FictionVerse

The Second Sunset, a bar with a certain kind of reputation, cast in a certain light (mostly neon), and with a powerful magnetism for men of a certain mindset. For this certain type of man, Largo was practically the paradigm. He did not believe for a moment that the Second Sunset was a place where the prize for a winning smile was a drink. He knew fine well that the men in the establishment were expected to pay for everyone's pleasure. That was fine, it all would amount to their own by the end of the night. However, it being his favourate bar he'd found a solution to his poverty rather than another establishment, and had kindly relieved a man of the burdensome weight of his wallet on the walk over.
Knowing full well that it would be rude to stand at the bar a moment longer without a drink in hand, he turned to order for himself and Kyran, who had grudgingly agreed to accompany him. Having poured two litres of Bru, the barman stuck out his hand,
"That'll be 42 dollars, mate"
Largo looked astonished. After taking a moment to calm himself, so as not to act in a rash or abusive manner he replied to the barman,
"Fuck off!"
"What did you say?"
"I could get 10 drinks for that much!"
"Don't know where you've been these last couple of months, mate," the barman replied.
"Not around here, I'm afraid" Kyran quickly said, cutting off any furthur violent protest form his companion, "I'm sorry. We're a little out of the loop can you tell us what's been happening?"
"The last two shipments from Earth didn't arrive," the barman replied "All the imported goods are damned expensive now. Inflation's gone wild. The dollar ain't worth a tenth what it was 3 months ago. Everyone's been hard hit. That being the case, I can't just pour these drinks away, so if I could have my 40 bucks?"
"Certainly," replied Kyran, handing over a 50 dollar note, "Thanks."
"What the fuck is this?" Largo whispered, as they took their litres away.
"Something I think Arrat needs to be told. Quickly."

The lights flickered over the short metal table, the patchwork repairs obscured by the long shadows cast by the dim gas lamp on the wall. A plain meal was placed upon the table in the usual central place. The expectation of its flavour kept everyone at work. Or at least pretending. Anything rather than that slop. No-one could be blamed for its repugnant taste. The preservatives that were responsible for its imperishability were also responsible for the destruction of its natural flavour. Still, on long voyages it was a sacrifice well worth making. Better to go a little hungry avoiding your meals than to starve entirely without them. Arrat looked up from his reading towards Sarran, who was manning the pilot's position. No longer in that seat himself, he felt impotent. "How long until we arrive?" "Only ten more minutes until we rope in." Sarran replied without looking over. Arrat grunted. Although he didn't tell his companion, he was feeling impatient, and wished he had the distraction of her job to keep his mind off the fact. It seemed ridiculous. 3 months he had been without setting foot off the Japara and now with only ten more minutes to go he was finally becoming impatient to return to the ever-changing geography of Port Adelaide. Perhaps it was because he had been onboard the ship so long that he was now so eager to find himself outside of it, the end to his self-inflicted incarceration. In a brief moment of panic he imagined that the apprehension might show on his face. He worried that someone might see him as he felt he was, a wide-eyed child, eagerly visiting the city for the first time. He buried his nose furthur in his book. -Clank-Clanck-Smack- - -Clank-Clank-Smack- - -Clank-Clank-Smack- - -Clank-Clank-Smack- Largo sat lazily in the observation deck, throwing and catching a ball he had been playing with since he acquired it on his last visit to Port Adelaide. He stopped to glance up at Kyran, who was staring with wonder out of the obs. deck windows at the cityscape passing them by as they headed toward the designated docking platform. Hundreds of thousands of great sheet-metal balloons towered over gargantuan furnaces, which held an incredible assortment of houseboats in suspension. Lashing them together were the flexible plastic walkways through which the distant sun refracted producing a network of thousands, tens of thousands of sparkling ever-changing colours throughout the city. In the centre, towering above all the others, the giant dome of the 10km tall balloon of Adelaide's central plaza was alight with the sun's reflected radiance. He sniffed. It didn't impress him. -Clank-Clanck-Smack- - -Clank-Clank-Smack- Gently, with the aid of the winds of the great gas-giant Lucifer, The Japara drifted into the docking clamps of Adelaide. The docking platform was teeming with people. Energy sifters like the crew of the Japara could be seen walking the corridors of bureaucracy all around the platform. Quick and efficient, experience had taught them to make their passage through hell as brief as possible. Dock workers swarmed about these confident figures like ants, their rough blue uniforms lending them the same anonymity. A few tourists and new arrivals stood out from the crowd, islands of confusion in the uniform-blue sea of headless organisation. As a member of the first of these groups, Arrat was far too busy to pay attention to this scene. "Watch that OG unit- I only want to pay for the damage I've done to it!" he shouted after a couple of dockers who were busily removing the Japara's vital organs for servicing. "That’s the most passionate I've seen you in a month," Sarran remarked, watching him from the mouth of the plastic docking walkway, "You might actually be interesting if you thought we were ripping you off too." "We are, aren't we?" said Largo, emerging from the walkway, shortly followed by Danube and Kyran. The plastic tube refracted a brilliant spectrum of colours as it warped slightly under their weight. "No, we gave up on that idea," Danube replied glibly, "We figured you'd be too dumb to keep it a secret." Arrat's brow furrowed with concern for a moment, as if he had a fleeting worry that they were telling the truth. "So, we're back in Port Adelaide. Which bar are we hitting first?" Largo asked, a Cheshire-cat grin spreading across his face. "No bar until we've got some money to spend in it." replied Sarran. The realisation of his current poverty took the wind out of Largo's smile. It drooped into a faint look of despair. "Business before pleasure." Sarran told him. "You mean business before we can afford any," Largo said unhappily, "Can't we get Arrat to deal with the Governor? He's best at it." "Yeah, The Gov'll agree to anything just to end the awkward silence!" Danube added. "We're holding out solidly for the full amount he agreed upon when we left." Sarran told her crewmates "After all, the harvest was better than expected- we nearly overloaded the batteries," and looking at Largo added "Besides that, what do you and your empty wallet plan to do in the meantime?" sinking him again into despair, from which he was thankfully fished out by Kyran. "Largo can always find a lucky someone to buy him a drink when he’s in Port." "Alright, alright, I'll go with Arrat and you try your luck" she conceded, "just don't sell the ship for beer money while we're gone." Arrat and Sarran walked the route to the Governor's offices in the Central Plaza. Gladly this was one of the few routes in Port Adelaide which was not as transient as the city's cloudy foundations. Only a few streets in Adelaide were like this one; permanent. Most often these were gigantic thousand-houseboat docking tubes, vast, flailing tendrils of the Central Plaza. The majority of the city streets were simply docking tubes run between the obs. platforms of houses, which were open to the public. Tens of thousands of houseboats were networked together to form some districts. With so many people living in a district, there were invariably some who were planning on leaving. There were also always new arrivals, and so the city was forever sprouting new streets. With so many people coming and going, routes through such districts had to be revised almost daily. People who were new to Adelaide would often be found staring in frustration by a sealed docking portal, late for work or missing a date because someone had decided to emigrate and had sailed away with the street. Navigating Port Adelaide was a skill which took years to perfect. Luckily, the main docking platform and the Central Plaza were considered important enough to merit a permanent link. Hurrying through the crowds of people, and past merchants promising moons on sticks, the two walked up the staircase into the government offices. They were at the plaza to make money, not spend it.

Things that are going on in my corner of the Fictionverse:

Section 31 has moved to a new domain. There are a few interesting things going on there, which you can read about here.

The Solidarity Fictionship "Shrove Tuesday" is also being assembled; my friend Hussein has allowed my imaginary friends to squat his forum. There's currently three crewmembers on the Cast List, and Garlow and Calvin will be added to their numbers shortly. These five will be the Fictionship's skeleton crew while we await new members.

Trek Updates and Links...

The USS Dark Raven has been taken out of action, and Calvin now serves aboard the USS Wraith.

The USS Firestarter has had an outbreaking of monkey business, and the tantalising possibility of a full vulcan lobotomy...

check back for regular updates

FICTIONVERSE EXCLUSIVE!!!
Also recently uncovered, paranoid documents from within the structure of Section31 come to light...quote 'We have a problem. I think that Garlow is a security threat and so is his m8 the lord nobody. should we get rid of these 2???????'

will the excitement never end?

To see Lord Lieutenant Howling Lord Nobody help to boost the faith-fuelled drive, Calvin missing his ship and Garlow drawing down the power of the Q, visit...

trek threads

Calvin marched into engineering, muttering to himself 'cunthairs' and bearing a bundle tied to a stick, carried over his shoulder. "Beautiful it was! glorious operation set-up! I was about to march into the maw of madness!"

Garlow stirred a pot of warm tea with slugs in it with a small wooden stick, and offered it to calvin as he rolled his bedmat out on the floor of engineering. 'Swallow the slugs - don't chew. I'll collect them from the other end.'

Calvin slurped up the slimy delicacy and murmured his thanks. 'Don't mind if I kip down here, do you? They've evacuated the USS Dark Raven...the whole of this ship is overrun with refugees now, and this seemed like a quiet spot.'

'What on earth happened?' asked Garlow

'Rumour has it sabotage by section 31 - an inside job!'

'No!'

'Aye', and so Calvin launched into the recital of all that had heretofore far befallen him...

===
===


The Holodeck doors wheezed open on the battletorn corridor of the USS Dark Raven; and a barrage of rosy red apples bust forth, knocking Mike, the tin man, from his feet. Calvin was crouched to one side of the door, holding onto his hat.

"Ye Gods! Mike!" he cried, and scrambled over to help him as the doors swooshed closed.

'Thems was powerful apples,' said Mike, rising to his feet. 'I don't understand it! I'm a Generation 13 hypermech battledroid with 16 subspace stabilising gyros - fruit shouldn't knock me over!'

'A Generation 13 hypermech battledroid with 16 subspace stabilising gyros you may be - but to that Holodeck you're just a tin man...now, remember this time - fiction can HURT!'

The doors swooshed open again, and another barrage of apples ensued, Mike safely out of their way this time. The barrage ended as the supply of apples apparently ran out, and inside they could hear the gutteral mutterings of their assailants;

'rape you, we will, rape your eye sockets, shit down yor spine!' they said, 'run out of apples, buggritt.'

The Starfleet crewmen stepped through the holodeck doorway...Calvin's raincoat reassuringly increased in weight as the holodeck automatically upgraded his personal armoury with belts of ammunition; around his hands materialised a pair of black leather gloves. He issued the command:

'Tracy Torme...the big goodbye...published 1934, by Ardon Broht of Broht & Forrester...chapter 13...nikki the nose...violin case...open'

the Barrel-magazine machinegun gently dropped into his hands. Mike's armoury similarly boosted itself with holographic augmentations. The doors winked shut and out of existence behind them...they were in a dark, dark woods, and encircling them were a dozen apple trees, gurning hideously with malign expressions twisted into their bark.

'Hmmm...this is interesting,' said Calvin, tossing an apple into the air and catching it, 'these apples are a hybrid of the tree of knowledge, and ...something else...The ground, beneath our feet; look at it! It's cracked, and dirty, and overgrown with the roots of these trees' - who at this mention spat out 'bugritt' - 'but those are definitely yellow bricks!' An apple knocked the hat off Calvin, and he absent mindedly picked it up again. 'Yes, yes, we'll get to you soon,' he waved dismissively to the irritable trees. 'Don't you see, Tin Man? They've activated Oz, and inserted elements of their own program into this simulation!'

'Who's "they"?' asked Mike

'They? Why, the demons...or should i say, the fallen! Formerly of th'Angelic Host, now lately plung'd into the fiery pit, punishment for insubordination, envy, pride and jealousy! Lucifer the Morningstar and best of all in Heaven's ranks rebelled, renamed the dark Lord Satan, monarch of Hell...it's all in Milton, Paradise Lost...but now they've burst the genre boundaries, and have invaded all the other holodeck simulations!'

A cackling, and a crash of thunder, heralded the entrance of the Dark Lord, stalking backwards with limbs ajerk in pain, like every nerve fibre was aflame. By his side was the twitchy greenfaced wicked witch; a long and warty nose adorned her face, and her little clawlike hands clutched at a broomstick. Tossed onto a grassy bank, under the muttering trees, was the kansas girl, Dorothy, trussed up and bound and gagged, and being poked and prodded viciously by their branches.

'...and then you'll never guess what happened...' said Calvin to Garlow, slurping down the last of his slugsoup brew.

'What happened?' asked Garlow

'well, just as i was squaring up to take on Milton's Satan with the very weapon once used by Picard of the Enterprise to slay a borged up member of his crew, the powergrid begins to fail!'

'No!'

'Yes!'

'teehee'

'And Satan was like "whassat?" and I was like "whassup?"...and so the holodeck shuts down...just yellow grid patterns you know?

'Mike and I made it to an escape pod, and transfered here, to the Firestarter. As we left, a recording of Danny McGowan of Section 31 was played over the comm system, gloating...it seems the computer core was wiped ...invaluable data lost!'

'Dear Lord!' cried Garlow in disbelief; 'how barbaric. But, for the future, always remember to keep your work backed up!'

this is something i wrote for a trek roleplay group, and you can find the original post here. . This introduces Ensign Calvin, the holodeck specialist on a ship packed with guns and missiles.

Holodeck Engineering Specialist Group: Ensign (Eng) Posts: 2 Member No.: 36 Joined: 25-November 04

holodeck maintainance log, stardate (future) somewhere, deep within the city, a phone was ringing... ring ring ring ring dodging the bullets rippling toward me in slo-mo, i yelled 'computer, freeze program!', and the bullets zipped past, missing my head by an inch and spattering up chalky plaster dust from the wall and into me eyes. Sometimes these simulations were a little *too* realistic. Somewhere over the noise of gunfire i could hear the computer's placid female voice saying something about a program error. Meanwhile dixon hill's desk was splintering into pieces beneath me, and i emptied out both my revolvers into the door, shattering the glass and provoking colourful cursing from my fictional foes. As tentacles burst forth through the doorway, the telephone reciever landed in my hand and i heard a voice. mcvey: ensign calvin calvin: admiral! I'm rather busy at the moment! (at this point i was on my feet and running up the walls away from the big slobbering nasty after me) calvin: i'm afraid the dixon hill files got corrupted, and some of the daemonic subroutines from Paradise Lost have bled into the plotlines! The genre boundaries have all but collapsed! mcvey: there's a lot of explodey-splodey going on out here, ensign, and we need good engineers! Report to your commanding officer immediately! calvin: aye, sir. emptying the endless stream of uzis produced from my mac into my tentacular pursuer, i called forth the computer: "ARCH!", and dived through, depositing a holdall full of grenades into the centre of dixon's office and damaging my right shoulder as i collided with the bulkhead opposite the holodeck entrance. The explosion from within the holodeck was muted by the civilised swish-swooshing of the closing doors. I lifted myself to my feet, and made for the nearest turbolift, asking for Battle Bridge 2. I entered Battle Bridge 2, still wearing my Dixon Hill mac and hat. Lt. General Zark't looked extremely busy issuing orders to his crew, and there certainly was a lot of explodey-splodey on his widescreen television set, so rather than disturb him I skulked to my engineering post, and began to assess ship damage and respond accordingly.