We’re empirically effed.
We barely stumbled out of Teth with little more than our heads on our shoulders and even then…. Jas was contrite about – whatever he did – hypnotizing(?) Besh, but claimed earnestly that dreams were compelling him. And then R7 jumped in with his own bit of crazy, babbling about ghosts in the ship’s computers. Ghosts?! Dear Maker, would my conspiracy prattling parents have a field day with that one! Also, are we seriously considering keeping the little weed-brained ewok? He just sat there, fiddling on his base as we staggered into the mess to regroup.
Besh decided some hot soup was the answer to all the tension and alarm bells going off, and he proceeded to place a bowl into each of our dumbfounded hands before casually asking me to tend a horrible laceration on his shoulder, like it was an accounting query. He’s so determined to keep the peace! He even claimed to have heard of Do’oktra Skull when I mentioned it. Do’oktre Skull took place in a tent with twelve students and lasted two Socorran years. No one has heard of Do’oktre Skull.
We limped back toward Outlander Transit Station only to find it deserted and totally dark. All of our guts told us to keep moving, but the ship was in dire condition and needed repairs done immediately. We pulled in and, sure enough – no power, no gravity, no kumbaya. It’s too dark here! I’m so used to the long days and open desert of Socorro, these black hallways make my hair stand on end. What in the galaxy happened here? The station is shredded! The whole station! To think how many throngs of beings crowded the halls and corridors of this station just a few days ago…
When we played the Slag Pits earlier this week, I avoided my old stomping grounds, where I spent a few years working the Perdix Pub, avoided some old frenemies, but now – nothing is recognizable. We were forced to suit up and squeeze through a claustrophobic tunnel in order to make our way to the power converters. Despite his nerve-burned state, R7 transmitted himself to Guloumi’s data pad to navigate.
I have to give Shorty credit for all the patience he displayed today. He barely fit into that suit, and when eager young Guloumi recognized and impulsively reached for the absolutely caustic Nope smeared all over the walls, thus starting a chain reaction of insane panic…. Well Shorty just anchored down and put us back into order like this wasn’t his first Falumpaset rodeo. Rathgar eggs, Guloumi explained about the slime. I was all for heading back to the ship for a quick cowering session, but we trundled on through into the engineering room.
More dark. I must have started to feel a little frenetic, because I started to think about set lists and key changes, fiddling with the settings on my propulsion pack and slowly convincing myself I was just having a weed-jacked nightmare, while Guloumi and Besh nonchalantly skipped up the platforms to pull the breaker switches. I’d like to say I was really laying down the cool whip, but when the gravity came on and that mutilated body dropped and almost clocked me, my squawk was just as much out of terror as it was surprise. It was ripped apart and bore the clear marks of a fully grown rathgar.
If I ever get home, I’ll see what psychiatric contacts Jar Tuck has in his little black book. To think of all those times I metaphorically gazed out the window, singing Moon River like there was something more positively exciting than the dirty dealings of the Juicy Tooth and the drug-addled mess that was Jar Tuck’s clinic.
The power wasn’t making it to the docking bay. We needed to find the blockage, but first we headed toward the cargo hold for possible supplies, and we found a family. A whole pitiable family with beseeching parents and sick children. They’re Alderaanians, a little backward but innocent enough. I tended the children, who were suffering from oxygen deprivation, and we fixed their generator. They couldn’t tell us what happened because they’d been stuffed in the cargo tote like so much luggage. We brought them back to the landing bay where they thankfully found a little cruiser that would suit their needs, and
putting some newfound tractors to use we headed out to find and fix our power problem.
Happy Birthday! It was mynocks! We were lamely under-armed, juggling Val’s gun like we were passing around a hookah pipe as we took turns scrambling for anything else to help us. They attacked and latched onto Val and Jas. Shorty impressively and cleanly axed one, and someone blasted another. I dim-wittedly tried to use my shock glove before I remembered they like that shit and stood up, hysterically ready to resort to fisticuffs when Val, ever the cowboy, snatched his gun back and blasted the mynock at point-blank.
Just like that. They were gone. We were somehow, miraculously not dead. Someone asked me to see to the ripped up hull because they were busy patching suit breeches. I can’t really remember rewiring or finding clean transporters, but the next thing I know, I was sealing the panel and the power flowed cleanly to the docking bay. Is this what battle fatigue feels like?
Upon our return, we found R7 dutifully working away on our poor busted boat, playing clueless when we brought up the “ghost” he fretted about earlier, because our whole day kind of felt like a horror novel. He acted like we were the crazy ones, what were we talking about, repairs had been going smooth the whole time we were gone, but then he pulled a three sixty and began to wig all over again, crying ghost ghost!
I’m fixing myself an extra strong drink and taking a nap. Where’s that smelly ewok? I can’t bother to care right now.