Welcome to the Candied Planet Chronicles. It has nothing to do with an actual candied planet, but it's a fun name to call the "plot," as it were. It's pretty much just Revolver and me RPin'. We don't really have any plans other than adventure~, and if you've got a character and they're a cool cat, we probably wouldn't mind having you. We're also pretty sure that we're probably portraying things in a non-canonical way, but that's not the point of the plot, so we'll make due.
ON: Port Hope
The Port would probably never replace the Great Lighthouse in its grandeur as the center of Deoradh civilization and trade—not that the Great Lighthouse could have truly been called that anyway—but it was getting more and more busy by the day. Ships of every dimension and symmetry gathered in increasing numbers as what was the physical structure called “Port Hope” neared its completion. Within its increasingly bustling halls, beings from across the galaxy mingled together, trading, haggling, cloak-and-daggering, and living. Freespacers made up the bulk of those aboard the port proper, but the odd Nepleslian and even a Yamataian smuggler or two could be seen traversing the station’s narrow corridors.
A single Type Three stood amongst the many, looking out over the vast multitude of ships docked with Port Hope. He was as unnoticeable and faceless as any of the station’s inhabitants were if not for the fact that he didn’t move, and hadn’t moved from his place for over eleven hours (except for the mechanical tendrils that slithered and writhed beneath his jacket and spilled out from where his right arm should have been). Still, most regarded the tall Freespacer lightly, not paying him much mind for better or worse as he watched the comings and goings outside with a certainly statuesque resolve. If one did pay attention, it was almost comical seeing him there, staring out with serious, contemplative eyes and a toothy grin painted upon his re-breathing mask.
Among the throngs of Deoradh and foreigners milling about the station walked a young ‘Spacer whose back half of her head appeared to be missing, replaced with a cavalcade of wire tubes, cords, and cables that tumbled down her back. She walked slowly as she looked about, paying minimal attention to the chatter of the Polysentience. Before she arrived, she had hoped that "Port Hope" would be a place of new birth, where Deoradh separated from their fleets could gather and find new motherships to join and take off again into the stars. The reality was far different, with the ‘Spacers that gathered building the Port as sort of a giant stationary mothership. There were constantly requests going out over the Poly for various tasks that needed to be completed and calls out to any able body that could help.
Bootsector didn't want to help build a ship that wouldn't go anywhere, though. She agreed for the most part that a new center of trade was needed and had voted so over the Poly, but that sort of life wasn't for her, that wasn't the Free way. So, along the halls she walked, looking and listening for any ships leaving that she could sign on to. That's when she came upon the dapper-looking Type Three who looked to be keeping watch over the docked ships. At first he had blended into the sea of other faces, and so Bootsector hadn't really noticed him, but this was the third time she had passed him while walking around and he was still in the exact same place. Probably the type that prefers the 'Sentience to the realities going on, she thought as she walked over to stand beside him and looked out over the docks herself.
The male Type Three continued to stand there, even as Bootsector approached and took his side, coming to watch over the masses ships beyond the viewport as he apparently was. Seconds and then minutes passed, and still he did not move. If the Datajack had the patience to continue standing beside him, she would be there for a total of seven minutes before he took a lurching, rigid step forward with his organic leg. He raised his left hand out as his artificial leg followed the momentum of his direction, walking towards the glass in uneven, infant-like steps. When the pallid flesh of his hand met the cold window into the abyss, his warmth sending a frosty halo out from around the contact point, and his re-breather clink-clinked against the clear, solid surface, he let out an awestruck, metallic sounding “Aaaaahhhhhhhh,” filled with the wonderment and everlasting joy that one felt when they were first taken out of the cloning vat or saw their true love for the first time.
For the first couple of minutes, Bootsector was just looking over the various types of ships, idly wondering where they had come from. Then a big argument came over the Polysentience regarding, once again, the possibilities of striking back at the Yamataians, as it tended to do every now and again, so she disconnected from the network and let the silence wash over her. Things were looking dim, but perhaps that meant it was time to start looking into the Nepleslian ships that were bringing supplies. She had heard that some ‘Spacers were finding work on their ships, but it still seemed like a dangerous route to take. That's when the veritable statue of a Wayfarer next to her finally moved and broke both his and her silence. She practically jumped out of her skin at his sudden movement and found herself concerned for the Type Three as he pressed up against the glass. "Is everything okay?" she asked as she looked over at him and then back out towards the docks trying to see if maybe something he spied out there had prompted his response.
“I have witnessed the whale whose belly with bring me unto my destination,” the man replied in the same metallic, multi-chorded, mellow sounding voice he’d vocalized a moment earlier. His gaze didn’t divert from its fixation as he spoke to her, but he was clearly responding to her question as he happily rolled his mask side to side on the glass window, satisfied that the time he’d spent had paid off. “It took eleven hours, twenty-six minutes and four seconds before she swam through the deep dark, but now she is with us and will deliver me to gallivant atop the mighty Moonworms!” The Type Three’s to-and-fro swaying suddenly ceased, and only a moment passed before he turned to face Bootsector, his appendages flapping idly at his side. “The query ‘Is everything okay,’” he said with a concerned look in his eyes, restating her quote in startling vocal accuracy, “should be asked to you. Ten-thousand and one apologies from me to you that I did not notice the strain in your vocal patterns with more haste! May I offer you some of this?” he quickly said, rattling off the several sentences without pause as he ripped the hose out of his re-breather and directed the bellowing green, teal, purple, and orange fumes at the girl.
Bootsector looked cross-eyed at the proffered tube, clearly surprised at the colorful smoke that billowed out from within. "Ah, no thanks," she responded, shaking her hands. "But did I hear you wrong or did you say that you've got a ship you're leaving on?" Her voice was clearly one of anticipation. Such serendipity it was that this strange man with his strange words might be her ticket out of here—off of this stationary ship going nowhere fast. The Datajack swallowed and added softly, "You wouldn't happen to have room for one more?"
The man reattached his mask’s hose, the colorful gas that had been released quickly dissipating without a source to keep them constant. “There is no notion of which can be conceived that I can provide to answer your question in the negative, my Mistress with the Lemon Oculars. My person has remained on this place and decided that,” he said before a small skip made his voice hiccup, “‘you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,’” he stated, his tone not sounding at all his own, but more posh and proper, more refined and noble. “Your destination may not be mine,” the Type Three let her know, “but perhaps mine is yours. Do you have a place to be? Perhaps myself has happened upon another bound to meet their fate with the Moonworms?”
“No where else to be," the Datajack admitted to the masked man. "I've been searching for a way away, and though I've never heard of these Moonworms you speak of before, I'd love to see them just the same. I'm Datajack Bootsector Eight-One," she said as she introduced herself with something resembling a curtsy. "I can 'jack or 'spin just about every type of rig I've seen." Her ocular implants spun as she boasted, as if to not take in so much light from the way she beamed about her skills.
“I am the sentient identified as Somerset Two-One, and have been recently assigned the descriptor Wayfarer,” he told her, returning the introduction. “Being it is that you have told me something about yourself, I am under the supposition that I should do the same. I have seen much of the galaxy, but never visited it and have communed with eighty-two thousand types of compounds from triglyceroxides to polypneufutiatearrides, and have the ability to bend them to my eternal and everlasting will,” Somerset said cheerfully, his happy eyes coming to meet the expression on his “face” for the first time since Bootsector had seen him. “That you wish to become an adventurer in my company, at least for a time, ignites the pilot light that sustains the ovens of my being. When you are prepared and ready, let myself know and we shall eject this heap of jetsam called Hope from our presence.”
Bootsector smiled to match the Wayfarer's cheerful expression. "Pleased to meet you, Somerset Two-One. I can be ready to leave whenever your ship is leaving." She turned and looked out once again at the numerous ‘Spacer ships lining the docks, trying to figure out for herself which was the one he was speaking of. His way of speaking was odd, to be sure, but she wasn't going to let this chance slip her by. An adventure, seeing the galaxy—this is exactly what she wanted. "Just say the word and let's get off this immobile junk heap."
PAUSE
- Dramatis Personæ
- Datajack Bootsector "Boots" Eight-One (Revolver)
- Wayfarer Somerset Two One (raz)
ON: Port Hope
The Port would probably never replace the Great Lighthouse in its grandeur as the center of Deoradh civilization and trade—not that the Great Lighthouse could have truly been called that anyway—but it was getting more and more busy by the day. Ships of every dimension and symmetry gathered in increasing numbers as what was the physical structure called “Port Hope” neared its completion. Within its increasingly bustling halls, beings from across the galaxy mingled together, trading, haggling, cloak-and-daggering, and living. Freespacers made up the bulk of those aboard the port proper, but the odd Nepleslian and even a Yamataian smuggler or two could be seen traversing the station’s narrow corridors.
A single Type Three stood amongst the many, looking out over the vast multitude of ships docked with Port Hope. He was as unnoticeable and faceless as any of the station’s inhabitants were if not for the fact that he didn’t move, and hadn’t moved from his place for over eleven hours (except for the mechanical tendrils that slithered and writhed beneath his jacket and spilled out from where his right arm should have been). Still, most regarded the tall Freespacer lightly, not paying him much mind for better or worse as he watched the comings and goings outside with a certainly statuesque resolve. If one did pay attention, it was almost comical seeing him there, staring out with serious, contemplative eyes and a toothy grin painted upon his re-breathing mask.
Among the throngs of Deoradh and foreigners milling about the station walked a young ‘Spacer whose back half of her head appeared to be missing, replaced with a cavalcade of wire tubes, cords, and cables that tumbled down her back. She walked slowly as she looked about, paying minimal attention to the chatter of the Polysentience. Before she arrived, she had hoped that "Port Hope" would be a place of new birth, where Deoradh separated from their fleets could gather and find new motherships to join and take off again into the stars. The reality was far different, with the ‘Spacers that gathered building the Port as sort of a giant stationary mothership. There were constantly requests going out over the Poly for various tasks that needed to be completed and calls out to any able body that could help.
Bootsector didn't want to help build a ship that wouldn't go anywhere, though. She agreed for the most part that a new center of trade was needed and had voted so over the Poly, but that sort of life wasn't for her, that wasn't the Free way. So, along the halls she walked, looking and listening for any ships leaving that she could sign on to. That's when she came upon the dapper-looking Type Three who looked to be keeping watch over the docked ships. At first he had blended into the sea of other faces, and so Bootsector hadn't really noticed him, but this was the third time she had passed him while walking around and he was still in the exact same place. Probably the type that prefers the 'Sentience to the realities going on, she thought as she walked over to stand beside him and looked out over the docks herself.
The male Type Three continued to stand there, even as Bootsector approached and took his side, coming to watch over the masses ships beyond the viewport as he apparently was. Seconds and then minutes passed, and still he did not move. If the Datajack had the patience to continue standing beside him, she would be there for a total of seven minutes before he took a lurching, rigid step forward with his organic leg. He raised his left hand out as his artificial leg followed the momentum of his direction, walking towards the glass in uneven, infant-like steps. When the pallid flesh of his hand met the cold window into the abyss, his warmth sending a frosty halo out from around the contact point, and his re-breather clink-clinked against the clear, solid surface, he let out an awestruck, metallic sounding “Aaaaahhhhhhhh,” filled with the wonderment and everlasting joy that one felt when they were first taken out of the cloning vat or saw their true love for the first time.
For the first couple of minutes, Bootsector was just looking over the various types of ships, idly wondering where they had come from. Then a big argument came over the Polysentience regarding, once again, the possibilities of striking back at the Yamataians, as it tended to do every now and again, so she disconnected from the network and let the silence wash over her. Things were looking dim, but perhaps that meant it was time to start looking into the Nepleslian ships that were bringing supplies. She had heard that some ‘Spacers were finding work on their ships, but it still seemed like a dangerous route to take. That's when the veritable statue of a Wayfarer next to her finally moved and broke both his and her silence. She practically jumped out of her skin at his sudden movement and found herself concerned for the Type Three as he pressed up against the glass. "Is everything okay?" she asked as she looked over at him and then back out towards the docks trying to see if maybe something he spied out there had prompted his response.
“I have witnessed the whale whose belly with bring me unto my destination,” the man replied in the same metallic, multi-chorded, mellow sounding voice he’d vocalized a moment earlier. His gaze didn’t divert from its fixation as he spoke to her, but he was clearly responding to her question as he happily rolled his mask side to side on the glass window, satisfied that the time he’d spent had paid off. “It took eleven hours, twenty-six minutes and four seconds before she swam through the deep dark, but now she is with us and will deliver me to gallivant atop the mighty Moonworms!” The Type Three’s to-and-fro swaying suddenly ceased, and only a moment passed before he turned to face Bootsector, his appendages flapping idly at his side. “The query ‘Is everything okay,’” he said with a concerned look in his eyes, restating her quote in startling vocal accuracy, “should be asked to you. Ten-thousand and one apologies from me to you that I did not notice the strain in your vocal patterns with more haste! May I offer you some of this?” he quickly said, rattling off the several sentences without pause as he ripped the hose out of his re-breather and directed the bellowing green, teal, purple, and orange fumes at the girl.
Bootsector looked cross-eyed at the proffered tube, clearly surprised at the colorful smoke that billowed out from within. "Ah, no thanks," she responded, shaking her hands. "But did I hear you wrong or did you say that you've got a ship you're leaving on?" Her voice was clearly one of anticipation. Such serendipity it was that this strange man with his strange words might be her ticket out of here—off of this stationary ship going nowhere fast. The Datajack swallowed and added softly, "You wouldn't happen to have room for one more?"
The man reattached his mask’s hose, the colorful gas that had been released quickly dissipating without a source to keep them constant. “There is no notion of which can be conceived that I can provide to answer your question in the negative, my Mistress with the Lemon Oculars. My person has remained on this place and decided that,” he said before a small skip made his voice hiccup, “‘you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,’” he stated, his tone not sounding at all his own, but more posh and proper, more refined and noble. “Your destination may not be mine,” the Type Three let her know, “but perhaps mine is yours. Do you have a place to be? Perhaps myself has happened upon another bound to meet their fate with the Moonworms?”
“No where else to be," the Datajack admitted to the masked man. "I've been searching for a way away, and though I've never heard of these Moonworms you speak of before, I'd love to see them just the same. I'm Datajack Bootsector Eight-One," she said as she introduced herself with something resembling a curtsy. "I can 'jack or 'spin just about every type of rig I've seen." Her ocular implants spun as she boasted, as if to not take in so much light from the way she beamed about her skills.
“I am the sentient identified as Somerset Two-One, and have been recently assigned the descriptor Wayfarer,” he told her, returning the introduction. “Being it is that you have told me something about yourself, I am under the supposition that I should do the same. I have seen much of the galaxy, but never visited it and have communed with eighty-two thousand types of compounds from triglyceroxides to polypneufutiatearrides, and have the ability to bend them to my eternal and everlasting will,” Somerset said cheerfully, his happy eyes coming to meet the expression on his “face” for the first time since Bootsector had seen him. “That you wish to become an adventurer in my company, at least for a time, ignites the pilot light that sustains the ovens of my being. When you are prepared and ready, let myself know and we shall eject this heap of jetsam called Hope from our presence.”
Bootsector smiled to match the Wayfarer's cheerful expression. "Pleased to meet you, Somerset Two-One. I can be ready to leave whenever your ship is leaving." She turned and looked out once again at the numerous ‘Spacer ships lining the docks, trying to figure out for herself which was the one he was speaking of. His way of speaking was odd, to be sure, but she wasn't going to let this chance slip her by. An adventure, seeing the galaxy—this is exactly what she wanted. "Just say the word and let's get off this immobile junk heap."
PAUSE
