Wait, what?

Jarn takes his cadets on a flight they won't forget; or at least some of them. Joseph and Iskander appear to be AWOL, in more ways than one.

Wait, what?

Pretty red dots

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."

In the tub

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.

Fear and loathing on the cruiser Hopewell

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.

Lieuteeeenaaant Jeeeenkiiins

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??!"

Contact

Lt. Farron stared at his instrument panel in stunned silence for several seconds before realizing that yes, the Hopewell had in fact hung up on him in the midst of a combat situation. He blinked slowly once, and then again, the span between giving birth to several dozen warm fuzzy thoughts of Lieutenant Jenkins dying in all manner of slow, excruciating and embarassing ways.

"Fine, to hell with the regs" he said to the emptiness of his cockpit.

Farron studied the approaching hostiles on his sensor display, going through a few mental calculations and determining that aside from some form of divine intervention, he, his squadron and most likely the Hopewell would be under fire in just under three minutes.

He sighed and reached into the front right pocket of his flightsuit, producing a battered silver flask full of....well pretty much whatever had been left following the sabbac game the previous night. Jarn lifted the visor of his helmet, put the flask to his lips and downed the fiery liquid in a long draught.

Jarn pushed his throttle to full despite the shuddering protests of his delipidated fighter and swung the nose of the Z-95 around towards the approaching hostiles. He tossed the empty flask aside and reached into the left front pocket of his flightsuit, retrieving a second equally battered flask.

"Well then, I guess I just got promoted to God."

Links

• Hopeless_Storyline - The main site for the cruiser Hopewell's progressing tale.

Characters:

• Jarn Faron
• Iskander Tamarack
• Joseph Reynolds
• Christopher Tharen