculous the rest of his Official Flight Training material was. The clattering of the pad on the deckplates was enough to wake up the dozing pilots who glanced up with bored expressions.

"Right so...long story short, as a pilot, the X-wing is your best friend, only since we apparently have no friends way out here in the armpit of the known universe, there's no way anyone was going to be dumb enough to assign any to us. "

"So...what the hell are we supposed to fly?" demanded one of the few pilots with enough blood in his alcohol system this early in the morning to see the irony and wonder what it meant.

Faron sighed again loudly, turning and flipping the switch for the blastdoor....which predictably struggled mightily before finally grinding open amidst a shower of sparks. Within the Hopewell's hangarbay, a dozen starfighters sat in waiting, generating a chorus of boos from the pilots present.

"Boys and girls I give you the Z-95 Headhunter, the very pinnacle of space combat....thirty years ago."

Cody

Iskander Tamarack exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, passing the cause of his current euphoria on down the line. The smoke swirled in a multitude of colors, drifting towards the ceiling before being sucked up into the air vents of the Hopewell. A girl, whose name had long since been forgotten, lay curled up in his lap, mostly unconscious. The man next to him, the ship’s janitor, took the smoldering object from Iskander’s hands.

“So I was a space captain for a while on the Eureka, defeating my arch nemesis, Sludge Vohaul and the Pirates of Pestulon, but I really missed being just a janitor. So, here I am…” The man took a puff, the girl slightly stirring to the sound of what might be her turn in the lineup.

Iskander glassily gazed around the room. Broom closets were far more interesting when the brooms were all dancing. “Dude, I’m not even sure what the fuck you’re talking about. You’ve been saying the same thing for like the last 10 hours.”

The janitor, with his mop of straight blonde hair and his regulation janitor’s outfit smiled. “We’ve only been in here for maybe 30 minutes.”

“Yeah…” Iskander was stuck in a haze. His world was constantly looping around in one big circle. His only hope was that it might loop back a bit further to when the girl in his lap was a bit more conscious. At times like this, there was really only one way to deal with such a bad trip…just settle down and enjoy the dancing brooms.

The janitor continued his epic tale of janitorial adventures. Iskander, having forgotten to pencil the flight briefing into his daily planner (the planner that he didn’t actually own), was currently missing the introduction of their Z-95s.

That was ok, he’d already seen his ride. He’d spent a good part of yesterday affixing lacquered wood trim panels and chrome to the sides and nose of his Z-95, making it look something like a station wagon from the 1970s.

Markus

Nursing a terrible hangover, Derrek O'Sullivan managed to bring himself to a reasonable facsimile of attention... He'd found out that the only decent way to pass the time on this ship was found in the ship's rather... expansive bar. So far, he'd been rather unimpressed. He wondered what he'd done to deserve such a ... unsavory assignment.

As he listened to his CO's comments, he cringed slightly in the shower of sparks that emitted from the grinding blast doors...

He was staring at his fate. An antiquated Z95, which should have been relegated to a museum at best, or more likely a scrap heap. As a matter of fact, the whole ship should've been relegated to a scrap heap, but that wasn't entirely the point.

One of them was his, and he was stuck with it.

"...Oh fuck me.”

Giz

..Twelve days ago.

He woke with a start, snapping out of some unremembered dream, slightly confused by unfamiliar surroundings. The congealed sludge, partially dried drool, was immediately noticed. Jo wiped his left cheek and shoulder and then ran his tongue along his front teeth and gum line, grimacing slightly.

“Ah, so you are awake.”

The sound of an unfamiliar voice threw him further off balance in his half awakened state, causing him to turn and squint at the man to his left, who was similarly strapped into a passenger shuttle’s chair.

“Hmm?” was all Jo could manage, his tongue still stuck between teeth and gums.

“I’m Larse, Ebon Larse. Joined you three stops ago, you were asleep at the time.”

Jo slowly opened his eyes, the bright lighting of the shuttle’s interior gradually stinging less and less.

“Why, I think you’ve been asleep for near enough the whole journey, must have been near enough a day’s round trip!”

Jo nodded politely, feigning interest while feeling entirely trapped, to his right the bulkhead and the cold of space, to his left a strange man, “I tend to sleep through long journeys,” he muttered, before a thought struck him, “where are we?”

“We’ve arrived at the rendezvous point with the Hopewell. In fact,” Ebon leaned over Jo to get a better look out of the viewport, then sat back in his chair, fashioning a self satisfied grin, “Yep, we’re about to enter the hangar.”

Jo’s vision swirled, accompanied by the brief sound of wind and everything was suddenly silent and dark in his universe.

A moment later he heard something.

“Uh, are you alright son?”

A few more moments past and Jo began to uncurl himself from the tight foetal ball his body had formed. When he had come back to a normal seating position, he nodded, staring ahead at the seat in front of him, “I’m fine. I just, I have this thing with landings - I’m fine though.”

“Never you mind son, nothing to be ashamed of, so don’t fret. Why I’ve seen all kinds do all sorts on account of being in space.”

An awkward silence pervaded, broken eventually as Ebon thought of something to say, “So, what’ve you come to old Hopeless for?”

“I’m a pilot,” Jo managed meekly.

Another silence followed.

“Oh.”

Thankfully for everyone involved they were able set down soon after, once enough junk had been moved out of the way by the deck crew. Ebon spent the duration finding interesting things to look at aboard the shuttle; he found the chair in front of him to be of particular interest, but managed to overcome his curiosity when rebreathers were handed out, being one of the first off of the shuttle and into the depressurised hangar bay.

---

…..Three days ago.

Jo came around to the sensation of a broom being thrust into his ribs. The remainder of the sensations, brought on from lying scrunched up on a cold floor in a broom closet all night, caught up soon after.

“I said get up, you streak of piss. C’mon, F’ off out of here.”

Jo moaned and backed away, causing brooms and the odd bucket to fall on top of him.

“Ooh, you little shit! Tidy that up!”

This same routine had continued for the past eight or nine mornings. Having arrived far later than the rest of the squadron, Jo had found all the good billets already assigned. He soon after found that all the ‘bad’ billets were currently lethal to reside in on account of being without air, pressure or heat.

He had tried contacting his squadron CO, but there was no sign of him anywhere on the ship, other than the occasional drunken ravings that rang out through the craft’s metal structure for all at night to hear. For some reason the captain had yelled incoherently at Jo the moment she set eyes on him, storming past she tripped an aimlessly wandering tech, threw someone out of a turbo-lift, then disappeared into it herself.

With seemingly no-one else to turn to, while being constantly lost around the ship’s corridors, Jo had resorted to sleeping anywhere he could, namely, the broom cupboard. Each day he had been woken up at exactly the same time by the janitor who seemingly wanted to use his closet and didn’t like anyone else in it.

What Jo couldn’t fathom was that each night, after a hard days wandering, he’d settle down in a new broom closet, assuming that this time he wouldn’t bother or be bothered by the janitor. The broom dug into his ribs once more, proving again that he was wrong.

“Get out!” His cheeks reddened as he started hitting the broom handle on the floor in an uncontrolled fashion, “Get out - get out - get out!”

Jo scrambled up on all fours and then, crawling, managed to scoot through the janitor’s legs, making a break for freedom. Upon exiting the closet he stood up and ran. The janitor, now flailing around with the broom handle, disappeared from view, the door closing behind him, several loud crashes coming from within just after.

The sound of a turbolift coming to an abrupt halt caused Jo to change his direction. He sprawled in through the opening door, grabbed the hand rail, all the while looking back, suspicious of a broom wielding janitor diving in at any moment. The door shut and the turbolift began to move.

He let out a sigh of relief then took his eyes off the door. Standing on the other side of the lift was the captain, her face red and her eyes glowering, boring down into Jo’s. There was an uncomfortable silence for several seconds, broken by the doors opening as the lift came to its next stop. The part of Jo not frozen with confused terror and guilt noticed all decks were set as destinations. The captain glared at him further and when he didn’t make for the door, after what seemed like an eternity, she launched herself from the wall in another stalwart display of anger, storming out of the lift.

While she didn’t exactly stamp on his foot, Jo had to limp for the next day or so, making the next morning’s wake up call all the more difficult to escape from.

---

…..Today.

"The Incom T-65 X-wing has been the backbone of the New Republic starfighter corp since the days of the Rebellion.”

Jo opened his eyes and pulled back the blanket he was under. As the hangar had been re-opened last night, he’d seen his chance at getting a good nights sleep when sniffing around the few pieces of cargo that were left strewn around the place. He had constructed a sort of fort around himself, using cargo containers and the odd piece of broken deck plating. He’d even found a blanket, a real plus, especially since his loss the night before. He’d tried sleeping in one of the air vents and been awoken to find a MSE Mouse Droid making off with his left boot.

“It's versatility and resiliency have proven it as a superior starfighter time and time again. Since it's inception, the X-wing has recorded kill ratio....."

Jo began to prop himself up, looking over the low, makeshift wall. A datapad hit him just above his forehead, dead centre and bounced away from him, causing Jo to lie back down again. After that things went a bit hazy, all except something about a Z-95. He did hope it was pretty.

Cody

They were once again in their usual haunt, puffing away on the various substances that made the day and night just a bit more interesting. Iskander was enjoying this tour. Things were so mismanaged here that he was ending up in the brig far less than normal. This left him more time to stay physically combat ready, with his hobby for working out, as well as allowing him to stay completely mentally unready, working out his mind in this broom closet. Roger, the janitor at this end of the ship, slowly rose to his feet, nearly disappearing into the cloud of smoke that hovered heavily above sitting level.

“Well, it appears we’re out of beer. I suppose I’ll run over to the PX and pick up some new cases.”

Iskandered blinked, trying to get some level of coherence. “You need some coin for that?” He was once again sitting in the broom closet, a girl or two of the hour draped passed out around him. He wasn’t quite sure if he was seeing two girls, twins, or just one in duplicate, it was hard to tell when the brooms were all dancing again.

“No man, it’s cool. My old post with the Federation and my beating of the Vorgons did wonders for my pay scale.” Roger smiled and began to walk out the door.

Iskander never really knew what this guy was talking about. “Yeah man, way to beat the Cylons or whatever….”

With that, Roger tripped, cursing wildly as he fell over a lump of man all-fetal in the doorway. “Fuck!!!!” Iskander took another puff and turned to see Roger in a ball on the ground with some other man who was still magically sleeping.

Iskander nodded his head towards Roger. “Who the hell is that?”

Roger cursed, brushing himself off as he got back on his feet. “I don’t know, some newb. One of the other janitors at the other end of the ship kicked him out, and now he’s been coming round here to sleep all the time.”

“Cool, let’s fuck with him.”

“I’m game, he’s always in this closet when I need it, and I’m always tripping on him.”

Iskander pondered this situation for a few seconds. “Hmmm, well, when someone trips you, you trip them right back, right?” Roger looked at him quizzically, completely confused. Iskander turned to the girl in his lap, yawning a bit as he riled her up. “Bitch, give me some of that shit from your pocket.” The girl just yawned and past out again. “Fine…” Iskander reached into her pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper with little dots on it. Roger smiled as he realized the plan. “Ok, let’s just stick a few of these in his mouth. He’ll probably have to fly a bit later, at the very least, he’ll have to wake up a bit later. When he wakes up, he’ll be tripping his balls off. Roger grabbed the stips of paper and inserted a few in the sleepy man’s mouth, just enough for the saliva to absorb the contents of the paper. Roger, task complete, beamed.

“Iskander, I’m pretty sure with a mind like that, you’ll never be paying for beer as long as I’m around.”

“Yeah man, thanks, but could you like, get on that, my throat’s all dry and shit. If I gotta fly later, I wanna be fucked up too.”

“Not a problem.” With that, the door slid open and Roger walked out. Iskander looked at this new broom closet dweller, his nametag saying “Jo…” something or other and smiled. That guy was gonna wake up to some serious shit. This would be funny. He would totally be posting this on holo-youtube.

It also dawned on him that Roger might have possibly put too many in poor Jo’s mouth. He waved the thought away. “Nah, you can never do too many drugs.”

Josh

J.B. was rubbing his temple as his CO spoke about kill ratios or some such nonsense, he had the worst hangover of his life and he has very little of an idea how he got it. When those blast doors screached open he thought his head was going to explode. *You mean, we have to fly those antiquated ships? You would think with all my money..... * Then he realized he was missing alot of it. *oh dear..* was the finishing thought he had, and then tries his best to remember what happened the previous night.

The previous night is nothing but a haze with various points of clarification. He remembers sitting in one of the many bars on this ship and finding a few people here and there, but no one to serve him. From there it gets a little strange. One of the other pilots, Iskander I think his name was, came over with a woman by his side and proceded to discuss some sort of friendly wager or some sort. Being no stranger to games J.B. gladly accepted a friendly game with Iskander, figuring him a nice chap and a friendly one at that. After a few rounds of alcohol however, and J.B. getting drunker by the moment, the friendly game was no longer fun, and every time J.B tried to pass out Iskander woke him to play some more. It seems J.B. was out close to two hundred cretids. Probably more if Iskander raided J.B.'s pockets. Friendly game indeed, J.B. got rolled by Iskander. Course the game itself has no memory in the haze, and wouldn't even know what it was called. The last memory J.B. has that isn't alcohol induced Haze was that of Iskander walking away with that woman laughing.

How J.B. Got back to his bunk and into clean clothes is a mystery, but he's not going to ask who helped him back there. Dignity must be saved some how, and now so does his money.

Raven

"Boys and girls I give you the Z-95 Headhunter, the very pinnacle of space combat....thirty years ago."

*Oh boy...* Chris thought, standing near one of the venerable starfighters. *A Z-95... something to fly... I can't wait to get out into space and DANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNCING!*

A grin forms on his face as he does a little dance.

Bending his knees, he tucks his elbows at either side of his flanks, extending his arms straight out. He starts bouncing at the knee, sticking his thumbs up on either hand and pointing them to the left and right depending on how he was bouncing. His head flails back and forth like a rock star and various mutteringers of assorted lyrics can be heard from his mouth...

<m> "Yo I tell you what I want what I really really and even when your hope is gone back in black... Hello there, the angel from my dope show; we're all stars now in the dope show. May I have your attention please numa numa iei!"

His body suddenly straightens, and Christopher Tharen walks over toward the Z-95 he now knew as his... "Ah... It's good to have my own ship again..." He pats the hull, and a dull CLANG can be heard as the right engine falls off the ship.

"...Minor technical problem..." He sighs, shaking his head and making a mental note to get a technician on that... On second thought; he had a better idea!

He hugs his Z-95. "I LOVE YOU!"

Yes, that was a much better idea indeed.

Cody

Iskander Tamarack knew it’d be worth coming back to the janitor’s (extremely spacious) broom closet, but had no idea it’d be this great. Holding a bag with a 12 pack of tall cans in his hands, he opened the door to find what could only be described as a full-on, formal tea party. Roger, the girls, and the usual odds and ends that frequented Roger’s janitorial closet were nowhere to be seen. Instead, arrayed around the room in a circle, sat a collection of very large stuffed animals, representing various creatures from around the universe, all dressed up in formal wear. In the center of the circle sat a table upon which some very dirty cups and a tea kettle, apparently filled with grease or lubricating oil for starfighters, were haphazardly arrayed. At the head of the table, sat the newb, Jo, clothed in a very pink ballerina costume. Motor oil covered a good portion of the poor man, especially around his face. As Iskander looked about, he could see that the various stuffed creatures were also heavily scared with oil glistening around their faces and bodies, giving them a sickly and horrific look. Jo looked up after taking a good hard swig of motor oil, leaving his face a gleaming black mess, and smiled.

“Welcome to my tea party! Please have yourself a seat! Would you like me to pour you some tea? I’d offer you some biscuits, but these wonderful lasses and I see here have already finished them I’m afraid.”

Iskander could only imagine what wonderful objects this rookie had consumed as “biscuits.” It was a fair bet that he’d be getting some fairly entertaining x-rays in the medical bay sometime in the future. Iskander knew this would get funny, but god damn if this wasn’t one of the more bizarre things he’d ever seen.

“Um, yeah, I brought my own tea man, but thanks for…..”

With that the alarm claxons began sounding on the ship with a booming voice telling all pilots to get to their ships as soon as possible. Jo looked around completely thrown for a loop by the sound. “Mr. Bantha, what is happening?” Jo seemed to ponder what the stuffed Bantha was telling him for a good minute or two as Iskander just looked on quizzically. Iskander finally broke the conversation with Jo’s inanimate friend.

“Um, it appears we need to get to our ships, how about I finish this tea party for you. I’ll tell your guests that you had some important business to attend to. You have to get to your fighter.”

Jo looked up and smiled. “Why that’s a great idea! Thank you!” With that, the dark-oil covered man in a pink ballerina dress stumbled up, running out the door in the complete opposite direction of the hangar.

Iskander smiled, pushed some of the dirty stuffed creatures out of the way and made his seat around the table, cracking open a new beer. He was a great pilot, but just wasn’t so much in the mood today. It was a Sunday, and he liked to be lazy on Sundays.

---

As pilots suited up and got in their ships, they couldn’t help but notice the insane looking man, with big saucery pupils, clothed in a pink ballerina dress, and completely covered in motor oil, hop into his Z-95 with the deftness of a fully trained actual ballerina. Completely disregarding any form of flight suit, or shoes for that matter, the man gunned the Z-95 into the air, clipping his portside weapons systems off on the side wall as he flew into space. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t even his assigned ship, or that he wasn’t quite flying it up to spec. He was flying better than the majority of the other pilots attempting to take off, and this inspired them to rally in behind him to face the attacking force…that is, once they were able to successfully navigate outside the hangar. By that time, the mysterious man covered in motor oil and wearing a pink dress was working his way beyond “ace” status. Even with one gun, he was decimating the incoming Imperial patrol. Later, after the battle, it was even rumored that the man had landed his ship. It was also later rumored that the doctors did indeed find some really interesting objects inside the man’s stomach.

---

Meanwhile, Iskander decided it was high time to use the Hopewell’s sauna and hot tubs. After all, with everyone busy in that whole battle thing, he’d be able to just continue drinking and smoking in them. That would be a good way to distress. Perhaps he’d even go for a swim or lift. Sundays were great.

Kaz

As Jarn Faron guided his fighter out of the Hopwell's launch bay for his third training flight of the day, he began to idly wonder if it might not be more worth his time to just remove his helmet and eject into space. At the very least it'd be a whole hell of a lot more peaceful than what he was having to deal with now, especially with a hangover.

Earlier lessons in the week covering such complex topics as "Taking off without crashing", and "The com is not a toy" hadn't gone over exactly according to plan. The fact no one had yet died could be attributed to either divine intervention, or a tech crew smart enough to disable to ships' tactical sysems before they ever launched.

Jarn turned his Z-95 back towards the Hopewell in a slow arc, where the rest of the squadron was forming up into something based very very loosely on an actual military flight formation. Well, at least they'd managed to not run into each other...yet.

"WOOOOOO IM FLYIN IM FLYIN!" came crackling over the com, sending another stab of pain through Faron's still not quite sober mind. He sighed and mentally went to the happy place that kept him from having to report that his entire squadron had tragically been killed in a terrible friendly fire incident.

Palm trees, dancing girls, and an open bar....ah yes just a few of his favorite things. Why of course he'd like a drink. Come back up to your beach house with you and a few of your hot friends? Why of cou..

"HEY CAPTAIN GUY I GOT A PROBLEM!"

The daydream was broken by another shout over the com. Jarn wasn't sure which pilot it was since that'd require caring enough to actually learn their names, but he loathed them all about equally so it worked out just fine.

"I know I'm going to greatly regret this...but what's wrong?"

"MY SCREEN'S ALL STUPID! BUNCHA COLOREDY DOTS AND WHATNOT!"

Jarn sighed and banged his head against the inside of his canopy before keying back his response to the whole flight.

"Right....so we'll go over this one more time. The big shiny rectangular thing in front of you is your sensor display, and those little green dots are your friends. Remember the story about not running into the green dots?"

"I THINK THE RED ONES ARE PRETTIER!"

Jarn frowned and looked at his sensor display and sure enough noted a pair of crimson colored contacts at the very fringe of his range, heading in his general direction.

He cleared his throat and keyed his com again, suddenly a lot more sober than he remembered being in the past few weeks.

"Uh...Hopewell? We seem to have hostile contacts out here, please advise."

Cody

Iskander Tamarack enjoyed the quiet times when the Hopewell entered combat. Sitting here, in this nice, warm hottub, tucked neatly away in some middle section of the ship, far from the bridge, it was almost as if there wasn’t any combat at all. Everyone was either outside the ship, flailing around in their combat-unready Z-95s, or they were at their battlestations somewhere. Iskander mentally thanked the designer of this ship for putting such facilities so far away from the bustle of the military side of things.

Iskander didn’t have time to follow all these rules and orders. He was known as an amazing pilot when he actually got in his ship, but it just didn’t seem much worth getting out there to risk his life for a cause he didn’t really give two shits about. In his mind, it didn’t much matter who won this giant galactic civil war thing, it wouldn’t really change his life much. He would just ride out his term of service with this outfit and move on down the line.

It still beat prison, and sure, if this cruiser got into some serious action, he might be tempted to jump into the cockpit and keep the ship alive (thus preserving his own life)…then again, it would probably just be easier during a dire situation to just jump in his ship and hyper away. Iskander pondered all these things while he was taking pulls off the rare vintage bottle of wine he’d stolen from some officer’s room while they were all on the bridge fighting their little battle thing.

Giz

He woke with his eyes closed. Joe lay there for some time, drifting in a dozing state, still fraught with a terrible feeling. Dream after dream had passed by, each spiraling downward into another like some pitch-black vortex of inexplicable form and texture. There had been stretches of delirium intermingled with points of clarity, both equally terrifying.

His mouth was dry, very dry. He must be awake, but his eyes were shut; he was sure he was awake.

His eye opened; it shut just as quickly.

Something stirred a few feet from him; the realization sunk in that he was not alone. He started to sweat, the warmth mixing with the cold, stale perspiration that half soaked his undergarments and dotted his skin.

He opened his eyes. Things dangled and hung in the air, writhing, while inexplicably motionless. Snakes were everywhere, lying limp yet suspended upright, under something’s spell, hissing and wriggling.

A figure sat, their back against the wall, smoke rising from its nostrils. As Joe stirred its eyes were drawn to him, two glowing slits of fire and brimstone. Smoke escaped its mouth. Worse still, around him were creatures, terrible and grotesque, their mouths smeared in the blood of some long dead victims.

Joe retreated, shuffling backwards, scrunching further into a fetal position.

The incomprehensible voice boomed, more smoke spreading throughout the confined space, the figure starting to fill the room with it. The snakes hissed louder, the creatures leering towards him.

Quickly he looked from side to side, keeping the snakes in check as he backed away, stopping abruptly as his back found the door. Joe scrambled to his feet, his limbs like jelly. The door handle slipped in his grasp, then again a second time. He kicked the door and yelled at it before hitting the door handle. The door opened and Jo spilled out of the broom cupboard.

The corridor beyond lurched violently from side to side, multiple walls forming slightly askew of one another. He staggered forward, moving onward along the corridor in an effort to just to keep upright. A large lizard like creature came around the corner; Jo stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, its flicking tongue so very captivating, before looking away and focusing on where the floor met the wall. Keep moving and don’t look. Don’t look, oh Sith, don’t look! Where was it from? Was it after him? What did it want?

Joe looked up at the creature, smiled as best he could, his eyes widening as he met its fearsome gaze, before stumbling off around the corridor’s corner and into a tubolift. Somewhere safe.. there’s got to be someplace safe on this bucket of madness.

Roger watched with bemused interest as the man in a pink ballerina dress staggered around the corner, shook his head, then walked several paces down the corridor and returned to his broom cupboard. He found Iskander waiting for him, a smoke in hand with an odd expression on his face. The cupboard was a mess, with brooms scattered all over the place, along with a bizarre collection of stuffed animals, grease stained and intermingled with the brooms,

“Hmph.”

---

The quiet, cut the air with a spoon, atmosphere of the bridge prevailed. Colonel Maryn Nea breathed it in, sampling the silent terror her subordinates dwelt in. Peace and quiet was all she was after; Maryn thought she had finally found it. That is at least until Faron and his entourage of mentally deficient ‘pilots’ had come aboard. Just the other day she’d encountered some idiot in the turbo lift. The crew knew not to disturb her while she was pondering in a turbo car; for that matter the crew knew not to disturb her.

The moron had just stared at her. Next time she’d stamp on a part of him that caused a more permanent sort of damage. She’d watch him gasp for air, before ramming home the- “Colonel?”

She whirled around, her eyes boring into the forehead of the little pipsqueak of a communications officer; he sat rigid in his chair, looking up at her from the pit below. She just barely tolerated the mental midget, but that could still all go wrong for him.

“What?”

The junior lieutenant winced.

“Security breach sir, officers’ quarters. The officer of the watch sent a request, asking how he should proceed, with his compliments, ma’m.”

“What the hell is he asking me for? What does he want, for me to run down there and hold his hand? Maybe give him a rub on the back to get that nasty wind up? Vader’s crotch, tell him to investigate then report to someone who gives a damn-“

At this point certain members of the crew magically vanished. The helmsman appeared to actually become one with his chair, just the lip of his head giving him away.

“-Oh stop stuttering Jenkins, I’ve enough to deal with without you spitting on my tunic and giving yourself an aneurysm just to utter a continent!”

“Sh-ships standing orders sir, no-one can enter.”

A long moment passed, “Who’s room is it?”

“Yours, sir.”

The silence on the bridge became almost tangible……. “..Sir?”

---

The room was all but dark, what little star light that shone through the window its only illumination. The furnishings were sparse, a small table beside the window with two couches either side, a few data cards stacked on it; the remainder of the room was empty but for a small piece of art floating in each corner. Harmony and cleanliness summed the space up.

The door slid open, light from the corridor flooding into the room, silhouetting a single figure, framed in the doorway.

“Whoever the hell’s in here better have balls the size of Ackbar’s eyes, because they’re going to need to bounce when I slam them with a sledge hammer. Get out here where I can see you. Lights!”

The room remained dark, motionless.

“Alright, scratch the sledge hammer, I’m going to vacuum seal you on one side of an airlock, your testicles on the other side. See how you like explosive decompression on your genitalia.”

She paced into the room, the door shutting behind her. As Maryn stood waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low lighting she removed the blaster pistol from its holster, “Alright Sith-spit, you had your chance, time to plant one between your eyes.” She muttered under her breath, before stalking off into the dark.

---

Light beamed out of the refresher room. The rest of the quarters were clear and now, evident from the voices and light that had recently started emitting from the refresher, Maryn knew the intruder, or intruders were within. The Colonel approached, treading softly on the carpet, pining for the kill.

“I know General, I know! We have to change these deployments now! This new enemy cannot be dealt with as any other we’ve faced before it! It is a terrible scourge upon the galaxy that must be put to rest, lest we all be wiped out!”

Another voice, oddly shrill, answered,

“You don’t have to tell me that, I know full well how grave the threat is!”

“Admiral, tell the General that we must act now! We must, for the survival of us all!”

Maryn whirled around from beside the wall and through the entrance, blaster pointed at the source of the voice. “You!?”

“Colonel! Excellent! I’m so glad you could join us. I’m having trouble convincing the General and Admiral the severity of our situation.” Joe exclaimed, pointing to an obscure piece of art and the Colonels quite private and very secretly owned teddy.

“General, the Colonel has seen them first hand, listen to her, please!”

Maryn’s eyes flared as she squeezed the trigger, just as Joe spun around, his arms extended in a show of exasperation, knocking the blaster’s barrel, sending the blaster bolt into the wall and the pistol flying out through the door.

“Get down!” he yelled, diving on top of the ship’s captain, pinning her to the ground in an embrace. Several seconds past in the darkness, silence ensuing, “Seems all quiet. They’re probably gone.”

“Get – OFF ME!”

“Of course, sorry Ma’am, but we must be careful. There’s no telling where or when the space bats might turn up next; the vicious bastards, using blasters now too. Who would have thought?”

Joe stood then began walking back towards the refresher room, “No General, we simply cannot countenance their attack on our space! I.. Ah.”

Maryn clambered up, straightened her tunic, then launched herself at the back of Joe’s neck, a technically perfect jumping kick set to snap his head clean off; just as Joe bent down to pick up her blaster pistol.

A thud, then a crash followed as Maryn flew through the open door, slammed into the wall and bounced off it, colliding with the art piece and landing heavily with it on the tiled floor.

Joe stood upright again, pistol in hand, “You dropped this Ma’am. Ma’am?”

She didn’t move. Small rivers of blood began to form and spread out over the shining surface of the tiles.

“Oh dear…. you’ve spilt your pixies all over the place.”

A claxon sounded, resonating with the others that sounded throughout the ship.

“They’re here.. oh dear gods, they’re here! That’s alright General, you stay here, you too Admiral. Help the Major gather up her nep juice, I’ve got a starship to pilot. You’ll be safe here!”

The door shut behind him and Joe marched resolutely towards the hangar bay.

Kaz

Lt. Jenkins, Communications Officer aboard the Hopewell was a lot of things, but a man capable of keeping his calm during the midst of crisis situations was definately not among them.

Currently he was running in a circle around the Hopewell's bridge, alternating between screaming "OHMYGOD OHMYGOD WHERESTHECAPTAIN OHMYGOD" audible even over the warbling of the warning claxons and looking frantically around for anyone who had a clue as to what in the hell he was supposed to be doing.

By sheer chance, Jenkins managed to trip over the communications console during his fourteenth circuit around the bridge and happened to notice the flashing light of an incoming transmission. He paused panicking long enough to thumb the switch, only to be greeted by the angry voice of Lt. Jarn Farron.

"JENKINS YOU SNIVELLY LITTLE SON OF A BITCH, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! WHY ARENT WE FIRING BACK?!"

Jenkins frowned disapprovingly at the console, his extreme distaste for profanity momentarily bringing him back tohis senses.

"Lieutenant! I assure you there's no place for that type of language! I would imagine our lack of return fire is dueto all members of tactical being present in the aft lounge when the attack began. Something about a beerpong tournament was mentioned I believe."

"WHAT??! THOSE BASTARDS! IT WASNT SUPPOSED TO START UNTIL 1630..GAH, AND WHERE THE HELL IS NEA?"

"Colonel Nea is..." Jenkins looked around, suddenly remembering that the ship's captain was nowhere to be found. The thought shook him from his temporary perch on sanity, and he left the com console to resume his screaming trip around the bridge.

"JENKINS? JENKINS??!"