In the cloudy straights of Magellan, a shape loomed. The large, sensor-bristled hull remained mostly dormant, a slight blue glow emanating from various windows and engines. The long, dark spine of the ship disappeared into the clouds in either direction, masking the true size of such a ship...
On board, Vinyl Scratch sat in a large, comfy chair behind soundproof glass, a pair of headphones blasting one of her newer selections, running through a large range of songs in preparation for the next broadcast. Ah, it was a hard job, but someone had to do it.
It took a while, but eventually she selected the mix for her next broadcast. Slipping the disk into a nearby slot, she hung up her headphones, straightened her goggles, and headed for the door. On her way through, she picked up a small box, the size of a standard box of cigarettes, and flicked it open- drawing out one of its contents with her teeth. The box was packed full of a strange treat- a long, biscuit-esque stick coated in a thin layer of chocolate, and was something Scratch was particularly fond of. She had long suspected there was a caffeine element in them due to the buzz which seemed to center itself directly behind her eyes, but she had never got around to asking. Slowly sucking away the flaking chocolate from the biscuit core, she walked away from her main studio, up to the bridge, waiting for her guest.
Leaning back in a chair upon the bridge, her feet up on the nearby railing in a laid-back gesture, Vinyl Scratch removed a pair of pictures from the dashboard, where she had left them the day before. One, the picture of David Hale with his blonde acquaintance, and two, the rather...interesting...offer she had recieved to fix her relay system. Comparing the two, she rolled the chocolate biscuit around in her mouth, having already gone through one previous on her way up to her current lurk. Footsteps signalled the approach of her co-anchor onboard, and she smiled to herself.
"Hey. Octavia." she said, doing her best to sound contemplative. It didn't work, and Octavia, behind her, raised an eyebrow.
"Yes? What now?" was her reply, grimacing at the plan that she could already sense in motion.
"What do you think? Are these the same person?" She offered the pictures to Octavia. She examined the first one closely, but when coming to the second one, her face gained a deep, crimson blush. "What...Where did you get this?" She stammered, lost for words.
"Got it sent to me by some plucky mechanic. Jealous?" "Not even a little."
"Aww, you're no fun...Well, she'll be arriving soon, so you'll have plenty of time to compare." She said, spinning around to face her. Octavia rolled her eyes, muttered something about 'yet another crush', and walked away, dropping the pictures in Scratch's lap.
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.
Through the maelstrom of frozen asteroids slips a ship bearing the moniker most befitting of her current surrounds. The Liberty Rogue Destroyer, M.C.F Maelstrom; a scarred, battle-hardened cruiser bearing a torn, disturbed and haphazardly applied patchwork livery which itself stands coated with the thick detritus of spatial existence clumsily meanders through the gauntlet of frozen, dirty water that comprises the outer edges of the Great Barrier.
Her great, prideful engines run ablaze with a deeply mechanical hum. As if rebelling against the very ship they exist in, the engines echo proudly throughout the rough, yet sturdy, chassis of the ancient hulk; the constant, almost comforting growl occasionally interspersed with a metallic shudder as the skeletal hull shifts in shape, creaking and groaning with each lurching movement, offering the image of a ghost ship of folklore.
Alongside the battered flagship, a disfigured aggregation of smaller vessels fly in convoy. Each one of the myriad ships bears her own unique form; having weathered many individual challenges much like their current front-runner. Amongst the kaleidoscopic assortment, vessels identifiable as fighter craft and bombers are discernible. These wingmen, when accounted for, number a half dozen.
The convoy approaches the co-ordinates supplied and, having made no attempt whatsoever to disguise themselves, are to be quickly detected.
For a good few moments, absolute silence reigned between the two groups. Then, with the flicker of a local communications channel, a low groan emanated from the radio.
"Now did I not say something small? I told you docking was an issue..." she sighed slightly. "Well, at least you're here now. Welcome to the hidden alcove of the SBC-Radio.One for the next 48 hours. Enjoy your stay, docking point is to your left, yadayadayada. One ship can moor, i'm not one for throwing elaborate parties, so the rest of the docks are in disrepair. See you soon?"
Onboard, Vinyl grinned, pocketed the photo, and headed towards the airlock.
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.
Upon the rustic, casually laid-out floor of the Maelstrom, the captain and her crew bring the lumbering destroyer to a halt. The throbbing engines lull to a calm idle whilst after a short, almost violent burst caused by the sudden change in attitude, the metallic creaking and shuddering subside, placing the passengers in almost-silence.
The Maelstrom comes to grateful rest amongst the ice, her graceless form clouded by a heavy mist of frozen debris.
In reply to the transmission received, Evangeline pokes a button on the primitive console she'd cable tied to the wall of the cruisers' bridge. The radio crackles into life, a solitary red light indicating it was now operational.
I am Evangeline McDowell. I always travel in anti-style. I'm sure the old battleaxe needs no introduction, but the ships you see around me are mine. They won't give you any trouble unless I tell them too.
There is a brief pause in Evangeline's words, although a continuing flow of static alludes to the channel remaining open throughout.
"Well, why don't you tell me? I was informed by your..."
Scratch coughed lightly, picking her words.
"Hmm...interesting, transmission, that you could get this old wreck broadcasting at full strength once again. And there aren't very many people who I'd trust to show my hidey holes to. People willing to send naked pictures fall into that category, I guess."
There is a small clatter as Scratch changes her position on the bridge, from a mastermind-esque rest in the high-backed chair, gradually sliding down into a lazy slouch.
"And there aren't many mechanics out there that fall into that category, either. So, can I count on you to get it done? I've heard good things about you, after all."
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.
The faceless radio crackles into life again. The Maelstrom now rests at idle, her escort vessels hovering about in varying states from lazily adrift to nonchalantly circling asteroids, as if attempting to keep themselves occupied.
Well.
I can try to get it working again.
There're two reasons why I'm out here.
The first is that you play dubstep.
The second is you're the only one who plays dubstep whose reception I can get at home.
Tell me what's actually broken. Then I can decide what I need to drag over there.
"Hun, if you get it working again, then i'll play all the dubstep you can handle. And thats not even the start of it..." She sighed lightly, frustration showing through her stage persona for the barest moment.
"Alrightie. Lets see...standard sensor array. Five antenna, cross patterning, for maximum 'bounce'...the rest of the sensor suite is undamaged, only that segment. However, there appears to be some damage to the coolant system and the main engine powering the rotator, only pipelines and axles from what I was told...the proper machinery was too heavily sealed to be damaged, only open components suffered."
Going silent for a moment, Scratch made a small 'hmm' of irritation.
"And I have no idea what any of that stuff is."
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.
Once again, the radio piques to life. Sounds like you need cable ties.
I'll be there in a sec. Keep yourself occupied.
The radio goes silent, the apparent lack of static indicating the signal had been terminated.
Several minutes pass before the cargo bay door of the Maelstrom opens. From within the confines of the weightless environment, along with a burst of expelled air, a small, single-seater craft emerges.
A new radio signal, this time from the small ship, breaks the silence.
"Roger that. Opening the bay doors. Scratch, out."
With that, the meagre hanger onboard the ship shunted open, the seamless metal sliding back. The radio turned off at the same moment, as Scratch turned away to head down towards the airlock.
"Cable ties...seriously, cable ties?"
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.
The small drone clumsily manoeuvres its' way past the foreboding hull of the dauntingly large ship, graduating towards the open airlock.
Upon entry to the vessel, the drone scrapes along one of the walls, the loud metallic sound muffled completely by the lack of air. Left behind is an aestheticism displeasing - yet functionally harmless - set of scratches down the side of the previously pristine livery.
Uh.
Oops.
Evangeline sneakingly readjusts her ship and completes docking, hoping no-one had noticed her faux pas. The blast door closes behind her and the port quickly pressurises with atmosphere. Evangeline shuts down the engine and the tiny craft comes to rest on the cold steel grate underneath.
Without hesitation, Evangeline releases the canopy glass and climbs out over the blunted nose cone. She deftly hops to the floor and, after spending a moment composing herself, wanders around to the starboard side of her vessel. She inspects for damage to her own ship and quickly disposes of "borrowed" flakes of paint with the bat of a hand, then flicks a metallic latch open set upon the flanks of the craft. The olive coloured storage pod pops open, revealing within a vast array of both specialist equipment and general-duty hand tools.
Evangeline casually reaches in and retrieves the first of the numerous items packed, a portable device comprising a toolbox-red block with a hose-like device and power cords running out of it. She brings it to rest beside her feet and reaches in for the next item in her lineup, a welders' helmet.
After setting that aside her mysterious red box she stands to attention, scanning her surroundings for her new contractor.
![[Image: DatAssSig.gif]](http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn23/beyer_garratt/Discovery%20Freelancer/DatAssSig.gif)
![[Image: prettypicture.png]](http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn23/beyer_garratt/Discovery%20Freelancer/prettypicture.png)
![[Image: whitedevilsproxy.png]](http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn23/beyer_garratt/Discovery%20Freelancer/whitedevilsproxy.png)