Have some breakfast.
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As you enter the mess hall, you see the other pilots already sitting at a table. Lanky, dark-haired Flak waves at you, a rakish grin on his face. A pair of flight goggles dangle loosely around his neck; Flak has a strange fascination with old Earth relics, especially anything to do with aviation. Beside him sits Slice, a blonde woman with her flightsuit unzipped enough to show cleavage. As you walk up, she holds up a spoonful of gray, lumpy porridge. | As you enter the mess hall, you see the other pilots already sitting at a table. Lanky, dark-haired Flak waves at you, a rakish grin on his face. A pair of flight goggles dangle loosely around his neck; Flak has a strange fascination with old Earth relics, especially anything to do with aviation. Beside him sits Slice, a blonde woman with her flightsuit unzipped enough to show cleavage. As you walk up, she holds up a spoonful of gray, lumpy porridge. | ||
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"Whitman says it's edible," she remarks with an arched eyebrow. "I'm not convinced." | "Whitman says it's edible," she remarks with an arched eyebrow. "I'm not convinced." | ||
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You take a seat across the table. "Me neither. I might just give breakfast a skip." | You take a seat across the table. "Me neither. I might just give breakfast a skip." | ||
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Slice laughs. "Good call." She spoons the porridge into her mouth and makes a face. | Slice laughs. "Good call." She spoons the porridge into her mouth and makes a face. | ||
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"So what's our schedule look like?" Flak asks, fiddling with his goggles. | "So what's our schedule look like?" Flak asks, fiddling with his goggles. | ||
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"I was gonna get some holo time and watch the latest Die Hard," Slice says. "But I bet the captain's got other uses for us." | "I was gonna get some holo time and watch the latest Die Hard," Slice says. "But I bet the captain's got other uses for us." | ||
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"Yeah," you say with a frown. "We're fighter pilots. We shouldn't be re-wiring consoles or cleaning the O2 filters. That's not our job." | "Yeah," you say with a frown. "We're fighter pilots. We shouldn't be re-wiring consoles or cleaning the O2 filters. That's not our job." | ||
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"Our job," Flak says dryly, rolling his eyes. "Is what ever the cap'n says it is. Isn't that right?" | "Our job," Flak says dryly, rolling his eyes. "Is what ever the cap'n says it is. Isn't that right?" | ||
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Slice shakes her head. "Would be nice for some action, you know?" | Slice shakes her head. "Would be nice for some action, you know?" | ||
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As if her words were prophetic, a sudden alarm resounds through the mess hall. Your head comes up; Flak and Slice are exchanging a startled glance, then you all swiveling towards the speaker as it crackles to life. | As if her words were prophetic, a sudden alarm resounds through the mess hall. Your head comes up; Flak and Slice are exchanging a startled glance, then you all swiveling towards the speaker as it crackles to life. | ||
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"We have hostiles inbound, black markings. Crew to battle stations! Crew to battle stations!" | "We have hostiles inbound, black markings. Crew to battle stations! Crew to battle stations!" | ||
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You're already running. Only pirates flew black markings, and that meant a fight. | You're already running. Only pirates flew black markings, and that meant a fight. | ||
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[[To the flight deck!]] | [[To the flight deck!]] | ||
Revision as of 23:44, 16 December 2009
As you enter the mess hall, you see the other pilots already sitting at a table. Lanky, dark-haired Flak waves at you, a rakish grin on his face. A pair of flight goggles dangle loosely around his neck; Flak has a strange fascination with old Earth relics, especially anything to do with aviation. Beside him sits Slice, a blonde woman with her flightsuit unzipped enough to show cleavage. As you walk up, she holds up a spoonful of gray, lumpy porridge.
"Whitman says it's edible," she remarks with an arched eyebrow. "I'm not convinced."
You take a seat across the table. "Me neither. I might just give breakfast a skip."
Slice laughs. "Good call." She spoons the porridge into her mouth and makes a face.
"So what's our schedule look like?" Flak asks, fiddling with his goggles.
"I was gonna get some holo time and watch the latest Die Hard," Slice says. "But I bet the captain's got other uses for us."
"Yeah," you say with a frown. "We're fighter pilots. We shouldn't be re-wiring consoles or cleaning the O2 filters. That's not our job."
"Our job," Flak says dryly, rolling his eyes. "Is what ever the cap'n says it is. Isn't that right?"
Slice shakes her head. "Would be nice for some action, you know?"
As if her words were prophetic, a sudden alarm resounds through the mess hall. Your head comes up; Flak and Slice are exchanging a startled glance, then you all swiveling towards the speaker as it crackles to life.
"We have hostiles inbound, black markings. Crew to battle stations! Crew to battle stations!"
You're already running. Only pirates flew black markings, and that meant a fight.
To the flight deck!
