Scraping a living...

[Onix]

I guess I should be less suggestive with my Autos and more commanding. Oh well, gotta get the feel for this.

Mym looks at the posting. He had seen it before in his Gaia feed but hadn't been that interested. Maybe he should start shouting "Get off my lawn!" if he only knew what that meant. But isn't this what he wanted? A chance to go somewhere bigger and better where he could really use his skills?

"Why are they so willing to wave the employment creds? Sounds iffy to me. And where is this ship going?" Mym protests.

Mym's a skeptic, he'll go along, just kicking and screaming.

[Chainsaw Aardvark]

How Ser-en-dip-o-toss! Any new vista could be more inspiring than this place. As much as this station needs improvement, sadly it is not my place to do it. I do have the feeling I might be an unperson soon. I actually had to study martial arts based on the number of ruffians here who dislike like me.

Should we be off on a grand quest, this fellowship is pledged my MIG welder...

[Rob Lang]

Marlena takes a holo of the four around the table and sends it to the employment notice. She orders another round of drinks to celebrate.

[misterecho]

As the evening progresses, you all begin to get drunk. It feels right for you to be in each others company. None of you really fit-in here and therefore feel welcomed and valued amongst other outsiders.

Long after most others have gone off to bed you notice a few spacers sitting in a booth drinking. In the dingy smoky interior of the canteen you can't help but overhear as they get progressively louder and more gesticulative as they drink and share tales of excitment, adventure and daring-do on the frontier.

As you finish an evening of pleasant company, a rare thing these days, you head off to bed.

lying in bed, looking at the ceiling, sobering up, you realise that it's 8 months until the next civilian liner is scheduled to arrive. You're not even sure you could save the fare in that time.

[Onix]

Mym gets a ping on his Gaia feed. His head throbs from too much alcohol. He tries to bring up the feed but his mind is too hazy to make sense of it. He stubles into his bathroom and orders hangover medicine from they synth-o-matic. It sprays a fine mist at him and he inhales deeply. In moments his hangover clears.

He then wonders why his bed didn't detect the imbalance in his brain and mist him while he was sleeping. "Cheap colony beds." He thinks. He'll have to look at it later. What else might it not be doing? Monitoring his free radicals?

As he eats his coffee bar and drinks his breakfast (Mym is a traditionalist, none of that hypofood for him) his mind keeps telling him that he's missing something.

He thinks about the ship that advertised for a crew. He didn't know anything about it. He brings up his Gaia interface again and does some digging. Maybe he could find out what the ship is. (Gaia Research check Roll 18 Success!)

[J.K.Mosher]

[misterecho]

(Kyle) As you approach the ship you see the pilot walking off. A tall woman is standing at the Clipper's onramp looking forlorn.

As you approach she looks up. "I'm sorry if you overheard us. We..., I didn't mean to cause a disturbance." She turns to walk away, then looks back at you and says "You wouldn't know any pilots looking for work?".

(Others) You get a reply to your holopic "Application received. Please report to Botchery Clipper, Hanger 13 to progress your application."

[J.K.Mosher]

"I do . . . but there is a slight complication, this guy can fly, but he's never gotten his certs . . . due to a sensitive issue that cropped up right before he was going into fleet training."

Kyle was nervous as he spoke. The Clipper was to him beautiful, but than again a garbage hauler that can fly out of high orbit would be beautiful to him. His mind was racing, part of him wanted to just blurt out I can fly and another part, the part honed by years in the penal colonies told him don't volunteer too much . . . play it slow . . . or they'll burn you.

He watched as he waited her to reply. The fingers on his right hand rubbing the strap of his rucksack . . .

[Onix]

[misterecho]

(Mym) Your search leads you to believe that this ship is running a salvage operation. The bare minimum has been registered and therefore you can find out little else.

One of your Automaton friends tells you that the ship is well known amongst the their own kind on the station as it contains a very advanced AI.

(Kyle) The woman exclaims "I don't give a Darthraki Tharlin's ass if the pilot has papers or not. If he can fly this hunk 'o shit through an asteroid belt, jobs his!" as she points her thumb at the rather tired looking clipper.