The Devil's Due: a ship, a cult, and a very opinionated parrot. With Goodman's Eris-fueled visions and Polly's questionable life advice, it's a wonder they haven't crashed into a black hole yet.
Quick Facts:
Class: "Bulwark" Bristol-Kress Heavy Explorer Launched: 07.11.834 Builder: Bristol Constructor Yards Maximum Crew Size (Necessary Crew): 150 (50) Endurance:
3 Months Food/Water
2 Months Fuel at 2 sorties/day
Sean stepped onto the bridge, the cool, sterile air brushing past him. The vessel, the Devil's Due, was still new, the gleam of fresh metal and the scent of oil sharp in the air. Many of the secondary consoles were still shrouded in protective film, a stark contrast to the worn equipment he was used to from the Gryphon.
"Morning, crew," he greeted the Bristol technicians, their rigid posture and sterile efficiency a stark contrast to the chaotic energy he was used to on the Gryphon. He couldn't wait to replace them with a real crew, a motley assortment of misfits and dreamers, more accustomed to the chaos of the cosmos.
The helmsman, a young woman with a serious expression, nodded. "We're ready to initiate the final burn to Freeport 11, Captain. Estimated travel time is thirteen hours."
Sean nodded, his gaze scanning the bridge. "Activate the autopilot," he ordered, his voice echoing in the silent chamber.
Just as the ship began to hum with the activation of the autopilot, a raucous squawk cut through the silence. "Auto-pilot no!" A colorful parrot, perched atop a console, regarded Sean with a critical eye.
Sean blinked, his eyebrow twitching. "Polly, really? Now?"
The parrot squawked in response, its beady eyes fixed on the viewport. "Auto-pilot no," it insisted, its voice surprisingly clear and authoritative.
A few hours passed, the tension on the bridge palpable. The parrot, Polly, had proven to be an unexpected source of anxiety. Its intermittent squawks, warning of unseen dangers, had kept the crew on edge. The usual routine of the autopilot was disrupted, replaced by a tense vigil.
Then, as if on cue, the universe decided to throw a curveball. A meteor shower, a sudden and violent storm of cosmic debris, erupted from the void, hurtling towards the Devil's Due. The crew, still at their stations, reacted swiftly. Sean's voice, calm yet urgent, cut through the chaos. "Divert secondary engine power to shields!"
The ship shuddered as the meteoroids struck its hull. Sparks flew, alarms blared, and the bridge crew scrambled to maintain control. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was a sense of satisfaction. The parrot, its mission complete, squawked contentedly, as if it had orchestrated the entire event.
Finally, as the last meteor streaked past, the Devil's Due emerged from the storm, battered but unbroken. The docking port of Freeport 11 loomed ahead, a beacon of safety. The crew, exhausted but relieved, prepared for the final leg of their journey.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the hum of machinery. Sean stood on the loading dock, a mountain of iridium ore looming before him. Two zoner merchants, each with their own spiel, vied for his attention. "Highest quality, best price," one claimed. "Direct from the asteroid fields," the other countered.
Sean sighed. He could spend hours haggling, weighing the pros and cons of each deal. But he had a better idea. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he called out, "Polly!"
A colorful blur darted out from the cargo hold, landing on Sean's shoulder. "Alright, bird brain," he said, pointing at the two zoners. "Pick one."
The parrot squawked and hopped from shoulder to shoulder, examining the two merchants with a critical eye. After a moment of deliberation, it pointed a beady eye at one of the zoners. The chosen zoner beamed, while the other slumped in disappointment.
"Well, there you have it," Sean announced. "The Oracle has spoken."
The Bristol crew, watching the bizarre spectacle, exchanged amused glances. They were eager to return to the safety and routine of their shipyard. The Consortium, with its chaotic missions and eccentric captains, was a far cry from the structured world they were accustomed to.
The Bristol crew, their faces a mix of relief and disappointment, packed up their belongings. Their time on the Devil's Due was coming to an end, and they were eager to return to the familiar confines of Bristol Shipyards.
As the last crate was lifted off the ship, Sean's crew, a motley assortment of misfits and dreamers, arrived. They were a far cry from the rigid, by-the-book Bristol technicians. Their laughter and boisterous chatter filled the air, a stark contrast to the previous silence. This crew, loyal to Sean and the spirit of the Gryphon, had been carefully selected. Sean had used a combination of persuasion, promises, and a bit of bribery to lure them away from their various assignments and bring them together once more.
To celebrate the handover, Sean had organized a unique event: a musical chairs grand championship. The crew, both old and new, gathered on the bridge, their eyes sparkling with anticipation. As the music blared, they circled the chairs, their movements a chaotic ballet.
The competition was fierce, with each participant determined to claim the final seat. The parrot, Polly, perched on the console, watched the spectacle with a mix of amusement and disdain. As the music slowed and stopped, the crew scrambled for the remaining chairs. In the end, it was a young, wide-eyed technician who emerged victorious.
With the festivities over, Sean turned his attention to the ship, his new command. As he stepped onto the bridge. The future was uncertain...
Sean jolted awake, a startle jolting through him. The insistent squawking of Polly, his feathered first mate, was the culprit. "What now, bird brain?" he grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Polly, perched on the headboard, pointed a beady eye at the ceiling. A rhythmic dripping sound echoed through the cabin. Sean sat up, his heart pounding. A leak? Not again. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and He rushed to the viewport, yanking open the curtains. The cold, vacuum of space greeted him, but something was amiss. A large, crystalline mass, glinting in the starlight, was floating outside the viewport. As he zoomed in, he realized it was a frozen block of liquid, its shape vaguely reminiscent of a bottle.
A wave of realization washed over him. The gin. The infamous gin shipment, the subject of countless jokes and whispered conspiracies. A shipment so large, it could supply Freeport 11 for a year, maybe two, if he could resist the temptation of the bar.
A wry smile crept across Sean's face. "Well, this is a fine mess," he muttered. He'd heard the jokes about the ship being a floating distillery, but he hadn't expected them to come true in such a literal sense.
Eris-givings, a holiday celebrated with a mixture of irreverence and gluttony, was in full swing on the Devil’s Due. The crew had gathered in the mess hall, a motley assortment of misfits and dreamers, each contributing a dish to the potluck feast. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meats, spiced vegetables, and, of course, copious amounts of alcohol.
At the heart of the festivities was a game of Drunken D&D, a chaotic blend of role-playing and revelry. The dice rolled, the laughter echoed, and the spirits were high. However, a small problem threatened to derail the merriment. The rum, the lifeblood of the ship, was locked away in the bar, its key mysteriously missing.
Polly, the mischievous parrot, was the prime suspect. The bird, ever the opportunist, had absconded with the key, relishing the power it bestowed upon her. The crew, desperate for their libations, resorted to desperate measures. Some tried to coax Polly with treats, others attempted to reason with her, and a few even resorted to threats. But Polly, emboldened by her newfound power, remained unmoved.
Finally, Sean, armed with a hastily assembled flamethrower, appeared on the scene. "Alright, Polly," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Hand over the key, or I'll cook you like a holiday turkey."
The parrot, sensing the seriousness of the threat, squawked in surrender and dropped the key from its beak. The crew erupted in cheers, and the party resumed, the rum flowing freely. As the night drew to a close, Sean couldn't help but smile. Even on the strangest of holidays, the Devil's Due always managed to find a way to celebrate.
