Lesson 1
Once all the characters were aboard the CRS Hopewell, their instructor gave their first lesson.
Contents
The Lesson
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."
Iskander Tamarack & the janitor
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.â€
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.â€
“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.
Derek O'Sullivan's reaction
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."
Joseph Reynold's ordeal
..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.â€
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.â€
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!â€
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?â€
“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.â€
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?â€
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.â€
“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.â€
An awkward silence pervaded, broken eventually as Ebon thought of something to say, “So, what’ve you come to old Hopeless for?â€
“I’m a pilot,†Jo managed meekly.
Another silence followed.
“Oh.â€
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.â€
Jo moaned and backed away, causing brooms and the odd bucket to fall on top of him.
“Ooh, you little shit! Tidy that up!â€
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!â€
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.â€
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.
Sore head
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.
Christopher Tharen dancing
"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...
"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.
Iskander plays with Joseph
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.â€
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….â€
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?â€
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.â€
“Cool, let’s fuck with him.â€
“I’m game, he’s always in this closet when I need it, and I’m always tripping on him.â€
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.â€
“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.â€
“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.â€
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.â€
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…..â€
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.â€
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.
Links
- Hopeless_Storyline - The main site for the cruiser Hopewell's progressing tale.
Characters:
