I know it's been a while. Sorry guys! I had a lot of stuff to deal with, both internally and externally. It required a mindset shift to get back into it, especially following Josh announcing the end of Limit Theory, but REKT will go on! This is NOT the end! It's too good to end like this, I'm sure you'll agree. With that in mind, I've decided taking some steps towards making this easier for me to actually keep up with - I'll need to find a real job soon and, the less "extra effort" I have to expend on REKT, the better - both for me, and all of you. After all, if it's too hard for me to continue, it'll stop completely. So, with that in mind, and without further ado... REKT continues! I hope you all enjoy this post which you all so patiently waited for (and hope to god I didn't miss anybody )
Ctrl+F is your friend.
In the hangar, the inmates continue to mill about, figuring out the state of things. The Nemesis, by now, is in orbit of Nanyej and soon to start the transfer to Fuhodo orbit. This transfer will be, of course, completely unnoticed; such things have been trivial for over a century. Gravity tech, thanks to stellaplex much like that which the small "platoon" recently recovered, has made such elements as accelerational g-force an ancient phenomena (barring malfunction), and it's quite far from anyone's minds.
Especially Bob and Crank's.
"Oh yeah, we had that game too!" Crank laughs joyously. "It's cool, we grew up so far apart but it's like we shared the same childhood!"
Bob agrees heartily, and then tries to explain the rules to another game.
"Yaha, tag!" Crank claps (his metal palms make a loud, dull clanking as they knock together). "I know that game too!"
And the conversation goes on, the subject straying onto different types of foods, and then different songs and movies - Bob and Crank actually have a lot in common, and Crank has turned out to be a pretty fun guy.
"Huh, Mr. Crank," Bob finally says thoughtfully, "Talking about food make Bob hungry. Maybe we get some food?"
"Oh! Yaha, sure thing!" Crank nods, getting to his feet. "I'm not one for eating much, y'know, but ah, I don't mind a bite every now and then either!" He laughs and pats his stomach, which clangs.
And so, the two newfound friends exit the hangar, headed towards the mess hall.
~~~
Others aren't contemplating leaving the hall at all - rather, they find themselves in a dire situation: they need to correct someone for getting their name wrong.
Spoiler: SHOW
With all this done, Brom marches quickly in the direction of "Meredith" - the woman that Brantley pointed him towards. Brom's current goal is to find a drill so he can make a momento for Bob - which he promised, after all.
"Greetings, Madam!" Brom calls loudly to the shapely backside of a woman stuck up out of the back of a CASKET's engine area, which has been opened for repair. "I am Brom Keegan, the legendary hero of Ermhelm! You have the appearance of one who is under a good deal stress; perhaps I could help." Given that her ass and legs are the only thing Brom can currently see (the rest of her being upside-down in the machine's interior), this statement doesn't sound entirely appropriate anymore. Fortunately Brom has no shortage of charm. "I don't mean to brag, but I am rather intelligent, and quite strong! Is there anything you have that needs doing?"
"WHAT?" Meredith yells, extricating herself from the engine. Her face is smudged with oil and engine grease. "Oh, you're one of the new guys," she mutters. "Yeah, what's up? Need something?" Brom begins to repeat his full request - along with his full title. Meredith cuts him short. "Yeah, whatever, that's nice, but goddamn, cut to the chase - what do you want?"
"A job, if that's all right," Brom says. "I'd like to do an exchange for privileges to use the power tools here."
"Are you high?" the woman asks bluntly, wiping her forehead with a rag (that apparently used to be a bandanna at some point). It only serves to add another smudge. "Hmm, you're not. Okay, great. I'm Mara, and as you've seemed to guess, I'm in charge here. Yeah, I do have some work that needs done, but you're not gonna like it," she says. "The guys in charge are 'rationing' our power supply and we're getting brownouts in here. It really fukcs things up with the heavy equipment. If you could head down to the reactor and explain the situation, that'd be great. Power tools are scattered wherever around here, so knock yourself out." Without waiting for a response, she climbs back into the CASKET's engine, muttering something about the inmates.
It's at this moment that Ishmael happens by, having just had a pleasant conversation with a certain "Rogil Harvek" - a fellow follower of The Faith. "Ahoy, lass!" Ishmael calls out in his best door-to-door voice. "Might I have a moment of your time?"
"God damn it, WHAT now???" Mara shouts, extricating herself once more from the CASKET's engine. When she finally gets back out, she plops her ass down on the CASKET's top and slams down her tools next to her - which promptly falls into the CASKET's open engine. Gritting her teeth in vexation, she closes her eyes and mutters another curse. "Yeah, Ishmael, back again? What do you need this time?"
"I was wondering if perhaps you might have a moment to discuss a very simple weapon design for my ship," you say. Given her current state of mood, you are careful to stress the "simple" part. "You would be the one to go to for this, yes?"
Mara sighs, wiping her hands again in abject surrender. "Yeah, I'm your girl," she sighs. "What do you need?"
~~~
Not too far away from Ishmael's conversation with Mara, Vynkor watches Mekkin as he sorts through various supplies. "Working together would benefit us both, after all," he says assuringly, with all the air of an experienced banker.
In most it would serve to arouse confidence, but in Vynkor it only serves to arouse further suspicion. She fully expects that he's trying to take advantage of her somehow. It's hard to trust the guy, but she figures, it wouldn't hurt to play his game. "Right, sure," she says. "Don't geet ahead of yourself, though. Your little 'investment' was only five hundred credits, after all."
Mekkin turns away from his work and levels an even gaze at the woman. "Pennies add up," he says firmly, with a meaningful expression, as though inviting her to read into this morsel.
Vynkor completes the transaction over her PDA, tapping the large green "Accept" button. With this finished, Mekkin returns to work, and Vynkor heads to the armory to make some purchases with what she has left... still mildly uncomfortable about the whole incident.
~~~
Elsewhere in the hangar, someone else is also mildly uncomfortable: Cho. She's doing her honest-to-gods best to keep everyone happy, but this is honestly a PR nightmare.
"Testing the rookies??" Saorise says in an annoyed tone. "This doesn't add up. Testing the rookies by lying to them isn't exactly the best way to gain their trust - nor is letting them raid a colony of innocent people for something we didn't even need." She looks quite cross, making quite a dangerous appearance of herself - and not in a good way. Saoirse has never been "good at people", and in fact, without noticing, she's actually glaring at Cho.
The FTO frowns and twiddles her fingers awkwardly. "Well... Well, I know, but I mean -" After a brief pause to collect her thoughts, she sighs, giving up. "I was just following orders. Look, I'm sorry, Saoirse..."
Saoirse, realizing only a little too late that she's committed a faux pas, tries desperately to backpedal. "b - but none of that is your fault! I'll just - I'll have a few choice words for SCAMPS on the debrief, that's all," she follows up with nervous laughter. "...And hey, we uh, we picked up the nacelle, so that part of the mission was useful, right?"
Quietly, Cho nods, watching silently for a moment before she insists, "The entire mission was useful. SCAMPS usually knows what he's doing. I don't always know why, that's all. I'm sory he did this to you, but I'm sure he had a reason."
At that point, Saoirse gets distracted by getting into an enormous argument with Buck over whether or not Hiltorel actually qualify as "people". Shortly after, he leaves in a huff, headed for the canteen - just as Caleb makes an appearance.
"Hey!!!" Caleb calls out, waving as he approaches. Saoirse's keen eye is drawn to a glint of metal beneath the leg of his pants, piquing her interest. "Sorry about earlier," Caleb goes on, hobbling over. He's still clearly unused to the prosthetic. "I was trying to get some actual legs instead of these hunks of junk!" he laughs, pulling up his pants leg to show off the robotic limb replacement.
"Caleb!!!!" Cho cries out, happy for the distraction. "Oh, I'm so glad you made it back okay! You aren't mad at me, are you? I got you back as fast as I could!"
Saoirse glares at him. Those legs look a lot better than the ones she spent the majority of her life on. Silently fuming, you excuse yourself. "I'm heading to the observation deck. I don't want to be a bother."
As Saoirse leaves, Cho calls out past Caleb, "Okay! Oh, but - the observation halls were destroyed on one side of the ship. They may have gotten them somewhat 'usable' on the other, but I'm not sure. It's probably not very high priority, but you could try!" Saoirse mumbles something akin to "Thanks" and Cho calls, "Oh, and - I'm glad to have met you, Saoirse!"
"Later, Saoirse!" Caleb says. He gets the idea that he might've said something wrong, but he's not entirely sure. "And no, Cho, I do appreciate you doing what you could for me. Why would I be mad at you? And thanks for putting in a good word when I was trying to get back in, too."
Beaming, she steps a little closer towards him, seeming to internally fight whether or not to give him a hug. Instead, she turns it into a handclasp at the last moment and enthuses, "Oh, of course! Oh, I was so worried you'd be upset with me! It's so nice to meet you in person, Caleb, and I'm glad you're all right!"
The handclasp threw you slightly off balance, and you have to pull your hand away and grab Cho's shoulder to keep from falling. "Oh, oh!" she cries, immediately jumping into a position to support you, arm around your back. "Careful! Oh my gods, I don't think these limbs are properly on, are they? Are you sure you're all right?" She looks into Caleb's eyes searchingly.
Caleb searches for a response, but he has tunnel vision: all he can see is the glittering blue of her irises.
"You'll have to tell me more about yourself, Caleb," the FTO says encouragingly.
~~~
Elsewhere on the ship, other people do not look so encouraging.
Dennis Hoffman, Chief Armory Officer, stares at Vynkor uncomfortably as he adjusts his cap. He's a good head taller than she is. "You want me to do what now, lass?"
"Sharpen my arm. Just the outside of it," Vynkor clarifies. "I figured you could just add a little edge to the forearm or hand. ...and maybe a bit of serration?" she adds hopefully. "Isn't the armory the place I'd go to get my arm sharpened?"
Hoffman looks visibly disturbed. His lips twitch as he ponders what the inmate before him is saying. Farther back in the armory, between the rows of industrial shelving, something falls and clatters. It makes him jump, and finally jerks him from his thoughts. "Uh, er... ...yes? I suppose, young lass, but ah... You sure this is something you want to do?"
"Well, I have some skill with martial arts," Vynkor shrugs nonchalantly, "so I just figured..." she trails off.
"Hmm. I suppose so, yes. You do realize that having... blades stuck to your arms is going to cause a lot of problems, don't you lass? Such as, anything that you don't want to injure or destroy? It'll be a bit hard to use, too, being on the side of your arm and all."
Vynkor shrugs. "It just sounds cool, is all."
Hoffman shakes his head. "Aye, I'll see what I can do, then. You are absolutely sure, yes?"
~~~
"Yes, I'm absolutely sure!"
A fairly impatient Saoirse stands in front of a makeshift barricade, sporting a general-issue spacesuit. Her adversary is none other than some random, lowly technician, who is just trying to "uphold the law" as he sees it. "Hmm..." he mutters. "It's not safe out there, you know. The walls are -"
"Yeah, I know," Saoirse interrupts, crossing her arms. "The walls are damaged, the hull is breached, there's no life support. You've said it twice already. Why do you think I'm wearing a spacesuit?"
"So you're absolutely absolutely -"
"Yes!!"
At long last, the technician shrugs. "Okay. Try not to trip on anything," he says, typing a code into a panel on the wall. The heavy blast doors open, revealing a yawning, pitch-black entrance; only a thin airshield separates them from the vacuum of space.
"Finally," Saoirse mouths, already moving forward. "And thanks," she adds - a bit too late for tact.
"Don't mention it," the man mumbles.
Her previous annoyances completely forgotten, Saoirse stands alone in the damaged observation hallway among the twisted metal beams and debris. Outside - beyond the ruined glass plates and splayed wiring - she sees the wide curve of Nanyej's surface from low orbit; one of Nanyej's smaller moons, Faller, is faintly visible in the distance.
In a word, it is beautiful. For a moment, the young woman completely forgets the drab, dismal reality of her surroundings - she feels uplifted and inspired - she feels a grand sense of purpose, and for the briefest of moments she feels as though she could truly understand the universe, in an intimate, far-reaching way - everything just seems to make sense . . . but just as quickly, it slips through her fingers and is gone, and she is once again a young woman standing in a battle-ravaged hallway, wearing a spacesuit, and woefully aware of her surroundings.
But space is still beautiful. For just a while longer, she watches the twinkling of stars beyond the gaps in the hull, and the clouds drifting above Nanyej's surface, before she reluctantly turns away, heading to the canteen.
~~~
Meanwhile, a lot of things are already taking place at the canteen...
The canteen is just beginning to become something of a social hotspot, with Frank in the middle: the focus of Brenna's attention as he sits miserably on a small stack of crates in the back room. Brenna leans forwards in askance, trying to understand what he's feeling. Frank, on the other hand, doesn't want to talk about the mission right now - or even think about it. He just wants to forget.
Unfortunately, Brenna leans against one of the freezers, folds her arms, and waits. She's not going to let him forget. Without realizing, Frank twists the ration bar in his hands, worrying it.
Finally Frank bursts out, "The - the mission - it was them or us! We had to take it away. They fought for their colony - for their civilians! They fought for the one thing they needed to survive in that place - the the thing we took away from them!" His words come out in a tumbled rush, and in the back of his mind he realizes he's not making any sense, but he's powerless to stop it. The dam has burst; there's no holding it back now. "I - I used tranquilizers! I wantd not to kill someone - to kill anyone - I had to look them in the face - in the eyes when I shot them! I couldn't! I wanted to run - to just stop! I thought about running away - I wanted to!"
Through eyes moist with despair, Frank sees Brenna nod in understanding, but he's too far to stop. Through a tumultuous cascade of broken sentences, Frank poured out his heart and soul to the woman - his deepest, innermost thoughts, his worries and fears, the things he struggled with and his own overwhelming sense of guilt for those he harmed. His eyes cast downwards, and come to rest on the tormented, twisted ration bar in his lap - just as Brenna takes his hands in hers.
"You're no villain, Frank," she says calmly. "You don't have the heart for it. It was survival instincts, nothing more. Look at me." When he doesn't move, she says it again, more urgently: "Frank, look at me."
Slowly, hesitantly, biting his lip, Frank fights his inner nature and turns his eyes up towards her face. He almost trembles as they make eye contact, her warm, encouraging gaze washing over him; his eyes cloud up and he chokes back tears. He feels so, so empty.
"Frank," Brenna continues calmly, "Would a killer be so distraught? You were desperate. You did what you had to do to stay alive - to keep your allies alive. That's something a good person would do. You go out of your way to help others - you even helped me. You're a good man, Frank. In fact..." Suddenly, Brenna pauses; there is a trace of something unidentifiable in her glance. After a brief hesitation, she finally starts back, "In fact, I -"
But her words are interrupted. "HEY!" someone shouts from the cafeteria window. Brenna makes a valiant attempt to pick back up where she left off, but is again cut short by a louder, "HEY, WHERE'S THE SERVICE!"
The lady grimaces and gets to her feet. "I have to take care of this," she says by way of apology. Then she calls, "Just a minute! I'll be right there!"
Frank gets to his feet as well, following behind Brenna at a slower pace.
The pair soon finds Buck standing in front of the cafeteria counter, rapping on the glass with his knuckles. "Ah, there ya are!" he says as Brenna approaches. "Hey - can I get a bucket o' fried chicken?? Oh, and if ya got any whiskey, toss that my way too! I got a thirst that could kill a camel!" Buck notes out of the corner of his eye that Frank just emerged from the back rooms too, and he looks a bit disheveled and cross. He wonders if perhaps they were havin' a little hanky panky.
"What'll you have?" Brenna asks. Patiently, Buck repeats his order, while Brenna's expression slowly morphs into a flat display of fatigue. "We don't have any of that," she finally says after he finishes. "I can get you a ration bar. All our freezers have been down for a while, and everything in them is ruined."
Buck, Frank, and Brenna are far from the only ones in the hall. Gene is third in line, and Bob and Crank are lining up now as well, along with a small number of Nemesis crewmen, and just at this moment, Saoirse enters the room at the far end.
Buck doesn't notice any of this, of course. His thoughts belong entirely to the venerable God of Whiskey and Goddess of Good Eats. "So, uh... I don't s'pose there's a .... fried chicken flavored ration bar... half-bucket is fine, y'know. And maybe..." he pauses as Brenna frowns, "Maybe a little whiskey? I mean it doesn't have to be whiskey, could be anything alcoholic," he adds, covering his bases. His impatience is slowly beginning to climb as he notes Brenna's darkening expression. "Ain't no way whiskey got damaged from the freezers going down, there's gotta be whiskey somewhere. Or maybe beer? Beer is... well, I mean, if you've got nothing else, you know."
"Chicken ration with mediwater," Brenna states decidedly, as though that's what Buck requested. "I'll be right back with it."
At this, Buck finally bursts out, "Oh come on, this is fuckin' bullshit!," he spits out, slamming his hands on the counter. "Are you tryin' to piss me off?"
Behind him, Crank nudges Bob in the ribs. "Whoa, lookit this guy," Crank says in a loud whisper. "He went batshit so early? Man, and I thought he'd be one of the sane ones!"
"I mean look," Buck rages on, motioning emphatically behind him, "I go out there fight them monsters that almost fuckin' KILLED me, and I get nothin' in return? What the absolute fuckin' hell?!? I really shoulda killed every last one of them dirty squid bastards -"
At that moment, someone taps Buck on the shoulder. "Whaddaya want, can't you see I'm in the middle of something?" Buck shouts, turning just in time to catch sight of Frank's face before a fist rockets into his face, sending him reeling. Frank, having had enough, is fuming, but clutches his hand painfully from the blow. He's seething - but also somewhat terrified.
Buck staggers back, straightening as he clutches at his jaw. "Man, why's everyone gotta give such a shit 'bout these squids!? Helloooo, they're squids for fukc's sake!"
Fists clenched, arms straight at his sides, Frank howls in a tormented voice, "What do you know of them?!? What do you know of them??"
"They had it comin'!" Buck yells. "They fuckin' deserved everything they got!"
"It never should've gone this far," Frank shouts, but then suddenly quiets himself and takes a step back.
There's a brief pause, and then Buck exclaims, "I don't get why everyone's tryin' to be so politically correct all of a sudden!"
An awkward silence reigns in the canteen. Anyone that wasn't paying attention now most certainly is.