Updates and ...shizzy
13 Apr 2018Tarm Wallunga
So...its been a while. What up? How you been? Me? Oh, little of this, little of that. Been busier than ...whatever's busy, I suppose.Seriously, though, real life took a giant boot and mashed me in the ass with it over the last few months. While I've been able to play more or less whenever I want, the creative fire has cooled and the writing has dropped. You already know that, of course, because you'll notice here in a second the gap between the date on this post and the date of the most recent one (January!). Suffice it to say that in addition to school, work, family and a number of efforts within the game itself, I just haven't had as much time as I would like to write more about the ongoing saga (haha) of Tarm and his Gunslingers. That kind of sucks, to be honest, because I had had plans to throw a few new challenges Tarm's way (like that dastardly bounty hunter that had been shadowing him...hrm hrm, that was a thing), but alas, life and its turmoils tends to take its toll (ooh, see what I did there: alliteration!).
At any rate, I am going to be stoking the coals of creative fire and hope to get something out soon. There are two main storylines dangling like an empty noose out there right now (the bounty hunter and the boy brother), in addition to the normal series of mischief that Tarm invariably ends up in. I can't make any promises about specific content or a timeline upon which to adhere myself, but I can make the effort to get some half decent quality work out there in the near future. And, speaking of quality, let's be fair here: all my written work is only about half decent
Stay safe out in the black, or, as Tarm would say: fly hard, fly fast, fly free! And now, for a teaser (potentially) of things to (potentially) come!
11th April, 3304
Ngalinn/Mainani Systems
Empire Space
“Heads up, Commander,” the digitized voice rang in the ear bud shoved into my left ear. Inwardly I let loose a lazy groan; I had heard this a hundred times before in my recent work to build up a halfway respectable network of contacts in Imperial space. I can almost mouth the words right along with Gregory What’s-His-Stupid-Name-Again even as he spits them to me from the recording I had just received. “You got someone trying to tail you. Take them out, and there’ll be extra cash for you when you arrive at Hickham.”
Well, maybe I didn’t get all the words right; despite the repetitive nature of the same message, there’s always one or two words in a different order than the previous dispatch. I scan the attached file, looking for the name and, if its known, the type of ship they’re flying, even as I turn the nose of Fortuitous Dream away from Ngalinn’s primary and push off towards Hickham Survey. Of course, as expected, it’s some nobody with a shit name, which probably means he’s a shit pilot too. A lot of the banditry out this way usually are; only a few have had a chance at actually hurting me. In the end, it don’t matter what their skill is: they’re still spinning wreckage with gutted cores and greasy smears of red matter on a bulkhead either way by the time I’m done with them.
The Python class of ship is an awesome multi-role ship; mines rigged more or less as an armed freighter. Did I mention the gold paintjob? Yeah. Classic custom work that; I love the way the local star light bounces off the shiny exterior. A little ostentatious, sure, but fuck it. I deserve it. It’s been a shit show of several months now, and needed a break.
Ok, maybe not a break, per se, but something a little different. So I went to Empire space and started chatting up some of the locals. Anyone looking for me specifically hasn’t come out this way just yet, and while the local wannabe’s are annoying me when they tag me, they’re nothing I can’t handle. I don’t even break a sweat anymore; quick scan of their ship and then burst lasers and rails guns are ripping their piece of crap right out of my sky.
And as if right on cue, as the supercruise starts winding down as I get closer and closer to my destination, there it is. The quantum tether snakes out and ensnarls my ship. The dance has begun, or so some shitbag pirate wannabe thinks. Immediately I cut the FSD to zero output, shift power to combat mode and cycle to bring up my weapons as soon as I drop back into the real ‘verse. BANG. And there he is, spinning out of control while I, with but a few flicks of a wrist, get Dream righted and pointed at his ship. I don’t even wait for the scanning to start, or any words to come from this tool’s mouth; the transponder matches exactly to what was in the message Gregory sent. Firing studs depressed and three burst lasers start ablating this guy’s shields before he can even say something about taking my cargo. The heat in my cockpit soars as I drop a pair of rail slugs right into his withering shields, and then for the shits and grins of it, I drop another pair.
“Heat level critical,” the computer warns. No shit.
Pirate-King zips by in his much smaller, and thus more swift, Cobra, and for a moment it makes me miss my own Opportunity, presently mothballed at Ford Orbital three hundred light years away. The feelings are squashed as I turn Dream around, almost on a dime, and bore in on this shitbird one more time. He’s boosting for all he’s worth now, clearly he’s recognized that he’s outclassed. There’s no comms traffic between us. Just a part of the job, far as I’m concerned. I’m not even thinking, truthfully, at this point. It’s all reaction and positioning, aiming and firing. Mr. ToughGuy loses his shields and I pop another pair of rail slugs into his ass, and I watch a third of his hull vanish in a glorious shower of purple sparks. Oh, yeah, another addition for the vanity fair of my new ship – purple dyed guns. Don’t judge – I’ve seen your shit, too, all pink and green and shit. That exhaust flair on your drives is pretty too. If you wannabe a show off, that is.
ToughGuy banks and wheels, then pitches straight up, the axis that the Cobra is best at turning into. Fun fact, though: same is true for the Python, though it’s a bit slower. No matter to me; I roll a bit and turn harder into a cross of pitch and yaw, the gimballed burst lasers strafing the flat diamond head shaped ship in front of me. One last shot of my rails ought to do it….
And Mr. Pirate is now little more than smoking and cooling debris. Not even got anything worth picking through. I sigh faintly, light a smoke and close up the gun ports. Back on to Hickham, I suppose.