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Found 6 results

  1. BabyGabrial

    Final Frontier Exploration

    Mirical is a young girl at the age of 18 years of age. She is african American with light brown skin and green eyes with black hair going down her back. She is a pretty immature but she knows how to do her job. Her job being many different things depending on what job she takes. She and her partner are independent explores. They have their own ship that they use for exploration, mining, and scanning. They call their ship named Mater Et Filia. They go from station to station going around taking jobs and turning them in. They are completely independent contractors. No alliance, no allegiance, no full time employer. They make their own hours as long as the job doesn't have a time limit. That doesn't matter though when they are frequently on the job. She is a good scanner while her partern is an excellent pilot and navigator.
  2. Hi everyone! You probably know me as the one half of Sophie & Pudding, and if you do it means you've probably read some our work we've done together. You've also probably read some of Sophie's solo works, too, and if you haven't, you really ought to, she's great! And I'm not just saying that 'cuz she's my best friend, she writes some of the best fiction in this field. Enough preample-ramble, though. Today I'd like to start sharing with you one of my solo works, something I've been working on these past few weeks; a space opera sci-fi featuring little themes. This is going to be a slow build up and release, and all that I ask is that if you get bored early on, please consider checking back in when more is posted and see if it hooks you then. To say this isn't the usual affair to be found on DD or in this community in general would be a massive understatement >//< Um... So anyway, please like, comment, give thoughts or feedback, even if it's not that much to say, and otherwise enjoy the ride and I hope you all find something you like. I'm gonna do my best bestest to update this daily, hopefully not this late tho! Special thanks to Sophie, Kimmy, Chloe, Selphie, Ana, Ruka, Kerry, Ollie, Trip, and all of my other supporters that have read along with this so far as I've written and given valuable insight and love and support, I couldn't write without you!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 1 There are things you bring with you, there are things you leave behind, there are things that chase you, and those that slip your mind. -Lt. S. B. Danyka, Accounts of the Third Revolutionary War, Vol. II *** I would always remember the smell of blackcurrants. On the day the sky fell dark and rained fire from the clouds, the fields lit up and burned in solidarity to the end of the world. We - both the collective, and the personal - had never seen anything so dreadful, not during our fiercest atrocities we bandied upon one another at the end turn of the century, and not during the sixteen major revolutionary wars that followed. Conflicts so fierce and awful, so passionate and important, that they dissolved borders and governments alike, wars that burned away what had brought us upon ruin’s doorstep and left behind only the scarcest beauty left to rise from the ashes. We were the children of global revolution. We wouldn’t make the same mistakes. We wouldn’t turn on one another, we wouldn’t squabble over land disputes, or taxation. For the first time, the planet earth saw eye to eye. If only we’d known we should have been watching the sky, instead. Irony would have had it, then, that if we were still at war we very likely would have seen them coming in our global state of paranoia. We may have stood a chance. I would always remember the smell of blackcurrants. It had been 2:18 Global Time when the sky darkened, and it had been 2:21g when the fields had burned, licking flames and the sickening scent of fruit boiling with never the chance to leave the branch. It had been 2:46g when I ran through the fire without the courage to steal a glance behind me, knowing to myself that anything left of my life had burned with the berries, caught in the brimstone that swept the surface and cleansed what was left behind. At 3:01g and at ten years old, I became an orphan of the human race. The ragged crimson edges to the thick dark ichor that had once been all there was in the world, land that had once been homes, lives, countries, futures, was oddly beautiful from above. Back then you might have been born in one town and lived there your entire life, existing only to further a bloodline, the very definition of a pointless futility, and yet in those days we clung to our ephemeral existences like they were the most important thing in the world. The screen hissed a microsecond of staticky protest as I fumbled for the kill switch and the image of our scorched Earth disappeared like a long-forgotten ghost. Those fires would burn forever, but my tea was growing cold. *** My feet swung three inches above the floor when I was sitting, even though Skippers were supposed to be appointed quarters and furniture sized proportionately, so when I stood up the cold steel of the floor caught me by surprise the way it always seemed to. I didn’t think many other people would have felt the chill of the metal; conduits beneath the floor kept the entire station at a Comfortable-as-Designated-by-Committee™ temperature. I felt it, though. I felt the cold of the steel, I felt the warmth of the conduits, I felt the warm pleasant buzz of RF interference from the endless bundles of wires that crisscrossed the station like some approximation of a nervous system. I felt us moving, too, despite the fact the inertial dampeners should have suppressed that sensation. That wasn’t to say that anybody else felt it. But we were moving. “Have they found us?” I asked, hoping the answer would be no. One thing the architects had gotten right were the height of the comm panels on the wall - although the prefabricated nature of the station was obvious from the mismatched steel that filled in the hole where the screen should have been, to the overly shiny nature of the screens bezel where it was at eye-level to me. Not much was new around here. “It’s only a routine maneuver, Cadence. Are you poking around in systems you shouldn’t be? You should have known it was routine.” Laurent replied teasingly. He couldn’t help the way he looked down on me, but his face wore the memories of his story in scars that crawled up one cheek giving him the almost comforting appearance of rich mahogany tree bark, and a glassy, contrastingly white eye that served only to fill the hole. He’d paid his price, like I’d paid mine, so I didn’t hold it against him. “I can feel it, Laurent.” “I’m telling you, Cadence, the dampeners are working fine. There is just no way you can feel the station moving, Skipper or not,” he assured me, exasperated. I grinned at him, and he caught himself, either from the sight of my angelic little smile or the fact that it highlighted certain facets about how I looked. Where he resembled chocolate taken halfway to the grater to garnish a birthday cake, I more closely compared to the birthday girl. Porcelain skin so pure it might have looked like a doll to a distance observer, eyes that were violet with inner machinations within their irises that moved the way that clouds did on the stillest of days. Side effects of the fact I was inherently his commanding officer. “You forget yourself, Special Technician Laurent Larson.” “Oh no no, Cadence, don’t even pretend you like that. Are you dressed?” He could only have seen my head and shoulders, making the question one of validity and not perversion. “Should I be?” I shrugged. “We don’t have any Runs today, I double checked the roster, I was going to visit the pool.” “The pool? Well that’s just perfect, Cadence. You’re vetting a new recruit for the Skippers today - you can take them along with you.” I groaned, fingertips running down my cheeks and pulling down the bottom of my eye lids like an overly dramatic child as I breathed out in annoyance, a gesture that only made my honey strawberry hair decide to rebel from its station in much the way I wanted to. I huffed and blew strands of hair back out of my eyes, muttering to myself first, and then to the man on my screen. “Can’t someone else do it? Like Caesen? Or Kisnus? They both love interviewing, and they don’t do anything on their down days except for Skipper things. I want to go to the pool, Laurent. I want to feel the water on my skin,” I cut him off with a finger. “Don’t even start with me, Mister.” His barky cheek folded in on itself as he smiled, and his laugh made me feel like I’d just drank a long glass of warm hot chocolate instead of the blackcurrant tea that now pooled in small cold puddles in the bottom of my glass. “I’m afraid this one’s just for you, Cadence. Special request.” Special request? From who? “There’s something you’re not telling me, I can see it in your eyes, Special Technician.” I called him by rank the same way that parents call wayward children by middle name. I wasn’t sure it had the desired effect coming from a girl who needed a stepping stool to brush her teeth. “It’s classified, Skipper Cadence Cassandra.” Wow, that actually didn’t feel so good thrown back at me. “An order straight from the top of Skipper Command.” I was sure he could see the defiance of my face falling to reluctant acceptance, the dreams of my downtime day at the pool being pulled down the drain hole as though the pool itself was emptying and filling in with standardized questions and personality probing lines of conversation. I knew six languages, and there weren’t words in any of them… wait, maybe German… mm, no. No, there weren’t even words in that dead tongue to represent how crestfallen I felt. So, I just pouted. “Whateveerrrrr,” I sighed dramatically. “7:30g?” “6:30g, actually,” he responded, pointedly not amused. “Argh!! Really?! Laurent!” I cried. “That’s in like half an hour, are you for real right now?” “Have fun, Skipper.” The screen flickered from color to greyscale to one central line and then nothing. A gesture I vastly wished I could replicate. *** I’d been a Skipper for twenty-five years, with some of my uniforms old enough to prove it, and although I could never wear the older models on an actual Run because they wouldn’t be up to code in today's safety charter, they made nice keepsakes all the same. In the old wars, the ones before we learned to know better, pilots would decorate their aircraft with tallies of death that they’d inflicted upon their enemies. Conversely, I kept my old uniforms as a much more somber reminder of how many deaths I’d cheated. The third-generation style was so cute, with the solid boning around the hips, as though deliberately weaving a shape into the fabric was enough to preserve the dignity of the Skipper when the entire populace knew what we were trying to hide. I pushed it aside to seek something newer. It would still fit - I’d not grown since becoming a Skipper and I’d never grow again - but it wouldn’t have been professional. Who would ask for me by name, anyway? I simply wasn’t that special. I got into my underwear, then pulled the lilac colored uniform up over my body, snapping the buckles together in place between my legs and wriggling to make sure the neural interfaces running all throughout the fabric had good clear connectivity with my skin. I didn’t know why I bothered to wear clothing - the air felt the same to me once I was dressed, I always felt naked. I guess that’s why I liked being barefoot on the station. And how else would people see that my toenails matched my fingers? I smirked to nobody but myself as I stepped onto the stool to brush my hair in the mirror, and made some final adjustments to my uniform, before I left my quarters for the foul air that the masses were forced to breathe. In fairness, only a Skipper could have told the difference, which I always figured was why they didn’t invest the additional energy into further purifying the air for the rest of the station - if they couldn’t tell the difference, and it was considered safe, then why waste the energy? It was a pragmatic approach, if not a particularly nice one.
  3. evilengine

    Going on a Safari.JPG

    From the album: evilengine

    New shipment. Time to finally see what all the fuss is about.
  4. FalloutZone

    A couple of RP's

    I've got a couple of super-hero based RP ideas.
  5. Rosy,a girl around 24 losing her job as a space flight engineer, and having to return to her birth planet:
  6. Katelyn Ann

    Space!!!

    From the album: Diapers and Dresses~