Heirs Of Icarus | IC | Closed

by **Olthenia** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 5:08 am

HEIRS OF ICARUS

OPs: Olthenia / Lazarian

ACCEPTED CREWS / PLAYERS:

The Smelt-Mongers / G-Tech Hegemony
Ari & Asti's Misadventures / Lunas Legion
The Ghosts of Kaggen / New Socialist South Africa
The Band of Brothers / High Earth
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G / GAmeTopians
The Vanguard of the Seven Seals / Confederacy of Commonwealth States
The Distant Lights / Ovstylap

ALL CREWS START WITH:

-12 Cycles of time, each a rough 2-hour interval.

-1000 Credits to their respective accounts.

Spend them wisely.

A buzz echoes through the cramped room, low and metallic, yanking you out of whatever dreams had taken root in the artificial sleep haze. The pod lights flicker to life, bathing the steel walls in a cold, clinical glow. A perfect cube of pale light, devoid of warmth. The bed barely counts as such—just a vinyl-lined slab extending from the wall—but it did the job, enough to take the edge off last night’s pre-mission jitters. Not that you’ll be putting your guard down anytime soon. Not here.

Welcome to Daedalus. Scav-Town.

The ventilation hums above you, struggling against the stale, recycled air that fills the lungs just shy of satisfaction. The Daedalus Annex, a grim little UN-backed outpost at the heart of this sectioned-off stretch of Icarus Station, is probably the closest thing to civilization you’ll get out here. Cheap hotel pods. Instant meals. Flickering blue holo-ads pushing breathing masks, emergency supplies, and "essentials for your return journey." They don’t call it Daedalus for nothing—it’s just enough comfort to get you close to hell, but hardly enough to bring you back.

Outside, the winding corridors of Daedalus are packed with other freelancers like yourself, all sporting gear scuffed by the grit of a dozen worlds. Some faces are hidden behind synthmasks, others wear the thousand-yard stare of those who've spent too long staring into the black, hunting for ancient relics, classified tech, and anything of value left behind on Icarus. There’s a look to people who do this work—a little hollow, a little hungry. And today, you’re just another face in that crowd.

You pull your clothes from the locker with its screeching hinges and suit up. Outside the tiny viewport, a cold star stares into the heart of Icarus Station, throwing its dead surfaces into sharp relief. The station has long since drifted into legend, a failed experiment from another time, its original purpose lost to layers of classified documents and decaying archives. No one knows why it disappeared into the black, and the UN’s not exactly rolling out the welcome mat on that topic. It’s rumored that Icarus - beyond its glittering spires and bustling habitation-domes - housed technology meant to unlock secrets no one should ever have touched, let alone meddled with.

And there are other rumors, too. Of voices in dead comm channels. Of light in parts of the station long disconnected from power. They say Icarus watches those who enter, like some terrible thing finally woken after decades of slumber.
Drek, of course. And nothing but.

You're here because you know that Icarus' secrets are valuable. Extremely valuable. So valuable that you’d risk your life—and possibly your mind—to extract them from its cold metal heart. Whatever you can find, whether it’s locked deep in data cores hidden in the core labs, or left by the dead hands of those who didn’t survive its halls, is worth the risk.

The door to your pod hisses open, a reminder of the station’s strange hum that you can already feel vibrating in your teeth. There’s no real gravity here, just enough artificial pressure to keep you moving, a feeble simulation to mimic the pulse of a station long dead. In the corridor, a few UN officers in dark, armored suits watch from a nearby hatchway, nodding to each other in hushed tones as you walk by. Their helmets betray no emotion, but something in the way they stand tells you they're waiting for the chaos to begin.

A message pings on your comms:

"Greetings, new arrivals. The time is 08:00, Standard Earth Time. UN-secured channel."

Your skin prickles with a sense of foreboding that you can’t shake, the itch of being watched by something unseen.

Mind the dark.

SEEKING NEW RECRUITS

Your crew - loyal and capable though you both are - need more hands. Not only to make lighter the labors of exploration, after all - but to share the dangers. The threats and terrors. And the cameraderie also, such as it is. Fortunately? - not too far from your modest container-cot lies an establishment perfectly fit for such a purpose.

THE VACUUM SEAL
A dimly lit hole-in-the-wall, heavy with artificial smoke and the murmur of a dozen different dialects. The lighting strips flicker occasionally, casting strange shadows across the faces of potential crew members scattered throughout the establishment.
[Here they be - one and all. Friends. Fresh hires. Mercenaries.]

DAEDALUS ANNEX

The modest slice of heaven that you call home:

ROADS TO GLORY

And pathways to ruin:

OTHER DISTRICTS

To explore, or avoid, as sense and reason dictates - and desperation demands:

by **Lunas Legion** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 6:59 am

Ari & Asti's Misadventures
Week I

"Goooooood morning Icarus!"

Asti was long since used to the fact that Ari was an utterly unbearable morning person, and that she herself was very much not. This was just an unfortunate fact of life. The bed had been uncomfortable, but she had least had the consolation that Ari had been sleeping on the same tyep of vinyl-covered slab she had. She felt her muscles ache as she pushed herself upright. It was a far cry from the luxury apartments they were used to, back on Terra proper.

Walls of bare dull steel illuminated by harsh, pale white lights. Air ventilators gently hummed, barely on the edge of hearing.

"You up, Asti?!" Ari perked up. Asti winced as she turned towards her, the sleek silver Niron 3000 video camera strapped to her hand, the lights on the front signaling the life within.

"Yeah." Asti mumbled groggily. "You filming?"

"Yup!" Ari giggled. "First day on Icarus! As you can no doubt see, dear viewers, it's a far cry from the comforts you've seen on this channel before. Not even a pillow or mattress in sight! There isn't even a carpet!"

"You could have asked me to film you waking up." Asti pointed out. Ari turned the camera away from Asti, letting her get out of bed and dress herself off camera. Instead, she pointed it out the tiny viewport of their hotel room. A lonely cold star sat in the dark void, a white pupil in the black eye of space.

"No doubt you've all heard of Icarus." Ari said, leaning in to the camera, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The myths, the legends. Even something about curses! The dry, dull facts, though. No one knows why it vanished, or at least no one that's willing and able to speak to the glorious masses. Hell, no one knows what it's original purpose was. Some say it was a science station originally, and everything else grew up around the corporate black sites and the immoral at best and illegal at worst research that funded the rest of the station. Others say it was a pleasure station, an isle of paradise created, well..." Ari giggled. "For people like me and Asti, and everything else grew around that, to serve it. I suppose that's moot now."

Asti had finished suiting up by then, so Ari turned the camera back to her. She wore an orange jumpsuit, matching Ari's own, which clashed with her neon green hair and dark skin. Ari's own hair, was, of course, a contrasting neon blue.

"But anyways." Ari continued, handing the camera over to Asti, who pointed it at her, posing against the viewport. Ari smirked. "I'm afraid it won't be just us soon enough! That's right dear viewers, we're getting a third member! Don't know who yet, but it turns out Icarus has tastes. Like any gourmand. But Icarus, being a station, has unusual tastes. See, from what Asti heard while she was getting the lay of the land yesterday, Icarus likes threes. Go in with four people, three or less come back. Five? Only two return. Six?" Ari laughed. "Six is right out. You go in with three. No more. Less? Well, then you've got a death wish. Some say it's the old Imperial maintenence protocols. They're logged for three-man teams. More or less triggers the security protocols. Others say it's something more unusual, something that moved in while Icarus was voyaging through the darkness. Something that likes threes, like one of those old gods of myth."

"But that means we need a third member! And Asti found a place, a cute little bar called The Vacumn Seal, so we're gonna go and check it out! That's all for now, dear viewers, Ari signing off, and make sure to check back next episode, you'll meet our newest member!~"

Asti shut the camera off. "So. Ari, you, uh... Had any thoughts about... Anything?"

"Sure have." Ari grinned. "We go to this cute little bar you found, we recruit someone. Our third. After that? Well, you mentioned all these ways onto the station proper, right?"

"Y-yeah." Asti nodded. "You've got the J-17 Maintenence Access Shaft, The Promenade, Hydroponics Bay 2, which implies a Bay 1 and hypothesises-"

"A big word. Hypothesises." Ari giggled, but waved for Asti to continue.

"A Bay 3. The Refugee Sector and Cargo Bay Alpha. They've all got their own known approach runs."

"Yeah. Well, they're also all kind-of boring, except the Promenade. You know our viewers as well as I do, Asti. They aren't gonna want to see the slum or the greenhouse or the cargo bay. They want the glitz! The glamour! The fallen paradise in all its formerly luxurious glory! Club Nebula, Asti. There's still stories about it from those who visited decades ago and were off station when Icarus vanished! It was the place to be and be seen! And so we need to go there, and everywhere else there. You've seen those explorer channels do well with boring old ruins, imagine how well the first proper footage out of Icarus will do!"

Asti knew better than to argue, so she just nodded in agreement. You couldn't reason with Ari when she was like this, and she wasn't exactly wrong either. Recruitment, and then to walk the Promenade. It sounded so nice when put like that. Like a relaxing stroll, even when she knew it would almost certainly be anything but.

"Come on then." Asti said, starting towards the door, camera in hand and clasped tightly. "We've got a third to find first, then equipment to buy, I have a few friends to talk to, and then all of Icarus to explore."

by **High Earth** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 8:09 am

Week One

“Seriously Kris, this is a hacker chick. Do you realize what an opportunity this is? She has useful skills, and she is at least a 7.”

Kris had left the room to hear his brother’s opinion on who they should recruit, after all if anyone believed in the rule of three, it was Kris. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead casting eerie shadows among the mercy up for hire. Lisa definite had a useful se of skills, but Kris was also considering Ace seeing as he didn’t exactly trust his brother to be the people person.

“I mean… you are right, Ace may be able to score us some extra credits though…”

Seth shook his head disappointedly, his green eyes piercing the mass of hair on his face. Kris still wasn’t sure how Seth was able to grow a beard so big while Kris was completely unable to grow any facial hair.

“Listen, do you really want that crap sack at your back while we are descending into the cold darkness?”

He had a point. Ace had seemed like a narcissist what with the completely rehearsed movements and immaculate appearance.

“Good point, let’s put our bid up for her, those skills would be invaluable while we are scavenging.”

Morale: 0
Dread Accumulated: ?
Credits: 775
-225 (military MRE’s)
-? (Equipment shopping)
-0 (tent housing)

Cycles
-Looking for a third member putting a bid up for Lisa Chen. Hello there, we have decided to let you join our team? Wait, you already got an offer… from some influencers? Would you seriously rather put your life in the hands of some social media stars only here for views, or two young men here in the prime of their lives who are filled with chivalry like me and my brother here. (-1 cycle)
-Buy/Sell Shopping for essential scavenging equipment. Zero pressure suits, oxygen tanks etc looking for it at megamart Going down there without basic equipment is obviously a death sentence. (-3 cycles)
-Delving Will start scavenging in Maintenance Access J-17. Every journey starts with a single step.(-3 cycles)
-Sleep Sleeping in the tents. Everyone needs to sleep, jut an unfortunate fact of life.(-3 Cycles)
-Skill Spend some time in basic physical training; push ups, cardio, general exercise. No pain, no gain.(-2 Cycles)

by **New Socialist South Africa** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 9:21 am

Week 1
The Ghosts of Kaggen: Nolwazi and Mhambi Xasana
The Vacuum Seal, Daedalus Annex

The twins jostled their way through the busy cramped alleys of Daedalus, their black coats rustling slightly in the artificial breeze of the ventilation. Desperate faces all around, mixed with the stern scarred faces of veterans of brutal conflicts.

“There is a beauty in this chaos, don’t you think?” Nolwazi asked.

“As much as there was a chaos in the beauty that came before” replied Mhambi, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Named for a maze designer who was imprisoned in his own labyrinth does the name hint at the fate of us who dwell here?”

“Perhaps, particularly if it takes after the station as a whole, unless Icarus rises again after flying too close to the Sun.”

“Perhaps, but either way, we shall need a third if the rumours are to be believed, and it would be best to not test fate, especially after just having arrived.” Nolwazi spotted a seedy shebeen. “Now that looks like back home in Soweto” said Nolwazi with a smile, “we may find our third head in there.”

The twins slipped silently into the shadowy saloon. A handsome man in tactical gear was regaling a crowd with tales of his exploits. “Too showy” whispered Mhambi, “we need to stick to the shadows”. Nolwazi nodded. A mix of strange men and women sat all around, sipping drinks or muttering to themselves. A crash from the corner booth drew their attention to a friendly looking young woman in an orange pressure suit. The twins watched as a pair of young glitterati in orange clothes approached her and struck up a conversation. The young woman boasted about her hacking skills, as the glitterati spoke about getting likes. After the glitterati left another duo, Kuiper Belt Cannibals by the look of them, propositioned the same young woman.

“A hacker could be useful” mused Nolwazi.

“Indeed” mused Mhambi, “but we don’t want to draw undue attention to ourselves, and as lovely as the girl seems, I’m not sure we can afford clumsiness.”

“Agreed” said Nolwazi. Her eyes moved over to an old man hunched over by the bar sipping vodka, one arm a chrome cyberware contraption. “Now an old-timer who knows Icarus, he could be able to help guide us through the dark and doesn’t seem as likely to draw attention to himself”.

Mhambi nodded in agreement. The moved out of the shadows and made their way over to the bar, drawing up seats next to him.

“Two vodkas on the rocks” said Nolwazi to the bartender, “and another for the gentleman” she said, nodding over at the man.

The man raised his drink to toast them in thanks. He spotted them looking at his arm. "Yeah, been doing this longer than you've been breathing, kid." He straightens up, wincing as his back protests. "Sixty-eight next month, if you're wondering. Still got more salvage hours than anyone in this dump." He takes a sip, ice clinking. "Looking for a crew. Again. Last bunch couldn't hack it - too soft for what's really out there.” He sipped his vodka before extending his human hand. “Name is Tony Morrison, but everyone round here calls me Gramps”.

“A pleasure. I’m Nolwazi, this is my sister Mhambi. We’re looking to do some exploring in the dark for our contractor, and you look like a man who knows his way around the dark and can do a good job of not drawing unneeded attention to yourself in the process. That is exactly what we are looking for. Rest assured; we know how to not draw too much attention to ourselves either. In fact, we have quite the talent for moving back into the shadows until danger passes when we need to. So, what do you think?”

“I’m in” said Gramps with a smile.

“I’ll drink to that” said Nolwazi with a smile.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 9:28 am

The Week of Purloined Breath

The Smelt-Mongers

It was early when the Captain shook himself awake, shaggy close-cropped hair sticking out in all directions as he rolled off of the surplus cot. Most of the neon signs that made do for sunlight beneath the warrens of the Annex were still off at this hour, shop owners unwilling to pay the power-creds to lure in the nonexistent patrons of the early hours, aside from those establishments with less than savory clientele. Amalia's cot was empty, but he heard her off-tone humming coming from the small prefab san-cube they had brought with them - barely enough space to squat and rinse your hair in the vapor-tub, but a damn sight better than nothing.

"I'm headed to that dive to scrounge some breakfast."

His voice was rough, sandy almost, not angelic or hard-used. Wasn't much call for talking on the waves, nine times out of ten. Beneath them, even less. If you could get by with hand signals, that was just fine, and meant more charge in the capacitors for welding torches and lights when the going got rough, since you hadn't wasted it on chatter across the comms. Not that he was much of a morning person anyway. Mind was most focused after getting out of sleep, to be sure, but those were good thinking and working hours, not hours to let the brain unwind with idle chatter.

Tough boots with thick grip-soles adorning stiff tanned legs, Jakis trundled through the narrow streets, eyes drinking in the surroundings. It wasn't more than half a dozen minutes before his destination came in sight - some pisshole called the Vacuum Seal, equal parts hive of villain and trucker joint, from where he sat. It felt almost homey, like so many drinking establishments in the Current who had more in common with archaic public houses than slick modern alco-bars. There were probably some tiny rooms crammed in overhead in the rafters which made do for desperate lodgings. The 'mongers hadn't sprung for accommodations like that quite yet, needed to get their feet under them first, but time would tell.

Didn't take much wading before he had a seat in one of the dingy corners of the watering hole. Nursing some mercifully scalding scrambled egg-mix and a stiff beer wasn't exactly his version of a hearty breakfast, but after the docking fees and bureaucratic processing his log was feeling a bit thinner than the mechanic really enjoyed, so dodgy food would have to be dodgy. At least the beer wouldn't give him the shits, like so much water in places with provenance like this. It was omnipresent in the annex - the pallid stink of unwashed bodies and too much humanity without the rejuvenating wind of Terra to keep her from accumulating. Most of his brothers would have felt claustrophobic in this space, without the horizon to anchor them.

Jak didn't love it. But this was breathing space aplenty compared to some of the narrower places he had been in recent years. It was workable, if not enjoyable.

He was nearing the bottom of his first beer when the breakfast customers who got up at a more reasonable hour began to drift in. There was a lot of work today, and the Lady was champing for a dive, to get a good feel for the place they had spent months working toward. He sized up the clientele and loners alike, mind idly looking forward to the week to come. This certainly weren't no Current. But change.

Change could be good.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 1:06 pm

Fissure Science Logging Service
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G: Operation Wax Wings
Time Since Mission Start: +0 Weeks

"Reclamation Team G! Listen up. Dave Johnson here, and I've got a mission briefing that'll knock your socks off. If you're not wearing socks, well, good thinking.

"Now, you've probably already gotten the basics on the 'extracurricular activity' that is Operation Wax Wings - rocket up to a derelict space piñata, smack it until the science comes out, and bring whatever you find back so we can slap a logo on it and make a killing - all for God and Country, of course. But I'm here to emphasize just how important your mission is. See, every nation, company, and two-bit science outfit with basic knowledge of orbital mechanics is trying to grab a slice of the pie you're standing on. But I don't care if you're facing armies of astronauts or a horde of space-faring Boy Scouts with swiss army knives, Fissure Science doesn't lose. If you mess this up, it doesn't just look bad to Uncle Sam, it loses us a critical chance to dominate the industry just as much as we did when I founded this damn company. That means you need to come out on top - and if that involves a little pilfering from the competition or unfortunate accidents, well... the paperwork is filled out by the victors.

"So go forth, Reclamation Team G, and conquer - stay sharp, stay safe-ish, and make good choices. Don't make me come up there, the board would not be happy - or do, I'd love to see the look on Steve Norman's face. Dave Johnson out."

The cheap single track audio player clicked as the memo finished, and the former UNN soldier listening to it passed back the cheap earphones. The pair seated on the other side of the dingy bar table looked at her expectantly, with a small tinge of amusement. Both were in all black garb, fairly basic corporate strike team skivvies with a neon orange logo emblazoned on the lapel. "FISSURE", but the "I" was replaced with a jagged line like what an earthquake might leave behind. The woman had "SUPERVISOR" embroidered beneath the logo, and was the first to speak.

"That's the gist - you'll have to pardon our CEO, he can be... eccentric. But the backing's solid, the whole endeavor is funded by the good old US of A, so you don't have to worry about your old bosses getting in our way, and we've got enough creds to get started. If you've got a pressure suit, mag boots, and a gun, that'd free us up to grab some other good gear - but if not, we're obviously not going to leave you behind or let you delve without a vacsuit. You'll be running security detail, since neither of us have the stomach for more... aggressive encounters, plus you'll be a pair of hands when things get tricky. Anything else we should know before we bring you aboard?"

Fissure Science Reclamation Team G may have been horrendously understaffed, but they were nothing if not prepared. Shopping lists, strategy, even who they were going to approach to fill out the team, everything had been planned well in advance of their first week of delving. Of course, plans rarely survived first contact with trouble, but getting the basics right never hurt anybody. Money would be tight for the first few weeks, that much was certain - but Belinda "Call Me Porter" Porter, the leader of the soon-to-be three man crew, already had some leads for a little software work to keep her and Andrew busy, plus fund a little more gear. And who knew what their first delve might turn up?

The future was looking bright - or dead. But what was eating cake without the asphyxiation and violent death?

1 Cycle: Recruiting - Commander Sarah Blake. Porter and Wilkes were both sharp, to be sure, but they needed company who could take the lead when things got violent. The Commander seemed like she might have some Burned Bridges to contend with, but that was alright - it would just take some planning. And there's no hired gun more loyal than one with skin in the game.
2 Cycles: Exploration - The Truemen. A gaggle of merchants and other tradesmen was a good place to look for equipment and enterprise in equal measure. Here, the team would look to buy their kit and hope to find some quick jobs for Hackers of no small ability.
1 Cycle: Odd Job - Credits were scarce, but going into the maw of the beast without solid gear was just asking for trouble. A UNN job, or perhaps something from the Truemen, could improve their means slightly. Two Hackers for hire were a rare find out here, after all.
1 Cycle: Shopping - 14 hours of shopping seemed plenty for even the longest of shopping lists, and theirs had only the essentials. They got Commander Blake's measurements for her pressure suit if she needed one, but told her to stay home for the shopping spree - if she had in fact Burned Bridges as they suspected, they might as well shop in peace before their association became known.
4 Cycles: Delving (Maintenance Access J-17) - Any station this big would have a veritable labyrinth of access tunnels, and understanding them was the key to conquering the place. So into the labyrinth they'd go, for half a week of investigation.
3 Cycles: Rest - To sleep, to dream, and rise to conquer the day.

SHOPPING LIST (from highest to lowest priority. Spend all credits top to bottom if insufficient credits for all items):
1. Pressure suits (if Sarah doesn't have one, get one for her too)
2. Mag Boots (Scrabbling around in midair is not an efficient means of transportation. Buy for Sarah as well if she doesn't have her own)
3. Crowbar (Just the one. Opens doors, literally, and can bash in a skull in a pinch.)
4. Climbing Gear (The least essential thing on the list, but might be handy in a 3D maze of access tunnels.)
5. Techtool (Any good hacker needs some decent tools.)

Housing: Street Tents (-0) - A temporary arrangement, they all agree, but better than going without a vacsuit.
Food: Nutrient Mush (-75) - This, in particular, would only be for the week - Porter, for her part, longed for MRE rations after the first day. But it would have to do, in exchange for having a full delving kit.

Funds Pre-Shopping: 925

by **Ovstylap** » Fri Nov 15, 2024 3:58 pm

OOC Note: I am aware that I am the last to post and the gubbins are in the works- I hope the characterisation in my app, and within my actions here can suffice for now as its getting late and I'm on sick duty tonight. Perhaps I can get this fleshed out tomorrow before a full update- just didn't want to hold up our OPs!

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sat Nov 16, 2024 2:32 am

[Reserved for... Narrative?]

by **Olthenia** » Wed Nov 20, 2024 11:30 am

TURN ONE

NEWS FLASH -- COURTESY OF REUTERS INTERSTELLAR:

UNEMPLOYMENT HITS 30 YEAR HIGH: GANYMEDE --
It is a bleak time for the residents of Ganymede. The planet and the system are suffering through one of the worst periods of unemployment in its history. Most blame the Food and Consumer Goods produced by foreign hands on Europa for their troubles. The last consumer goods factory on Ganymede closed its doors more than a month ago, and many are leaving the system to find work in New Tokyo where it is hoped that jobs will be easier to find.

THE SMELT-MONGERS

Recruiting Sergei
Sergei listens to Jakis’ proposal, saying little - but the gleam in his eyes indicates that he finds the Smelt-Mongers’ proposal favorable. The hulking man gives them a nod. A subtle smile.

“A fair split. And I’m in. And you fix these,” he says, motors whirring as he gestures at his arms, “when they break.”
[33%, and maybe some little repairs. Short and simple.]

New Locations Discovered

Honest Abe’s Scrapyard
Nestled between towering stacks of rusting metal and discarded machinery, Honest Abe’s is a beacon for scavengers and tinkerers alike. The cramped yard, filled with rickety piles of junk, is a labyrinth of sorted debris. Piles of salvaged electronics, recycled plastics, and reclaimed alloys stretch out throughout the entirety of Abe’s property. A small shack office serves as a transaction point and a gathering spot for local scrappers trading stories and leads.
[Fair prices, fair scrap, and a proprietor who knows his business. All a good scav could ever want.]

The Rivet
Equal parts mechanic's workshop and social club, the Rusty Rivet is where Truemen come to tinker, repair, and customize their gear. The space is a cramped warehouse filled with workbenches, tool racks, and the constant clang and spark of metalwork. In one corner, a group of grease-stained mechanics huddle around a busted AC unit. In another, a woman sews together pieces of hardsuit. And in another, a lone tinkerer carefully solders a new circuit board for a custom-built drone. [Bring your broken tech, your crazy ideas, and a willingness to get your hands dirty.]

SHOPPING

Pressure Suits In the depths of the MegaMart's cavernous inventory, nestled between racks of outdated EVA gear and surplus military fatigues, a small selection of pressure suits catches Jakis' eye. They're not pretty - but they look serviceable.
[200 credits apiece. A small price to pay for survival.]

Heavy-Duty Crowbar Amidst the clutter of the MegaMart's tool section, a gleaming length of solid steel stands out like a beacon. The heavy-duty crowbar is a thing of rugged beauty, its weight reassuring in Jakis' calloused grip.
[100 credits. An investment in both utility and security.]

Scrap Metal The MegaMart's selection of raw materials leaves much to be desired, but Honest Abe's Scrapyard more than picks up the slack. Abe himself guides Jakis to a promising pile of stripped steel. The metal is pitted and scarred, but still strong. In the hands of a skilled fabricator, it could become anything.
[100 credits per sizable chunk. The lifeblood of the scavenger's trade.]

Sternmeyer P-35 Pistol The MegaMart's weapons selection is sparse, picked clean by eager scavs. But in a dingy case behind the counter, a single pistol catches Jakis' eye. The Sternmeyer P-35 is an unassuming thing, all dull metal and worn synthetic grips. It's not a pretty weapon, but Jakis recognizes the brand - a solid, if unremarkable, choice for those who can't afford better. [100 credits. Not the best, but far from the worst. Sometimes, that's enough.]

DELVE - CARGO BAY ALPHA

[SLEEP]
Despite the Smeltmongers sleeping in a tent, they sleep well enough. The constant sounds of the annex - the thrumming of generators, the buzz of neon signs, the constant roar of chatter and footsteps and laughter - it isn’t all that much worse than the boat, all things considered. [No morale lost.]

ARI & ASTI'S MISADVENTURES

Lisa Chen’s Terms
Lisa Chen considers Ari and Asti’s offer with a flyaway smile, hands in her lap and her eyes on theirs. “I’ll join your crew on a couple easy conditions,” she muses. “They’re dead reasonable, I swear:”

1. Equal Share of Profits: Lisa demands an equal 33% cut of the profits, emphasizing her specialized knowledge of derelict stations and her skill in bypassing ancient security systems as critical to their success.

2. Priority on Tech Salvage: She stipulates first pick of any data cores, schematics, or scientific equipment, underscoring her interest in advancing her personal research and securing valuable tech.

3. Safety Protocols Enforced: She insists on non-negotiable safety measures, no senseless destruction of station systems, no splitting up, and immediate retreat if biological contamination or AI activation is detected.
[A 33% cut, first pick on any scientific salvage - and strict safety measures! Reasonable, no?]

Networking
"Mad" Mariko Zhang holds court at a makeshift bar built from shipping crates, her cybernetic eyes whirring as they focus. The ex-corporate security officer's hands shake slightly as she nurses her fifth drink. Asti’s been working her all evening - and she’s finally decided to spill some interesting rumors.

"Listen close," she mutters, leaning in. "Sublevel 4 of the Promenade? There was supposedly a boutique called 'Beyond Flesh.' People would go in looking human, come out...different. Not just cosmetic mods either. We're talking bleeding-edge biotech that never hit the market. Place got sealed when everything went dark.” [Potential Lead: Beyond Flesh]

“Cougher” Ezra Cole hunches over his drink, his pressure suit shuddering with every breath through a rebreather that looks older than most of the bar’s patrons. The suit itself is a historical record of corporate collapse - a Jenkins-McDonald helmet fused to Hyperion chest pieces, with Omnitech arm segments sealed on with adhesive and fibertape. Patches of different colors and logos create a disorienting patchwork, like looking at a corporate graveyard through a kaleidoscope. A long sniper rifle is draped from his back, a mean-looking length of steel and scope.

His face, visible through the scratched helmet visor, is a scarred map of radiation burns and wrinkles. His skin has a waxy, translucent quality, with a network of dark veins visible beneath. And a collection of tally marks is scored into his right gauntlet - the older marks deep and precise, with the newer ones noticeably more erratic and scratched.

"The Promenade?" he wheezes through his rebreather. "That's just the gift shop, baby. The real treasures? They're in the Deep Vaults. Corps didn't just store products here - they stored ideas. Dreams. Nightmares too."

He scratches at his suit's collar, suddenly uncomfortable. But he continues.

"Did you know there's a whole section where they tested consciousness transfer? Rich folks trying to live forever. Rumor has it some of them succeeded.”

There’s a pause, and he chuckles, though it sounds more like a hacking cough than anything resembling laughter.

“Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. But hey. You asked for something interesting. And you have it. Now pour me another.” [Potential Lead: Lotus]

SHOPPING

The MegaMart, bless it, is nothing if not full of useful equipment. Pressure Suits, made to a reassuringly uniform UN standard, are easy enough to find.
[200 credits a piece is what they go for.]

It’s a bit of a stretch, probably - calling this ‘survival gear’. But if Icarus is as dangerous as they say? - then a polycarbonate Bullet-Shield tough enough to protect from small arms fire isn’t such a bad idea.
[They’re 150 a pop. Wide enough to crouch behind. Light enough to lug one-handed.]

Most survival essentials are in pretty short supply, out there on Icarus. Proper lights and power, too. Bringing a proper, industrial-strength Flashlight along with you when you go out scavving makes getting stuff done that much easier.
[These big, bulky bastards go for 50 per.]

[SLEEP]
Sleep is black, blissful and gloriously uneventful this week - just like it should be.
[No Morale is lost.]

The crumbling, labyrinthine commercial zone boys and girls back in Daedalus call the ‘Promenade’ is… Well, it’s something alright. The first proper slow-panned camera view of it can best be described as ‘Apocalypse chic’. Its dead-eyed storefronts and deserted avenues are infamous for their decrepit infrastructure and sporadic encounters with rival scavengers or automated defenses. And this, bless their hearts, is where our streamer-mercs find themselves as they document their first proper scav-run, balancing survival with entertaining their viewers.

As “Team Misadventure” pushes into a new section of The Promenade, they come across the aftermath of what might as well be a late-night newsfeed. A plaza fronting a gutted neoclassical storefront is strewn with shattered glass, overturned stalls, and undeniable spatters of blood. There’s even a distinct reek in the filtered air here - a heady cordite stink. Someone, not too long ago, set off a damn explosive.
Bullet casings and melted fragments of what might have been a bullet-shield suggest heavy combat - and, beyond it? There. It is Asti that spots him first. The man, lying on his back, sprawled behind an old vending machine - chest heaving in rough gasps. Barely conscious. Clinging to life. Clothing is best described as a mix between “budget scav” and straight up “paramilitary”.
A) Aid him. Was he part of whatever went down here? What happened to his attackers? These questions matter, sure - but above all? The guy needs medical attention. Fast. And because affordable TraumaTeam ambulances are in hella short supply on Icarus these days - you guys are the best chance he’s got. Haul him back to Daedalus and pray he doesn’t flatline on the way!
[Besides - who knows? The viewers might dig the medical-drama vibes!]
B) Pop him. Take his shit. Sure, it’s a brutal move - but in this day and age? - in this media market? Brutality sells. Especially to the war-porn and insta-snuff crowds. What better way to set the tone for your new show and kick shit into serious gear? Besides, that torn-up armorjack he’s wearing looks gang-marked. Boy’s probably a Cartell-mook of some sort. Not someone who’ll be missed.
[Videotaping a live execution? - a straight-up murder? Sure, it’ll freak some viewers out - but it WILL create a buzz. Believe it.]
C) Leave him. It’s cold, maybe - but also strategic. Besides, whoever this mook is? - look at him. Look at his beat-up paramilitary duds and scraggly beard. His getup reeks dollar store gangster. Chances are, he’s a lowlife who bit off more than he could chew. He sure as heck didn’t come out here by accident. More importantly - whoever did him might not be far. And they might be back.
[Views, ratings and sweet, sweet likes are all good and dandy - but getting shot? No. No, fuck it. Whatever this shit-show is, it isn’t worth dying for!]

THE GHOSTS OF KAGGEN

Tony "Gramps" Morrison
“Gramps” Morrison eagerly takes the drink - and joins the crew.

“Longs as I’m guaranteed a fair shake-” he smiles, “-I’ll see us safe out there and back again.” The old man raps metallic knuckles on the counter-top -tap-tap!- and nods, like he’s just agreed on something important.

“Here’s to gettin’ rich. And living to enjoy it.”
[A 33% cut - and honor among thieves. Not a bad price for a lifetime of expertise.]

Planning
Scavving in the Promenade is scavving in an urban wasteland. Having some way to crack a lock or bust open a dead panel’s going to go a long way. Some ways of either dealing with - or avoiding - automatic defenses might also be worthwhile. While most of the Promenade’s “surface level” security systems are dormant or dead - stuff farther in, where real scavs go - definitely isn’t.
[Lockbreakers and tech-tools for sneakful pursuits. Hacking-suites or EMPs for louder ones.]

SHOPPING

When it comes to useful survival equipment - Gramps’ advice is short and to the point. “Pressure suits.” he says, blatantly. “A low-pressure atmosphere will kill in minutes. Fastest way to go.”

Pressure suits, UN-guaranteed and seals intact, can easily be had down at the MegaMart.
[For 200 per.]

Climbing gear is simple: a length of solid synth-rope, a bag of handy-dandy pitons and a big ol’ hook. All a man needs to defy gravity, really.
[And all it costs is 150.]

Autopickers are expensive. Anyone in the know is likely to agree, though - they’re expensive for a reason. They’ll open just about any locks - mechanical or otherwise.
[For only 500 credits.]

A trusty crowbar is about as useful as a loaded gun, a fresh battery pack or a hot meal. All for different reasons, mainly - but still!
[Seasoned scavs and would-be thieves can own one for just 150 apiece.]

Acclimatizing
Preparing for failure, some say, is the professional scav’s surest way to success. Checking your equipment, your safety seals, your power cells, et cetera? - that’s what that’s about.
[Preparing. Checking. Acclimatizing.]

THE BAND OF BROTHERS

Lisa Chen considers Kris and Seth’s offer with measured calm, her fingers idly tracing the edge of a clamshelled datapad. “I’ll join your crew on a couple easy conditions,” she smiles. “They’re dead reasonable, I swear:”
Equal Share of Profits: Lisa demands an equal 33% cut of the profits, emphasizing her specialized knowledge of derelict stations and her skill in bypassing ancient security systems as critical to their success.
Priority on Tech Salvage: She stipulates first pick of any data cores, schematics, or scientific equipment, underscoring her interest in advancing her personal research and securing valuable tech.
Safety Protocols Enforced: She insists on non-negotiable safety measures, no senseless destruction of station systems, no splitting up, and immediate retreat if biological contamination or AI activation is detected.
[A 33% cut, first pick on any scientific salvage - and strict safety measures! Reasonable, no?]

Life in General
Sleep is without issue these past few cycles. The Band of Brothers’ tent is spartan and their narrow cots humble - but they suffice. Any true Belter will need no more.
[Sleep is had. Huz. And. Zah. No Morale lost.]

Man, it is said, gets out what he puts in. An effective physical training regimen should reflect that - and the Eldenfell brothers certainly do their best. The Chinese called it ‘Calisthenics’, the Germans ‘Physical Schooling’.
[Spacers, natives of an existence where muscles atrophy, call it ‘Common sense’.]

[SHOPPING]

A big ol’ pressure suit - bulky, brazen, and with all its seals intact - is a scavenger’s best life insurance policy, no matter what side of the airlock they’re on.
[The MegaMart sells them for 200 credits apiece.]

From metallic debris to noxious spores - what goes in your lungs goes in you. Stands to reason successful scavs keep a proverbial eye on what that something is.
[Filtermasks come at 50 credits per. Cash well spent, if you like breathing.]

It’s a bit of a stretch, perhaps - calling it ‘essential’ - but still. For any successful scavenger? Getting into, and out of, a rusted bulkhead or malfunctioning maglock can make all the damn difference.
[That’s why a MiniWelder is so damn handy. At 400 credits per, it better be.]

Delving: Maintenance Access J-17
With three whole cycles on the clock, the Band of Brothers’ very first delve is bound to be a thorough one. And to their credit, the brothers have certainly chosen a good place for it. Maintenance Access J-17 - and the rat-run of crawley, ill-lit maintenance corridors snaking into and out of it - is a challenge for even the most seasoned of scavengers. In those dark, flicker-lit passages opportunity, and danger, lurk in nearly equal measure.

The Maintenance Drone
Like a beached whale it lies - dark and foreboding - in a disused maintenance alcove. It is Kris that spots it first, mainly by nearly tripping over it. An old maintenance drone, its spider-like limbs unmoving - its unblinking lense-eyes black and dull. Grime of some sort crusts its carapace like a second skin - gray, almost flakey. Light is scarce down here - nearly a cycle’s crawl from the Daedalus Annex. Right now, the modest alcove the brothers find themselves in are lit by little more than a single strip of pulsing recessed emergency lamps. Fading, futile and white as hope.
A) The grayish grime is particularly thick around the drone’s stubby legs and carapaced belly. It’s like rust, in a way? - except rust does not grow like rot on a ration…
[SUPERSTITIOUS. Hold on. Back up. Whatever this blotchy grime is? - it can’t be good. Hell, it could even be dangerous. Infectious! Vile! The best play here might well be to leave this drone alone - and backtrack. Quickly.]

B) Well, hell. See that logo on the drone’s flank? In faded, blocky letters? ‘Seegson Automatics’. An infamously complex maintenance drone, this - and an expensive one at that - most likely an ‘A1 OctoBot’. Icarus’ Station had a fleet of these, remote-operated and otherwise. Its servos, kinetic sensors - and above all, its mirrored AI cores - should well fetch a pretty penny back in Scav-Town.
[But you’ll have to haul it back - by hand - in the cramped, glare-lit dark. Unless someone brought a MiniWelder?]

C) Hold a moment. This drone - on all its eight piston-powered servo-legs - with its bulbous body and recessed lense-eyes - is dead. And it didn’t just keel over because its batteries ran out of juice, or whatever. Look there, along its underbelly? Sections of its carapaced hull are clearly scratched. Dented. Scorchmarked. Either this old thing suffered a downright violent malfunction - or something attacked it. Something with fangs.
[If left intact, this old, metallic carcass might just be of interest to someone back in Scav-Town - be they UNN roboticists or seasoned scavengers. Either way, a successful autopsy requires it to be intact.]

FISSURE SCIENCE RECLAMATION TEAM G

Commander Blake’s Terms
Commander Blake listened to Porter and Wilkes’ offer with an expressionless nod, her arms neatly folded. “Well, okay-” she remarked. “So here’s what I’m thinking.” In no short order, the crewcut dame demanded a clear 33% cut of any profits they made. “If you need a justification for that, just consider unparalleled tactical expertise and reputation as a reliable leader.” Oh, and another condition? “Second, full command authority during operations, no questions asked, to ensure discipline and survival. Third, no reckless looting that endangers the team, and finally - a personal salvage allowance.” In other words, she’d appreciate being allowed to keep any tech that might enhance her arsenal.
[A 33% cut, command authority, no reckless looting and a personal salvage allowance.]

Thoroughly exploring every nook and cranny of the Truemen Columnade could take a cycle, or it could take a week. Either way, enterprising tourists and sharp-eyed mercs were all bound to find something to catch their attention. Something, for instance, like…

NEW LOCATIONS DISCOVERED:

The Grindpit
An arena venue forged from a trio of badly-laced hab-tents, shipping containers and wire-mesh. Its namesake is a sunken, circular pit surrounded by steep, tiered seating - and features a steady stream of brutal, no-holds-barred battles between custom-built mechs, drone swarms, and AI-driven war machines. The high, dome-like ceiling features a battered holo-projection system, enhancing the spectacle with dramatic light displays, simulated weather, and even real-time combat stats.
[Tech-freaks, gamblers and mercs all congregate here. Mind your cash.]

Donovan’s
No neighborhood in the Daedalus Annex is complete without its share of dive bars. Donovan’s, then, is one such - styled to look and feel like a turn-of-the-century lazerpop sanctuary. Its clientele is a mixture of the lazy and the familiar, from Zimbabwean spacers to off-duty UNN cargo haulers. Everyone needs a space to drown their sorrows, after all - and Donovan, lean and lanky behind his laser-lit counter - is more than happy to pour shot after shot.
[The locals here are Truemen. Proud. Loud. Disagreeable.]

Odd Jobs
A fresh shipment of scavved personal electronic devices are being divvied up, over in the Truemen Columnade. Most of them are more than likely pried from the darkened depths of Icarus Station itself, but a few are probably freshly stolen from somewhere on Daedalus proper - or shipped in semi-legally through UNN customs. Either way, someone needs to defrag their old harddrives for security measures. The work is slow, meticulous - and not unlike untangling barbed wire made out of bits and bytes. A certain level of hacking know-how is appreciated.
[Learning on the job isn’t an option - but the schroff in charge is satisfied. 100 creds, he pays - and with a smile.]

SHOPPING

Commander Blake, for her part, shakes her head briskly at Porter and Wilke’s offer of a new pressure suit. “Got one of my own,” she insists. “It’s Martian, so no need.”
[Well then.]

Pressure Suits
Pressure suits are heavy, costly, and desperately useful - if and when the situation calls for them. Without them, would-be scavengers are little more than decompressed meatbags waiting to happen. And that won’t do.
[A single suit costs a cool 200 credits.]

Mag Boots
Steel-tipped and gore-tex-laced, this particular brand is likely Chinese-made. They’ll do the job well enough, mind. Beijing Lunarware is nothing if not competitive.
[150, states the pricetag. A worthwhile investment.]

A Crowbar
Another red-tipped prybar with a slew of blocky letters engraved down one side. ‘Heavy Duty’, they read - in case there was any doubt. It is satisfyingly heavy -- and promises to get the job done, no matter the challenge.
[100 creds is the total cost. Pay up, or go without.]

Climbing Gear
Pitons, a coil of sturdy synth-rope, and leather-padded climbing gloves for that little bit of extra grip.
[150 for the lot.]

Techtool
This humble hand-held diagnostics tool comes with a free tape-and-wire dispenser, assorted screws and bolts, a plug-in module for program diagnostics - and even a very, very small crank.
[100 credits for a premium example - take it or leave it.]

SLEEP AND SUSTENANCE

The Reclamation Team’s tent is carefully wedged into a ‘safe-ish’ corner of the Truemann district. Inside, their two sleep-rolls take up most of the floor space. It’s cramped. It’s dirty. And it’s unpleasant.

The dinner isn’t much better. Beige, bland, nutrient paste. The paste sticks to the roof of the mouth and carries an artificial sweetness that lingers unpleasantly, masking but not quite hiding the chemical undertaste. Porter jokes that she doesn’t remember what real food tastes like - Wilkes doesn’t find it all that amusing.

And last, but not least, sleep is a struggle this week. The constant hum of traffic and machinery mingles with the sounds of the station - a low thrum of portable generators, a hissing of pneumatics somewhere in the distance. And the smell - recycled air, too many bodies in too little space, and the constant scent of grease and rust - frankly unbearable. [Wilkes: -1 Morale. Porter: -1 Morale]

DELVE: MAINTENANCE ACCESS J-17

Porter and Wilkes walk carefully through the maintenance shaft, which stretches before them like an open throat - disappearing into darkness beyond the reach of their helmet lights. The lights still work in the origin point of the hallway, but beyond that? The emergency strips pulse arrhythmically, creating a strobing effect.

As they step, a deck plate shifts dangerously underneath Wilkes’ foot - and a bundle of power cables spits blue sparks, briefly illuminating Porter’s scared face. Condensation drips steadily from somewhere above, hitting their helmets with soft ‘plink’s as they slowly continue through the shaft.

After a few hours of careful traversal, they reach what seems to be a major intersection, where the corridor splits three ways.

A) To their left, a partially collapsed entrance bears the designation “MAINT-J4”. It’s mostly sealed - but they could certainly force their way through. That being said, it’s clear that this section of the tunnels has deteriorated significantly. It’s pitch-black in there - and dirt spirals in strange ways around the entry, pulled by some gravitational oddity or open vent.

B) The right passage leads to a more structured entrance. “CREW QUARTERS BLOCK C” is spelled out in English, Spanish, and Mandarin on a dark display panel. The door hangs half-open. Through the gap, they can see the remains of what may have been a security checkpoint, now just a collection of dead screens and empty chair frames. It might be worth checking for supplies, perhaps?

C) The central passage, however, draws their attention. A sealed blast door, with a broken keypad and a crimson security scanner still pulsing. In front of this steel door, something invisible hums with energy - and two turrets limply hang down from the ceiling, red dots in the center of their camera targeting systems. There’s something important behind here. There was signage on the wall indicating a name at one point, but it’s...no longer functioning.

Well. Which way forward?

THE DISTANT LIGHTS

Sleep
The Kingdoms of Sleep, and the exploration thereof, prove a fitful affair for the Distant Lights this week. The blame for this is easy enough to pinpoint - a varlet with an oversized boombox, about a stone’s throw down the next row. The drone of pianola, bass drops and hyped-up kettle drums start and stop. Over and over. The Distant Lights, however - are Belters born. They make do.
[Sleep comes, eventually. Thank the stars.]

Brother Thaddeus Joins
The robed Martian receives the Belters’ attempts at social overtures with something akin to surprise, at first. Apparently, genuine attempts at conversation - let alone regarding such esoteric subjects as autonomous machinery - is rare fare, this far from the Principalities. But by the time their talks hit upon the realities of spirituality in space? Oh, Brother Thaddeus’ posture changes. Soon - hunched forward he is, servo-arms at standby-rest, his voice warm and gaze focused.
[If the Belters will but afford Thaddeus an advance of, say, 200 credits? And a solemn promise of a 33% cut of any future payouts? Then they shall count a monk of distant Mars amongst their number.]

Explorations
If there ever was a wilder, vaster cathedral of sanitized commerce and prepackaged factory-merch than the Daedalus Annex’s MegaMart - well. It’d be wild and vast indeed. As it stands, the Belters’ exploration of the MegaMart goes swiftly enough. There stretch the isles dedicated to footwear, work-related and otherwise. Beyond them, an avenue filled with cookware, utensils and crockery - fit for every discerning spacer under the sun. Beyond them, again? - spotlights! Glowlamps of every size and color. Stablights and hand-held flashlights, too. There are sections herein dedicated to anything and everything a man can load, carry, need or just plain desire.
[The Mart’s nametagged acolytes do not, unfortunately, buy gear from their customers. But should Nadia or Kuwame ever have a need? - the Mart can more than likely provide its fulfillment. And for a fair price. “Heathens”, tuts Brother Thaddeus - but that’s as may be.]

After their jaunt into the commercial vastness of the MegaMart, a brief jaunt down into the neighborhood of the Truemen Line - which some men call the ‘Columnade’ - is downright disorienting. Louder, too - for here, from every side, the crowds of the Columnade cry their wares, debate the latest info from their news-feeds. Theirs is a lively section, to say the least - and though brief, the Belters do take note of at least one interesting locale:

NEW LOCATIONS DISCOVERED:

The Bantam Bar
Marry the noisy, bustling concepts of an all-hours Mombasan coffee house with the steam-stained curtains of a Midwestern bar & grill - and what you get is the Bantam Bar. Here, from beneath a tattered tarpaulin and two gutted shipping containers, dour servers pass plastic bowls of salt-flaked tubers to an ever-present stream of customers - and cups of coffee-substitute to wash them down. Rumors, amongst the Bantam’s tattered plastic chairs and tables, are a dime a dozen.
[If you like your food salty, cheap and hot enough to scald your tongue - try the Bantam.]

If the Belters’ sojourn into the hustle and bustle of the Truemen’s Section was loud and a bit disorienting, their next trip - a cycle’s journey into the tarpaulin-camps of the Kuiper Belt Clans - is a tonic to all of that. Here, like nowhere else on perhaps all Icarus, the Distant Lights feel a little closer to home. From the stacks of corrugated cutoffs fashioned into doorways, clan-marked pressure tents and the odd tones of Kuiper argot - here it is: a jungle peopled by Icarus’ wildest, weirdest and bravest. It does not take Kuwame long to spot a noteworthy locale:

Mister Minute’s
From out the back of a modest, once-red shipping container spills something akin to a garage and mechanical surgery rolled into one. Closer inspection of the UV-painted tags criss-crossing its entryway proclaim it as “Mister Minute’s Repair & Recovery Station. All Clans = Welcome! Thieves = Prosecuted! Pirates = Shot!” Its proprietor is a wide Khazak draped in Russian orbital fatigues. “I’ll fix just about anything,” he promises. “If it whirrs, clicks, burns or hums? Give it to me. I’ll get it going, good as new.”
[Could broken equipment truly be made good as new? Sentimental attachments aside - it’s an enticing thought. “Worthy work!” beams Brother Thaddeus. Apparently, the Martian approves.]

SHOPPING

Padded Suits - tried and true, with their quality seals still intact - are as important to dedicated spacers as freeze-dried rations are firewalled cred-chits.
[At the MegaMart, brand new suits cost a cool 200 Credits.]

Magnetic Boots - are, perhaps understandably, also well-regarded by anyone experienced with spacer life. They’re also hellishly clunky, of course - but that’s part of the charm. And it sure beats floating helpless in Zero-G.
[One pair costs a solid 150 credits.]

Autopickers - to nobody’s surprise - will more than likely always cost a pretty penny; the way specialized technical equipment tends to.
[Along with lengthy legal affidavits regarding proper use and ethical liability - a pricetag. 500 credits.]

Heavy-Duty Crowbar - This particular red-tipped ‘bar has “Carsson T, Heavy Duty” engraved just below its handle. It is satisfyingly heavy -- and perhaps one of the most useful tools a dedicated scav can ever own.
[100 creds, says the display at the checkout station. Well then.]

Networking
Networking amongst the Kuiper Clans - even natives, as the Distant Lights most assuredly are - is hardly a straightforward affair. It is that native knowledge, however - not so much a kinship with just language as it is dress, clan-marks, proper manner and honest bearing - that provides a stepping stone. “Try the Work-Exchange”, nods a gray old welder’s wife - her forearms shiny with plasma-burns. “If you’s lookin’ to know who’s who and what’s what? - there’s yer port.”

The Work-Exchange, eh? A place for the myriad clans of the Belt to advertise jobs, share news and negotiate rates? Could be useful. [Rumor: The Exchange.]

Odd Jobs
Jobs in the clan-marked world of the Kuiper Belt tent-jungle is hardly difficult to come by. The issue - at least for now - is time. “This cargo I’ve got won’t move itself,” drawls a tattered stevedore. “If you lot can get it moved outta them tents behind you and into these containers here? I’ll pay.”
[For 1 Cycle’s worth of work? 50 credits - take it or leave it.]

Delving: Cargo Bay Alpha
An actual delve - and of 2 whole cycles, no less! - into the vaulted darkness of Cargo Bay Alpha? Well now. The Distant Lights - bless them - have at last begun work on their true calling.

The air here is noticeably cooler, beyond the glarelights of the UN Checkpoint. The off-ramp towards the Caro Bay proper is a great deal more cluttered, too - even more so than the Truemen’s Columnade - with everything from debris and trash stamped by hundreds of marching feet to who knows what else.
But - no matter. Beyond it, canyons of rust-rimmed cargo containers march off into the eerie darkness…

To the Distant Lights’ trained eyes - one site immediately stands out as worthy of further inspection…

THE VANGUARD OF THE SEVEN SEALS

Sleep
Sleep, for the Vanguard’s two truest souls in all Scav-Town, comes gently enough. Their humble camp stands barely a shout from the nearest UN checkpoint - and is neither particularly quiet, nor particularly clean. But for all the drone of passing crowds, clatter of machinery and endless whirr of distant air-scrubbers - there is a rhythm to it. And it, like any vessel, city or beachy now-and-always, fades - sooner or later - into silence.
[Sleep, for the Vanguard of the Seven, is without issue. And with their trusty AI-Motiv-Ator droning soft, soothing prayer-mantras - no morale is lost.]

Exploration
Exploring the Truemen’s bustling avenues and crowded walkways is seldom boring. Tiresome, perhaps - even for seasoned street-preachers - but never dull. At sojourn’s end, Meslamta-ea can certainly make note of a few stand-out locations. Wise mercenaries do well to get their bearings in a new place, after all - especially amongst heathen crowds.

NEW LOCATIONS DISCOVERED:

The Bantam Bar
Marry the noisy, bustling concepts of an all-hours Mombasan coffee house with the steam-stained curtains of a Midwestern bar & grill - and what you get is the Bantam Bar. Here, from beneath a tattered tarpaulin and two gutted shipping containers, dour servers pass plastic bowls of salt-flaked tubers to an ever-present stream of customers - and cups of coffee-substitute to wash them down. Rumors, amongst the Bantam’s tattered plastic chairs and tables, are a dime a dozen.
[If you like your food salty, cheap and hot enough to scald your tongue - try the Bantam.]

Uncle Joe’s Scrap & Salvage
A solid walk down the dead center of the Truemen Columnade; the neon sign above this modest shop bathes every would-be visitor in a blue-green glare. Inside, a visored clark - presumably the eponymous ‘Uncle Joe’ hawks, bids, buys and trades for everything from transistor cables to ionized batteries, combat boots to copper wiring - all from behind the safety of a chainlink cage.
[If you have scrap - hawk it here. Free barters. Fair prices. No discounts.]

Odd Jobs
A wise man, it is said, once remarked that: “There is nothing new under the sun.” The same sentiment, as it turns out, can also be said to hold true under the glare of the Truemen’s sodium lights. The crowds of the Truemen Columnade are a hardy, no-nonsense lot - but also as skeptical, curious and disinterested as most spacers are. Lugal-irra - engaging passing crowds with forthright street-preaching - succeed at least in gathering a crowd. Some jeer, of course. Others listen with benevolent disinterest. A few faded dockers nod acknowledgement whenever the subject of ‘Truth’ comes up. ‘Truth’, after all, like taxes - is a subject worthy of discussion - but seldom full agreement.
[In the end, a modest smattering of donations reveal a few battered cred-chits. About 53, in fact.]

SHOPPING

A scan of prospective sellers, hawkers and equipment stands yield plenty of offers. 'Personal Protection Gear' is, after all, a pretty broad category.

Medium Armorjack
Chunky white letters emblazoned across the back of this battered old ‘jack still read ‘P R E S S’. Its seller - a pinch-faced youth of barely eighteen - can’t give a straight answer about exactly where it came from. It’s heavy, if nothing else - and certainly thick enough to take a blow or three.
[Maybe even a bullet. 250 Credits]

Sarissa AR
This is a Chinese knockoff of a Persian modification to an Indian design. Battered and a bit beat-up, maybe - but still perfectly reliable. The folding stock is vulcanized plastic, and the firing mechanism can spit 30 rounds of 7.62mm in barely the time it takes a grown man to shout ‘Get your effing hands up’.
[It kicks, too - but that’s part of the charm. 400 Credits]

Heavy Nightstick
The weight and heft of one of these ugly, non-nonsense clubs is enough to stop most arguments before they even start. Just twirl it with a certain ease, and slap it across the palm of your hand. See for yourself.
[Because nothing quite says ‘Authority’ like a busted jaw. 150 Credits.]

Hiring Hank McCarthy
Hank McCarthy - his drinking done and his bearded jaw clenched in thought - regards the Vanguard’s faces for a long, unblinking moment. Then his mouth twists in a nervous little smile. “I'll need a cut. A fair one." There's that accent again. Old Bayou, through and through. A faint, mechanical whirr later, and a cold metal hand is there for the shaking. Black. Fireproof. “Give me one third of any honest payouts, and I’ll do my damndest to fix any mess we get ourselves into. Belter’s honor.”
[33% - and no regrets. That’s Hank McCarthy right there.]

NETWORKING THE REFUGEE SECTOR

Haana Meade wears her frizzy hair tucked safely under a colorful shawl. It - much like her horn rimmed glasses and tattered coveralls - does little to disguise her; for the chatty Detroit native is ever loud. Talkative. Argumentative. Acerbic, too - especially when faced with ‘Starry-eyed bullshit’.

“I’ve worked with some of the hottest names to ever scav, out in the Refugee Sector,” Haana proclaims. “Ruddy Sal Reynolds, Vladim Valnek - all of them. Even helped a camera crew get within drone-eye view of the Seegson Hospital, ‘bout a month ago.”
[Rumor: Seegson Hospital]

If Meslamta-ea and Lugal-irra are truly on the prowl for a font of info regarding the Refugee Sector, let alone what lies beyond? - old Haana Meade is a safer bet than most. She’s down by the Bantam Bar, more often than not - holding court amongst her fellow Trueman tecchies. Can the Vanguard make a bid for her expertise? With credits, or perhaps something else?
[Potential contact: Haana Meade]

by **Lunas Legion** » Wed Nov 20, 2024 1:21 pm

Ari & Asti's Misadventures
Week I - Continued

"Welcome back dear viewers!" Ari gave a little twirl and flourish for the camera, held as stable as ever despite the ruin of their surroundings. "Same week, different time, and we bring news! The biggest bits of news!" Ari patted her left arm, where a square shield of forest camo-painted rectangle of polycarbonate was strapped to it. "We've been equipping ourselves! It's like being one of those old medieval warriors! I just need a spear or something to complete the look. Our more important news, though..." Ari grinned and gestured.

Asti panned the camera sideways slightly, revealing the large form of Shamzad Drom, a dark-skinned man who grinned at the camera, revealing a mouth full of sharp, ugly chrome teeth. He really could have looked better, but dental cosmetic surgeons were hardly common out on Icarus, Asti supposed. And someone with a proper dental surgeon probably couldn't bite someone's arm off.

"This is Shamzad Drom. Our Third, because I already told you how much Icarus likes threes. He's here to keep me and Asti alive, and exploring the mountain of mysteries. Because, dear viewer, Asti has been being Asti." Ari grinned, starting to walk while Asti walked alongside her, Shamzad trailing behind slightly, just out of camera shot. The walls of Icarus behind Ari were a dull, industrial grey, contrasting against her neon blue hair. A drop of colour in this dull industrial world.

"Now, I don't know if any of you, dear viewers, can help us out here. Whether you went to Icarus in its prime, or know someone who did, or whatever. Maybe you read an advert on the internet? Maybe you have a file that contains a map lying around from a holiday long, long ago? Send it to us, and we'll drop you a mention. But like I said, Asti is being Asti, and that means for next time? She's dug up leads to all sorts of interesting places. Y'see, the Promenade was home to all sorts of... Interesting things." Ari giggled. "And yes, Club Nebula is on the list. But Asti's rumbled up some leads that you've never heard of, and we're gonna be following up on in the next few episodes, so..."

"Make. Sure. You. Watch. Them!"

Ari made a slicing gesture with her hand, and Asti stopped filming.

"We'll pick it up when we get to the Promenade? Nice opening, panoramic shot." Asti said, Ari nodding along.

The Promenade wasn't much further. It was easy enough to follow the dead neon signs, the walls of faded posters on the walls, adverts for long defunct stores still giving meaningless addresses and far more meaningful directions and distances.

Asti raised her camera as they entered, slowly panning her camera across it. Long-dead storefronts with ruined signs lined deserted avenues, occasionally scarred by bullet holes in the walls or floor. Sometimes a light would flicker on at their passing, the motion sensor still alive even after all these years. More rarely, there would be a shop with the lights still lit, the sign brightly advertising wares last sold long, long ago. Soemtimes the wares being sold even remained, shielded behind reinforced glass and other such protections. Street adverts burst into light at their passing, bright glows illuminating their surroundings in the false twilight created beneath the ruined transparent panes that formed a false sky.

"They're like sirens, aren't they?" Ari giggled as they passed on the far side of a wide avenue, four lanes wide on each side, clogged with the remains of destroyed luxury hover-cars. Plenty of distance between them and it. 'Eau de Europa' proclaimed the bright white sign, the frosted glass front still intact somehow. It wasn't clear if there was anything within, let alone anything valuable, but Shamzad had quietly tapped them both on the right shoulder and motioned for them to cross to the other side of the car-littered avenue to avoid it. "Luring people like us to their doom."

"Not if we're careful." Shamzad said, speaking up from off camera. "If a store hasn't been touched? It's because it's going to either be fortified to the teeth with automated security, or there's nothing there worth touching."

"And that, dear viewer, is why we brought dear Shamzad along!" Ari grinned at the camera. "That thought wouldn't even occur to me and Asti." Streetlights occasionally sparked into life, showering the area beneath them with blinding white light or a shower of equally blinding sparks. Dirty facades of real, actual marble ringed firmly sealed shutters, whatever goods they protected so firmly protected that even now no one had touched them. They took another diversion to avoid where a riot of sparking electronic devices and flickering screens, turned into a melted mass, spilled out the front of a store who's shutter had been blasted open, seemingly from the inside.

It was beautiful in its own way, Asti reflected. A luxurious apocalypse.

The question, of course, was unspoken. Icarus' population had been vast when it vanished. So where were all the bodies? It was a question that was banished from her mind as Ari started cooing over a sealed boutique, the dark sign proclaiming it to be 'Venusian Outfitters'. Ari stared despondent through the glass, protected by a grid of faintly glowing blue lasers, only visible in the twilight of the Promenade. They'd shred anyone that touched them to pieces; they knew what proper security looked like.

"Such a shame." Ari said, eyeing up the racks of undisturbed clothing, still looking pristine from out here. "It's like Icarus never fell in there." Asti gave her a gentle nudge, and they kept moving. The street they were on led into a plaza. Shamzad sniffed the air as they approached, once, twice. Asti gave him a worried glance, but as they entered the plaza, she smelt it too. She didn't recognise it, but she could smell it in the air, almost like the aftermath of a fire, but not. The pillared marble storefront at the other side of the plaza bore no name, and the plaza before it was an utter ruin. Shattered glass was scattered like confetti across the floor, and it was littered with lines of overturned stalls speckled with bullet holes, turned into improvised cover. Dark red patches of blood stained the otherwise white floor, joined by fragments of something square melted into it. A shield like Ari's, perhaps? Impossible to tell.

"Your viewers won't be able to smell it over the camera." Shamzad said, looking over the scene warily while Asti panned the camera across it, taking a wide view of it. "But it stinks of cordite. Explosives."

"And this, dear viewers, is what the Promenade is like." Ari gestured to the scene before them, stepping forwards. "Violent. All these designer goods, storefronts left untouched since Icarus went into the dark? Many brands instantly recognisable, but lost when Icarus fell, or exclusive collector's items? Limited editions, low production runs? The Promenade is full of them. There's a lot of money to be made, and money, well... Out here, money breeds violence. And-"

Ari broke into a sprint, racing across the plaza. The vending machine was empty, the light within long gone out, but that wasn't what had drawn her attention. The man lay on the ground behind it, chest heaving. Alive. He wore armour, but not much. Not military grade. It was about as much as the private security that they used to be surrounded by wore.

"Holy shit, Asti." Ari gasped, staring down at his barely breathing form. Asti caught up, and pointed the camera down at him, wide-eyed, panic in her voice. "What do we do?"

"I don't know?" Asti said, glad that she wasn't the one on camera. "What are we supposed to do? We're not doctors, now are we? We're streamers. We're not supposed to run into this type of shit."

"Welcome to Icarus, girls." Shamzad laughed, a heavy, deep sound. He crouched down by the dying man, eyeing him up. "Gang-marked. Probably part of one of the many scavenger crews in the Promenade. I'll need to wrack my brain to pin down which one, and we do not have the time. Given the explosive... Whatever went down here was serious." He glanced around, eyes lingering on every way out of the plaza, and then the marble colonnaded storefront. "Either put him out of his misery or leave him."

"We're not executing someone on stream." Asti hissed. "Do you have any idea how much that ruins the algorithms? We'll be censored to hell."

Ari said nothing, staring with a look of utter horror down at the dying man. "We can't carry him back, can we?"

"It's a long way." Shamzad pointed out. "He might not make it."

"It's not like TraumaTeam still operates out on Icarus." Asti said, breathing deeply but keeping the camera level and pointed at the man. "We can at least try."

Shamzad sighed, and rolled his shoulders. "You bleeding hearts..." He shook his head. "But if this comes back to bite us, on your heads be it."

by **The GAmeTopians** » Wed Nov 20, 2024 2:33 pm

Fissure Science Logging Service
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G: Operation Wax Wings
Time Since Mission Start: +0.107 Weeks

The two members of Reclamation Team G shared a glance after their would-be Third laid out her demands.

"The cut is fair, as is avoiding reckless behavior," Porter replies, "but I'll have to push back somewhat on the other two. We're not just going to sign away full control of the operation to someone we just met, as much as I appreciate the inclination towards discipline and coordination. We could agree to placing you in command during combat, and giving you an equal vote to each of us in other situations, but full command is off the table. And in terms of personal salvage - that's fine, but it would be considered part of your cut. All three of us have valuable skills to contribute. So rather than a specific salvage allowance, I'd like to propose that after each delve we'll gather up any loot we've found, and place an approximate value on each item. Members of the team will have the opportunity to "buy out" the others' shares in a given item instead of putting it up for sale. If two people want the same item, we'll try to come to an agreement on who needs it more, and roll dice for it if we still can't agree. Keeps the cuts fair, and prioritizes kitting the team before getting rich. Seem fair?"

Commander Blake Counter-Offer:
- 33% Cut.
- Command authority during combat. 1 of 3 votes outside of combat.
- No reckless looting.
- All members have first opportunity to "purchase" loot from the team and take it as a part of their cut without it being put up for sale.

Shopping:
Starting Funds: 925 + 100 (Odd Job) = 1025 Credits
- 2 Pressure Suits (-400 Credits)
- 3 Mag-Boots (-450 Credits)
- 1 Tech-Tool (-100 Credits)
Remaining Funds: 75 Credits

Time Since Mission Start: +0.730 Weeks

The dull click of mag-boots thumped along Maintenance Access J-17 in a mostly consistent rhythm. Commander Blake led the way, her weapon raised and scanning the path ahead, while Porter kept an eye on their rear, and Wilkes watched for interesting wireless data using the Tech-Scanner.

"All halt." The Commander's clipped instruction came, and all three delvers locked both of their boots to the floor of the tunnel. Now that they were stopped, the two scientists noticed why: an intersection not far ahead, splitting off three ways, but even more so what lay just past it. A blast door, with full security suite - turrets, cameras, keypad, the works.

"Let's move up to the intersection. We can decide what to do once we know our options," Porter muttered, and nods from the other two confirmed their course. The reveal of the other hallways did not much change their initial reactions, however. An even more deteriorated maintenance shaft was an option, sure, and probably tenable given their mag-boots and suits - but they had no flashlights, only helmet lamps, and no idea of what awaited them in there. The crew quarters was a safer option, but likely mostly looted given its lack of obvious deterrents. The blast door may have appeared the most threatening of the three - but it also suited the team's skill set extremely well.

They shared a trio of glances, and Porter broke the silence. "Unless anyone's got other thoughts, the choice seems clear - Wilkes and I see what we can do to bypass or ideally take over the security door, while Blake stands watch. We won't try to force the door or whatever energy barrier it might have, that's an obvious way to trigger those turrets or just get ourselves fried. We're looking for data ports, terminals, something that'll let us worm our way in. Agreed?"

Nods all around. Time to get to work.

Delve Choice:
Option C: The Blast Door. Attempting software bypass. (Hacker x2, Tech-Scanner, Tech-Tool)

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Nov 21, 2024 9:37 am

The Delve | The Smelt-Mongers

The first foray went, all things considered, less than terribly. No gangers staking out the access hallway. No data-ghosts slamming the bulkheads behind them. No clouds of virulent archaeo-tech slicing flesh from bone as they swirled to some unknown force. The going was pretty easy, compared to the bulky dive suits the 'mongers were accustomed to, and Sergei didn't seem one for complaining.

Pressure suits had set them back. Tools and weapons had set them back. But you couldn't go into these things naked. Even if none of it had proven egregiously necessary so far, Lady Luck didn't smile on the unprepared, those who couldn't exploit her offerings.

It was Amalia who spotted the score, after a quarter of a day of wandering through looted hallways, past sealed doorways, and breaking open empty container after empty container, senses always on alert for problems. An old lifter that had been tumbled down a place between two large industrial boxes, each gunmetal gray, not enough space to turn her properly leaving her wedged a few meters in the air. Mm. Tricky.

The cosmonaut was leery of the score, which was fair. It would take a bit of flash to clamber up to the machine, and he wasn't really built for that sort of engagement. Amalia was, but without some serious sweat-equity they wouldn't be getting too much out of the old machine. Not exactly the wealth of technology and innovation the Current had sent them after, but beggars couldn't be choosers - and for the first dive, hell, you couldn't expect much more than a few creds to cover the cost of a chance to get more familiar with the station.

Or, that was what Jakis liked to think. The advice held true for new skeleton-divers in the West End, so it was probably good to take here too. You didn't know what you didn't know, the unknown unknown, and that could kill you just as easily as the known unknown. The only remedy was caution and the accumulation of experience.

Still, they weren't new to the scene. The machine was complex, but Jak was a consummate professional with things like this. No harm in getting to work, and with decent air out here, even a gash in a pressure suit probably wouldn't be the end of the world.

B + A
Amalia ascends to the cockpit as the Sergei and Jakis steady the machine; a bit of clearing away glass and moving wires with the Crowbar later, and the Datadrive would be theirs. Even if it couldn't be read, well, someone would pay something for it, to be sure.

With Amalia back on solid ground, the real work begins. No sense trying to disassemble the whole damn thing in midair - that's bonza thinking. Cutting apart the frame without a proper welder to get at the powercore would be rolling dice with death. Still, non-integral hydraulics? Those are worth a penny, and between the Slav stabilizing the thing with his cybernetics and Jak's expertise, definitely worth the shot - probably get them out without compromising the solid frame that had wedged the machine where it had lain for decades.

by **High Earth** » Thu Nov 21, 2024 2:25 pm

Week One: Continued

“Ohh… oh no this doesn’t seem natural. We need to leave this… it’s not safe, that slime is definitely dangerous, ” Kris is looking at the fallen mech in the dim, fluorescent light with a look of terror spreading across his face. The massive drone would certainly fetch a pretty penny back in town, but something was…off.

“Kris, seriously, you need to cut your oddly specific worries. Seriously, it’s just some harmless slime. Would you rather deal with that slime or be stuck eating nutrient-mush? Actually, let me rephrase that; would you rather have decent housing and food for once in our miserable lives, or starve to death because you wouldn’t touch some freaking slime!?!” Seth was getting upset, he had gotten use to his brother’s strange tendencies and insistence on doing things a certain way, but that doesn't mean it got on his nerves. Couldn’t he realize that this was their ticket to decent housing and better equipment?

Lisa seemed not to interested that much in the petty squabbles between the two brothers, and much more focused on the hulking piece of tech in front of them.

“You guys, this is a Seegson Automatics original! Do you realize what technology is in here, we need to keep this thing in tact and somehow haul it back to Scav-Town. Don’t worry about the slime, I’m sure it is perfectly safe,” she addressed the last sentence to the captain, who is visibly on edge.

Finally, Kris gave in despite still having his all his belter instincts telling him to leave the thing be;
“Fine… but don’t any of you be crawling back to me when you contract sight rot from that thing! I suppose just hauling this thing back up won’t kill us.”

The rag-tag group then went to pick this thing up, then Seth spoke up;
“Don’t worry about a thing Lisa, we can carry this thing back for ya.”

Lisa was visibly a bit surprised by the offer, chivalry had long since died in everyone she had ever met, either that or the two brothers didn’t trust her to not drop the drone, which was a distinct possibility.

(The crew will be hauling the drone back to Scav-Town in tact, despite Kris’ “instincts,” and then either selling it for scrap, or as an autopsy to the UN, whichever nets them the most cash)
(At mega mart they will purchase 1 pressure suit, and 3 filter masks -350 credits)

by **Ovstylap** » Sun Nov 24, 2024 1:40 pm

The Distant Lights

Kuwame's continuous grumbling at the rapid disappearance of their funds within mere days of their arrival, coupled by his frustration at the incessant clanging of kettle drums at night was contrasted by Nadia's enthusiastic optimism for the benefits of their having acquired some relatively sturdy Padded Suits, at least by Kuiper standards. Brother Thaddeus attempted to reassure him on the benefits of an ascetic life, that is one where Credits were spent on what was pragmatic as soon as they were accumulated, rather than being sought after as an ends in themselves.

It was perhaps slightly rich, given that he had requested 200 of them and insisted on an equal share, though a myriad of matters could justify such a request. Perhaps most obviously, a crew who could offer 200 Credits presumably had high confidence in making returns soon, and sometimes confidence and cahooneys were just as important as tact and tools. Of more concern was the possibility that Thaddeus was perhaps having to pay off some hungry creditors, or, may the Spirits forbid, fuel some crazed addiction. Ah, the frustrations of hiring someone on a whim!

Nadia of course was behind it all. Ever since she had heard of the Rule of Three she had been convinced that it meant that three crew were needed, whilst Kuwame had suggested that it was imposing a maximum limit rather than the only acceptable parameter. To Nadia, it was better safe than sorry, whilst to Kuwame it was better two than teetering on the edge of poverty. Thaddeus hummed a slightly disconcerting tune, seemingly oblivious to the disagreement that had occurred between the two.

To Kuwame though, Nadia's stubbornness, her ability to handle herself, and deftly maneuever within even their own relationship was one of the things that made him trust her. One can't trust a yes man or a yes woman. Somebody with a bit of steel, a bit of nerve, yes that is exactly what makes a good partner, a crew partner that is, because you can trust them to hold you to account and to speak up when they believe that something is too much of a risk.

Begrudgingly, he had to accept that perhaps the Padded Suits were worthwhile. At the very least, nothing had gone wrong so far. At least they had managed to get a quick shift in earning what was hopefully the start of a good, honest reputation among their fellow Belters by completing some odd jobs, which thus enabled Thaddeus to be with them, and have a suit of his own! Even with the suits, the air was much cooler in Cargo Bay Alpha. A great Freight Alter dominated the area- as if it an air traffic control tower at an Old World Airfield, the sort seen in those wacky documentaries of what Terra used to be like.

Though the eyes of all were drawn up to the highest cargo containers, and the vivid imagination could imagine projecting oneself from crane and hook across to what must surely be the untapped finds of what was towards the top of the bay, they had to focus on the here and now. It was certainly clear that other scavs had been here- a scuff on one of the footways nearby was a dead giveaway.

They would only be here a short while though. This was effectively a reconnaissance of the bay- though admittedly they were now skint- even Nadia knew that. As it was though, a command console had been left seemingly untouched. The insides of such a device could be worth a fortune, as such integrated computing power for managing the myriad systems that would keep a centre of logistics like this going was something rarely found in contemporary times. Perhaps they could secure the entire unit?

Very quickly, Kuwame got to work, though not before discussing with Thaddeus what his own expertises were, and under the watchful eye of Nadia, who was an expert when it came to anything electrical given her experiences, they got to work. At each point that Nadia was watching Kuwame, Thaddeus would watch over the area, to prevent any surprises, and likewise vice versa.

Option B it is!

by **Lazarian** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 2:15 pm

Ari & Asti's Misadventures - PROMENADE APOCALYPSE

"It's not like TraumaTeam still operates out on Icarus." Asti said, breathing deeply but keeping the camera level and pointed at the man. "We can at least try."

Shamzad sighed, and rolled his shoulders. "You bleeding hearts..." He shook his head. "But if this comes back to bite us, on your heads be it."

He knelt, stooping over and making further observations.

"Gang colors. Zero-G Devils." he says, delivering a blunt assessment as he checks the man's gear. "Low-grade armor. They're mostly surface raiders, not deep station."

He hefted the unconscious man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Let's move."

The group had made it halfway back to Daedalus when Shamzad calls for a halt in a relatively secure storefront. He gently sets the scavenger down, chrome teeth glinting as he grimaces.

"Internal bleeding's worse than I thought. Shrapnel's shifting." he says, gesturing at dark patches spreading beneath the armor. "We got a few options."

He holds up one finger. "Push for Daedalus. Fast as we can. Fifty-fifty he makes it, but if he does, Zero-G Devils owe us. Might be worth it."

A second finger. "End it quick. Gang territory rules - mercy kill, take his gear as salvage rights. Your viewers might not like it, but out here? It's business. He'd give us the same treatment."

A third finger. "Or we leave him in one of these shops. Let nature take its course. Safer for us - whoever hit their crew might be tracking survivors."

Shamzad stands, brushing dirt off his knees. "Your call, ladies. But make it fast. Don't like being in the open here."

Fissure Science Reclamation Team G - MAINTENANCE ACCESS J-17

Wilkes' breath fogs his helmet as he runs gloved fingers along the scarred wall panels, searching for the maintenance port. The emergency strips cast their strobing light across a decade of decay - rust flowers blooming across metal, condensation forming skeletal patterns in the dark.

"Take your time." Blake whispers through the comm, her rifle trained down the corridor they've come from. Her military training can't quite mask the edge in her voice.

"Got it." Wilkes' triumphant whisper cuts through the tension. Hidden behind a loose panel: a data port, its housing still pristine compared to the decay around it. He plugs in his Tech-Tool and-

whirrrr-CLICK

Everyone freezes. One of the ceiling turrets snaps to life, its targeting lens flooding the corridor with sickly yellow light as it swivels with precision that belies its age. Blake hurls up her rifle - although what good that'll do against an automated turret, they aren't quite sure.

Wilkes' fingers fly across his Tech-Tool's interface as he attempts to deactivate the turret. There's a dreadful tension in the air.

The turret whirrs again - and falls silent, drooping back to its dormant state. The three let out a collective sigh of relief. droops back to its dormant state, but the victory is short-lived. Something's not right, Porter notes, leaning in to study the scrolling data, her helmet light catching the dance of code across the screen. Everything else down here's running on auxiliaries, backup power, dregs... but this door? Full power. Active security. Someone wanted whatever's behind here sealed tight.

The security scanner pulses its crimson warning.

"We need to make a call," Blake mutters, still covering their six. "Before something else wakes up."

A) Force a system reboot. These old UNN security systems always had emergency protocols - crash it hard enough, and it might default to a recovery state. Of course, that same crash might wake up every automated defense in the tunnel. High risk, but potentially their fastest way through.

B) That maintenance shaft they passed - MAINT-J4 - probably connects to whatever's behind here. Any facility worth its salt has maintenance bypasses, emergency access routes that circumvented main security. They'd have to deal with the gravity anomalies, but it beats taking on military-grade defense systems head-on.

C) The employee manifest data is still partially intact. Pull back to the crew quarters, search for high-level ID badges, access terminals with valid credentials. Time-consuming, but perhaps slow and steady is the way to go?

The turret above them twitches, as if dreaming of targets.

The Ghosts of Kaggen - THE PROMENADE

They move like shadows through the Promenade's eternal twilight, their footsteps echoing across decades of decay. Above them, the vast geodesic dome filters starlight through radiation-scorched panels, casting everything in a sickly half-light. Gramps leads them along the edges of the grand avenue, avoiding the central channel where the artificial river once flowed - now just a dead concrete canyon perfect for ambushes.

A holographic woman suddenly materializes before them, her face locked in a rictus smile as she tries to sell luxury perfumes to ghosts.

Nolwazi and Mhambi don't flinch as they pass through her, but Gramps' chrome hand tightens.

"Damn things," he mutters. "Still give me the creeps."

They weave between the hulks of abandoned hover-cars, past the famous Club Nebula where the bass still thrums beneath their feet from machines that never learned to die. A patrol drone drifts overhead, chirping in confused recognition before moving on, its protocols long corrupted.

The temperature drops as they enter a section where the environmental controls have failed. Their breath fogs in the artificial winter until they pass through another atmospheric seal, where the air suddenly turns tropical and thick with the sickly-sweet remnants of designer fragrances.

That's when they see it - a storefront's security shutter has partially failed, creating a diagonal gap just wide enough to slip through. Through the gap, shelves of untouched luxury goods beckon, their pristine condition a stark contrast to the decay around them.

Gramps holds up his chrome hand, the servos whirring softly as he signals a halt.

"Hold up," he whispers, his aged eyes narrowing. "See those blue lines crossing the gap? Laser grid. Still active. And those aren't the 'sound an alarm' type - they're the 'slice you into pieces' type."

He taps his temple with a metal finger. "Optical enhancement's picking up the full grid. Nasty setup."

A) The security console beside the shutter looks relatively intact. Perhaps they might be able to hack it and deactivate the grid? The pristine condition of the store suggests valuable goods inside - luxury items that would fetch a high price back in Daedalus.

B) The maintenance access panel above the store catches Gramps' eye. "Back in the day, we used to service these security systems from up there. Might be able to bypass it entirely. Though..." He glances at a nearby corpse, slumped against the wall. "We wouldn't be the first to try."

C) Through the gap, beyond the laser grid, there's movement. Something mechanical whirs in the darkness. Could be automated inventory systems... or something less benign. Perhaps it's better to mark this location on their map and move on. The Promenade is vast, and there are surely safer prospects elsewhere.

by **Lunas Legion** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 2:47 pm

Ari & Asti's Misadventures
Week I - Continued

Ari ran her hands through her hair. She stared down at the dying man, conscious of Asti's camera pointed unflinchingly at the scene without so much as a shake in her hands. All that practice she'd done before they'd headed off to Icarus was paying dividends, it seemed. At least on the content side of things. The more practical side of things...

Urgh. Why had she been the one to be in front of the camera? She hadn't become an internet sensation to decide if people lived or died!

"You're sure on the fifty-fifty? A coinflip?" Ari asked, hiding the disbelief in her voice. Was it truly fifty-fifty? Shamzad was no doctor, after all.

"Sure enough. Seen enough injuries like this in my time. If we had a doctor, medical equipment..." He shook his head. "But we don't. So fifty-fifty it is. And getting less every second we talk and you think."

Right. Yes. She was the leader. She needed to be decisive.

"We've gone this far." Ari declared, placing her hands on her hips. "And no sign of anyone coming after us. We keep moving to Daedalus. Roll the dice."

Shamzad gave a silent nod, and with a grunt, hefted the dying man back up. "Let's go."

by **The GAmeTopians** » Mon Nov 25, 2024 3:22 pm

Fissure Science Logging Service
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G: Operation Wax Wings
Time Since Mission Start: +0.108 Weeks

"Only way through here is a hard reboot, and I don't think I need to tell either of you how risky that would be," Porter declares quietly. Wilkes grimaces.

Blake replies, "I may not know exact details, but I can guess. 50/50 on getting through scot-free and getting turned into swiss cheese?"

"Pretty much. Only other things I can think of are searching the crew quarters for credentials, which might not even work since I wouldn't be surprised if there's a biometric suite on that damn thing, or going through the maintenance shaft to bypass it completely." Porter wrung out her hands, clearly frustrated, but then gestured vaguely towards their feet. "We're pretty well-kitted for some zero-pressure variable-G work, so my vote's on the maintenance shaft. Thoughts?"

The question hung for a moment, the dull hiss of their short-range comms the only reliable sound in unpressurized space. Each of them glanced around occasionally, not that there was anything new to look at - but something about this place made you look over your shoulder a little more than normal. Just a short ways in, and they could already feel it.

"Works for me," Wilkes offered.

"Copy. Let's move." Commander Blake led the way, all three of them eager to leave the sentry turrets behind one way or another. They'd work together to open up the obstructed entryway, and off they'd go.

Delve Choice:
Option B: The maintenance shaft is what we're best equipped for. The whole team has pressure suits and mag-boots, so a no-pressure zone or some strange gravity is no object. (Relevant Gear: Pressure Suit x3, Mag-Boots x3)

by **New Socialist South Africa** » Tue Nov 26, 2024 4:39 am

Week 1 – the Delve
The Ghosts of Kaggen: Nolwazi and Mhambi Xasana and Tony “Gramps” Morrison
The Promenade, Icarus

The twins and Gramps scuttled their way like flies over the rotting corpse of the Promenade, looking for any juicy morsels left to feast upon. Much of the carcass of the once fat grand beast had been picked clean, but even now lost treasures still availed themselves …

There before them was a store where the security shutter has partially failed, a chink in its armour just wide enough to exploit. Beyond it, all manner of luxury goods beckoned, Sirens calling to them upon the rocks.

Gramps held up his chrome hand, the servos whirring softly as he signals a halt.

"Hold up," he whispers, his aged eyes narrowing. "See those blue lines crossing the gap? Laser grid. Still active. And those aren't the 'sound an alarm' type - they're the 'slice you into pieces' type."

He taps his temple with a metal finger. "Optical enhancement's picking up the full grid. Nasty setup."

“Seems a shame to let such luxuries go to waste” mused Nolwazi. “Perhaps we could hack into the system and shut it down … though then again, trying to do so may always sound an alarm, especially if we fail, and I’d like to avoid that if I can.”

The maintenance access panel above the store caught Gramps' eye. "Back in the day, we used to service these security systems from up there. Might be able to bypass it entirely. Though..." He glances at a nearby corpse, slumped against the wall. "We wouldn't be the first to try."

“True” agreed Nolwazi, eyeing the corpse, “though with you expertise and our abilities, it might be worth a shot.”

Through the gap, beyond the laser grid, something moved, something mechanical stirring in the darkness.

“What was that?” whispered Mhambi, as they slunk back into the shadows.

“I don’t know” said Gramps, “Could be automated inventory systems. Could be something … less friendly. We can always mark this store off on the map and look for something safer.”

“Mmm, perhaps, but then again perhaps by the time we come back to it some other team has picked it bare, and perhaps we find nothing else as valuable. We need to recoup our costs if we are to last long here. Should we fail to do so we’ll have to resort to doing odd jobs around Daedalus, or else starve” mused Nolwazi. She glanced over at Mhambi. There was that hunger again, reflected in her twin’s eyes. They called them kleptomaniacs sometimes, like magpies, seemingly unable to leave any little trinket behind, even if doing so meant having to lighten the pocket of a rich tourist taking in the sights of Soweto or having to break into the lavish apartments of Sandton and help the filthy rich simplify their interior design. But when you grow up in the townships, never fully sure what your next meal is or when it is coming, sometimes that is what you need to do in order to survive and thrive.

“Fortune favours the bold” Mhambi whispered.

“Got to risk it to get the biscuit” agreed Nolwazi.

“But fortune favours the prepared too” whispered Mhambi. “Let’s see if this can help us see what lurks in the dark”, and she pulled out the Infrared Nightvision Scope The Sun-Eaters had giving them before they departed on their mission.

“Good idea sis” said Nolwazi. Mhambi carefully lifted the device to her eyes to gaze through the perpetual twilight of the Promenade into the darkness of the store.

Delve choice:
We will use the Infrared Nightvision Scope to try get a better look at what lurks within the store, and maybe let Gramps have a look and see if he can discern what is in the store as well. We want to know what we are up against.

Unless what Gramps sees is enough to advise strongly against the scavenge otherwise however, we will be taking Option B
Gramps has experience with the maintenance access panel, and the twins have experience sneaking and stealing. Nolwazi can help lead the team through and advise them to Step Where I Step, particularly while using the Infrared Nightvision Scope to keep an eye out for dangers, while Mhambi is particularly Quiet, which will help count in her favour. The climbing gear can be used to get up to the maintenance access panel, and the crowbar can be used to open it up.

The climbing gear could come in handy again getting into the store on the other side, and the crowbar might be needed to put down whatever lies inside should it come for them, but hopefully whatever is inside is harmless, and hopefully they can avoid detection by it either way.
(Relevant gear: Pressure suits x 3, Infrared Nightvision Scope, climbing gear, crowbar)
(Relevant skills: Step Where I Step, Quiet)
(Possible drawbacks: Kleptomaniac x 2, Pacifist x 2)

by **The GAmeTopians** » Tue Nov 26, 2024 5:56 pm

Fissure Science Logging Service
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G: Operation Wax Wings
Time Since Mission Start: +0.11 Weeks
(Written in collaboration with Lazarian)

The maintenance shaft swallows their helmet lights like a hungry thing. Exposed wiring hangs in twisted curtains, casting fractured shadows that make depth perception nearly impossible. Their mag-boots click against the deck with each step, the sound dulled by the near-vacuum.

Blake takes point, her rifle's targeting beam cutting through the darkness alongside their helmet lamps. The shaft is a maze of utility pipes and conduits, each intersection marked with faded directional signs that blur together in the weak light. Frost patterns snake across every surface - this section's been exposed to space for decades.
They reach a junction where structural damage has peeled back the hull plating, creating a jagged window to the stars. Micro-debris has punched dozens of tiny holes through the opposite wall, making it look like abstract art in their helmet lights. A cloud of frozen coolant hangs suspended in the zero-G, glittering like diamond dust.

"Hold," Blake's voice crackles through the radio. She gestures at where the floor ahead has buckled, creating a gap too wide to step across. Through it, they can see multiple decks below, all the way to where distant starlight glints off something that might be the station's outer hull.

Porter's suit sensors flicker, struggling in the extreme cold. "Temperature's dropping. We stay here too long, our suit heaters are going to strain."
A) The maintenance shaft continues above this section - they can see another access point. Use their mag-boots to climb the walls, bypassing the damaged floor entirely. It's exposed, but their suits can handle vacuum.

B) There was what looked like a drone maintenance station a few hallways back - and Wilkes thought he might have seen a ladder. Might be able to extend it across the gap.

C) The damage looks recent compared to everything else - something caused that buckling. Maybe they should double back, try another route. Better safe than decorating the outer hull.

Porter squints up at the maintenance shaft that vanishes into the ceiling.

"Pretty sure that would take us somewhere else. Simple choice - double down on seeing the other side of the security door, or branch off and see what else we can find? Whatever we do, we need to decide fast."

They all look back the way they came - as paths went, it had been a fairly stable one, and if Wilkes was correct, the ladder wasn't far.

"Ladder?"

"Ladder?"

"Ladder. Let's go."

Stomp-click. Stomp-click. Stomp-click. The mag-boots beat a silent, tremorful tune, the crew's hurried shamble itself generating warmth to fight the chill of the depressurized tunnel. Getting the ladder is no great event - thankfully, Wilkes' memory was good, and indeed it seemed at a glance suited for the task.

"Alright. On three." The lack of gravity made the lift quite a bit easier, though it was still an unwieldy object. But soon enough it drifted in the right direction, and off they went.

There was treasure to be found!

Delve Choice: We'll use the ladder to bridge the gap - the secret of the security door awaits!

by **Lazarian** » Wed Nov 27, 2024 1:42 pm

TURN TWO

ARI & ASTI’S MISADVENTURES

AID HIM - CONCLUSION:
The journey back to the familiar confines of the Daedalus Annex is a hurried jostle. Panicked. Ill-paced. Teeth grit and hearts in throats.

If mercy is the mission for Icarus’ resident streamer-mercs, then time - sure as hell - is of the essence; for whether or not their charge lives but a few more cycles is a matter literally in Ari and Asti’s hands.
The fates seem damn bleak there, by the end.

When the perimeter lights and UN-bulkheads finally do appear - and the cordite stink of the ambush is long behind them - their poor charge has barely uttered more than a muttered cough for the last cycle. His face, pale and grim, is nearly the color of the Promenade tiles - and was that vile crimson stain on his thigh quite as wide when they first found him?

Between all the stress and bother of just getting here, ‘tis hard to tell. Death, even out there, so far beyond mankind’s cradle, is of no moment.

It is a relief, then, when Ari and Asti can lower the man’s limp body gently to the floor while Shamzad waves a trio of visored UN-medics to the fore. The last they see of their charge? - his stretcher is being escorted elsewhere; presumably someplace bright and antiseptic. A visored UN uniform asks perfunctory questions. What? Where? When?

And then it is over.

[A harrowing rescue! Or, at least, an attempt at one. The experience makes for a tense memory, to say the least - and nerves fray. -1 Morale for both Ari and Asti.]

[Hopefully - further consequences for Ari & Asti, be they good or ill, will materialize at some point in the future. For now, however - that’s all.

The lens captures everything - Ari's neon blue hair against the twilight of the damaged dome, her careful movements as she gestures to the grand ruins around them. Through Asti's viewfinder, the Promenade becomes a strange museum of lost luxury. They film the maintenance drones that still drift aimlessly overhead, their cleaning protocols an endless loop against the cosmic radiation stains.

An old club titled “La Lune” provides the perfect backdrop - Ari posing beneath its pulsing sign as it flickers and sparks. They catch the moment in three different angles, making sure to capture how the purple light plays across her face.

They find untouched treasures behind Eau de Europa's pristine window display - rows of Venus Rose perfume worth a fortune. Asti zooms in carefully on the bottles, making sure to catch the security laser grid's faint blue lines in the same frame.

The dry riverbed gives them their best shots. Ari walks its edge while Asti films from a bridge above, using a half-buried luxury hover-car to frame the scene. A holographic advertisement bursts to life during filming - a woman frozen between youth and static - and Ari's startled reaction is too perfect to not keep.

Their last shot ends abruptly when movement catches their eye - other salvagers in the distance. They pack up quickly, disappearing into the shadows of a thoroughly ransacked boutique until the coast is clear.

NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED:

The Golden Mile
The Golden Mile curves through the heart of the Promenade - the ultimate playground of the Glitterati. Brass and copper fixtures line the elevated walkway, their surfaces dulled but still catching light from the flickering high-end display windows. The marble floor, imported from Earth at astronomical cost, is spider-webbed with cracks.

Designer boutiques stand shoulder to shoulder, their armored shutters frozen at various heights like a mouthful of broken teeth. 'Milan Moderne' still houses its last collection - tailored suits and dresses that cost more than most people made in a year, now slowly decaying on their hangers. Through its scratched windows, mannequins pose in eternal elegance, some toppled by time and violence, others standing pristine in the darkness.

The members-only clubs are harder to spot. Only small brass plaques mark their entrances, though 'The Pantheon' breaks this rule with its still-functioning holographic doorman, endlessly repeating the same welcome message through static. Inside, visible through bullet-proof windows, leather booths and mahogany bars gather dust, bottles of Earth-imported whiskey standing untouched behind active security fields.

'Cartier Legacy' and 'Tiffany Orbital' sit opposite each other, their windows clouded but intact, original jewelry stock secured behind redundant security systems that wake up with deadly intent when triggered. The safes behind their showrooms, according to rumor, hold pieces worth more than most salvage crews see in a lifetime - assuming you can get past defenses designed to stop professional criminals in their prime.

Motion sensors trigger periodically, activating displays that spring to life with phantom sales pitches. Security turrets track movement with old-world precision, their targeting systems maintaining functionality long after their original operators abandoned their posts.

At the center stands 'KREUTZMAN'S CASINO', three floors of luxury retail topped with a private casino. Its main entrance, a marvel of brass and bulletproof glass, still holds firm. Inside, past the darkened lobby, slot machines occasionally blink and whir to life, their electronics running on backup systems that have outlived their manufacturers. The high-stakes tables remain untouched, chips scattered across green felt like ancient artifacts.

[New Location: The Golden Mile]
[Sublocations: Kreutzman’s Casino, The Pantheon, Luxury Storefronts]

By the end of the week, Ari & Asti have received roughly 800 Credits in donations and advertisements. There are plenty of viewers on their vods - but there’s also plenty of competition at the moment. Especially on these easily-accessed areas of the station, it seems.

FISSURE SCIENCE RECLAMATION TEAM G

The ladder holds steady as they cross one by one, their mag-boots clanking against its metal rungs in the vacuum. Beyond the gap, the maintenance shaft winds through the station's guts for what feels like hours - through cramped junctions, past frozen pipe networks, and around clusters of power distribution nodes. Finally, after what feels like days straight of wandering, the Fissure Science Team crawls through a tight maintenance chute - and into the treasure behind the secured door.

The room stretches before them in cold grandeur. Thick power conduits snake across the walls like steel veins, all converging on a central monitoring station. Three tiers of status displays create a horseshoe of screens, their ancient displays still casting electric blue light across banks of controls. Holographic readouts flicker in the air, showing power distribution grids, life support metrics, and emergency protocols in constant rotation. The air here is noticeably different - this section maintains proper pressure and temperature, evidence of independent life support systems still functioning after all these years. Blake takes off her helmet, taking a deep breath of the fresh air in relief.

One entrance dominates the left wall, its reinforced door bearing both UNN insignia and highest-level clearance markings. A plaque above reads “COMMS ARRAY” in several languages. The access panel beside it displays multiple quantum encryption protocols, their status lights still blinking in complex patterns. Through its armored window, they glimpse ranks of communication equipment - the machinery that once kept Icarus connected to humanity's network of colonies and outposts. A secondary biometric scanner waits beside the card reader, its surface still pristine after decades.

A door titled “NAVIGATION CONTROL” stands centered between its siblings, protected by the most comprehensive security they've seen yet. Physical locks mesh with electronic systems, backed by mechanical failsafes that look designed to survive even total power failure. The window here is smaller, barely offering a glimpse of the holographic stellar maps and navigation computers within. Most of them show various “screens of death” - blinking blue error messages, or static. A few still function.

The seal around the last door, labeled “ATMOSPHERIC CONTROLS” appears the most robust - designed to maintain integrity even if the rest of the section decompresses. Its biometric scanner is military-grade, with additional emergency override systems. Presumably, the machinery that's kept portions of Icarus breathable for all this time lies behind this bunker.

Between these fortified entrances stands the master security station, its card reader pulsing with steady red light. The station's main display shows cascading data - thousands of temperature readings, pressure differentials, power distribution metrics, and emergency protocols in standby mode. Smaller screens display fragmented camera feeds from throughout the station.

[NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED: Emergency Systems Hub]

Ultimately, the Fissure Science team needs to turn back before any true attempts on entry can be made. They’re short on food, and it’s a long journey back to Daedalus from here. After further long hours, they finally reach Daedalus - and they send their data back to Fissure through an encrypted server on a borrowed UNN Datalink. Before long? A paycheck arrives. [+1000 Credits]

FISSURE SCIENCE INTERNAL MEMO
FROM: Dave Johnson, CEO & Chief Visionary
TO: Reclamation Team G
RE: Icarus Station Mission Report
PRIORITY: HIGH

Ladies, gentlemen, and government watchdogs who are definitely monitoring this communication!

Now THIS is what I call results! An Emergency Systems Hub? WITH triple-locked security doors? This is the kind of discovery that makes my accountants cry and my lawyers hide under their desks - which means it's EXACTLY what Fissure Science is all about!

Let me be clear: those three rooms are like a beautiful, technologically advanced birthday present, and I want what's inside them. Navigation systems that brought this station back from god knows where? Atmospheric controls that didn't kill everyone immediately? Military-grade communication arrays? This is the kind of tech that makes our competitors wake up in cold sweats!

Now, I know what you're thinking: "But Mr. Johnson, those security systems look pretty serious!" To which I say: when has that ever stopped progress? Did Einstein let security systems stop him? Did Edison let quantum encryption keep him down? No!

Your next priority is getting past those doors. I don't care if you have to find keycards, clone someone's eyeballs, or teach a monkey to hack. Just get it done!

Also, human resources wants me to remind you that any radiation exposure is not covered by our health plan. But I'm sure that won't be relevant. Keep making science happen!
-Dave

P.S. If anyone asks, we definitely have permits for all of this.

THE BAND OF BROTHERS

“Heave!”

It is a slow, stolid plod back down the Scrapper’s Run for the Band of Brothers. Slow, not least because of the dark and cramped-as-hell confines they must navigate - but also because of their charge. Kris, it seems, is forced to swallow his instincts - and keep his innate sense of doom and danger in check. The drone they’ve discovered is a potential treasure, after all - and with the spindly arms of some strange, biotic rot spiderwebbed along its carapace? - well. It might not look pretty, and sure as hell doesn’t haul well - for every step of the band is a strain on sore muscles and fraying tempers.

“C’mon, guys! HEAVE!”

But the Maintenance Tunnels are silent. The flicker of aging emergency lights does not abandon them. The drone, lens-eyes dark and servo-limbs silent, proves just as dark and still on the march as it did in repose.

Back in Daedalus, where floodlights burn and infomercials blare - a waif-like tecchie with a Guangzhou accent and mirrored lenses for eyes narrows knife-thin lips into an impressed “Hm-!” A thoughtful posture later, she declares: “I’ll do you a thousand credits for the wreck - servos and all.”

A UN xeno-biologist, meanwhile - a ‘Dr. Feynman’, according to the nametag - adjusts his tech-glasses. Then consults a wrist-mounted datapad for a long, long moment - pale features awash with screenlit blue. “This is… interesting. The infestation here is clearly in a very, very advanced stage! Where did you say you recovered it?”

800, says Dr. Feynman, is the standard UN-recovery fee for specimens of this caliber. [So, 1000 Cs? Or 800 - and the presumed gratitude of the UN’s Xeno-Biology Core? Whichever choice they make, the toll on poor Kris is still clear for all to see. -1 Morale - superstition be damned.]

They have enough time to return to the Maintenance Tunnels - and spend long hours mapping out the winding passageways. They discover a few places of note - and relay the information back to their Private Military sponsor - whether it be Darra-Polytechnic, Aegis Orbital, Redshift, or Blackstar. Their org provides a meagre [500 credits] for the information, unfortunately.

Locations Discovered:

MAINT-J4:
A snaking maintenance tunnel. Emergency strips still pulse arrhythmically, creating a disorienting strobe effect. The tunnel bears evidence of some catastrophic structural failure - walls buckle inward, and exposed pipes leak decades-old coolant that has frozen into strange crystalline formations.

Loose panels rattle in artificial currents created by failing atmospheric seals. The original maintenance markings are still visible - faded arrows and warning signs in three languages pointing to critical systems that might not even exist anymore. Tool racks hang empty except for the occasional broken wrench or crushed diagnostic tablet. They don’t go far - with only one pressure suit, this area is a death trap.

CREW QUARTERS BLOCK C
A half-open door reveals a security checkpoint - or, at least, what might have been one at some point. An empty chair faces dead monitors, a collection of coffee cups still sitting on a desk where their owners left them. Beyond this checkpoint, the crew quarters stretch out in ordered rows, their numbered doors creating canyon walls of identical units.

Some doors stand open, revealing glimpses of lives interrupted: unmade beds, personal decorations, half-packed bags. Others remain sealed, their security locks still drawing power from somewhere deep in the station's grid.

THE SEALED GATE
A testament to serious security measures - the blast door dominates the passage, its surface marked with warning symbols and official seals. The broken keypad hangs from its housing, exposing cryptographic circuits that still pulse with power. Above it, the crimson security scanner maintains its vigilant sweep, its targeting beam cutting through the darkness like a bloody knife.

Two automated turrets frame the door, slumped dead and quiet. Before the door, an invisible energy barrier hums with dangerous intensity - the kind of serious hardware usually reserved for protecting critical installations. Lisa raises her hand to halt the two of them.

“Someone’s been here already.” she says cautiously. “See that exposed data port? That’s fresh. They had a techtool and couldn’t make it in. Bet there’s some pretty tough security measures on the wireware.”

THE SMELT-MONGERS

Amalia's ascent to the cockpit is a study in precision. The metal creaks beneath each careful movement as she navigates the twisted frame, but Sergei's augmented arms hold the loader steady, his cybernetics whining softly with the strain. Broken glass crunches under her gloves as she clears the cockpit, the sharp edges catching light from their helmet lamps. The datadrive is still firmly socketed in its port, preserved by decades of stillness. A few careful twists with her tools, and it comes free - its casing scratched but intact, status light still blinking lazily.

Beads of sweat appear on Sergei's bald head as the real work begins. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. His servos whine but hold steady, keeping the loader from shifting as Jakis works. The hydraulic lines are a maze of connections, each one needing to be carefully disconnected without compromising the frame that's kept this treasure hidden for so long. The industrial-grade system is surprisingly well-preserved - vacuum-sealed connections having done their job through the years.

The main feed line proves the trickiest - threaded through the loader's frame in a way that requires Jakis to contort himself into an uncomfortable position. But patience and experience win out. The complete hydraulic system comes free with a soft hiss, its seals intact, no leaks or ruptures. Just clean, professional extraction, down to the mounting brackets.

[+1 Datadrive - Intact. +1 Hydraulic System]

Jakis notes that they’ll want to find a private buyer for these to get the best bang for their buck - the UNN Salvager Corps won’t give them a good value, not from what he saw. The loader settles slightly as they step back, metal groaning but holding its position. A distant echo of shifting cargo is all it takes to send them on their way, prizes secured. The whole operation took less than an hour - the kind of clean, efficient salvage that keeps crews alive in Icarus.

Cargo Bay Alpha looms vast and dark around them, stacks of containers creating artificial canyons that stretch up into darkness. Their helmet lights catch glints of identification plates and warning signs, most too faded to read. They move methodically through the cargo canyons, always alert for shifting containers overhead or other salvage teams in the shadows.

A cracked supply crate yields three sealed packets of high-end water filters, grimy but functional. The filters are compact enough to fit in Amalia's pack, each one worth about 60 credits back in the markets. Not worth much to their crew of three, but an easy handful of creds by and by. [180 credits]

Two sections over, Jakis spots the remains of a medical supply cache. Most of it's worthless - degraded pharmaceuticals and shattered equipment. But nestled in the back, they find an emergency surgical kit, vacuum-sealed and untouched. The auto-sutures alone make it worth 250 credits to the right buyer. [250 credits]

Between the towering container stacks, they discover a maintenance drone, half-buried under fallen debris. Its memory core is fried, but Sergei's cybernetic strength helps them salvage the precision manipulator arms. Not pretty, but functional - worth about 370 credits to someone looking to repair their own drone. [370 credits]

All in all? A total salvage of 800 credits, plus their haul from the loader. Not a fortune by any means, but solid pickings for a first run through previously explored territory.

THE DISTANT LIGHTS

The command console proves more resilient than expected without proper tools. Kuwame works methodically at the housing with improvised implements - a length of pipe serves as a makeshift lever while Nadia directs his efforts, her expertise in electronics guiding each attempt. Brother Thaddeus maintains his vigil, hymn-humming a counterpoint to the sound of straining metal.

The outer casing finally gives way with a sharp crack that echoes through the cargo canyons, making them all freeze momentarily. Inside, decades-old electronics nest like mechanical organs. Nadia's hands move with practiced precision, disconnecting delicate components one by one. The main processing unit is intact - a bulky thing by modern standards, but its specialized logistics software makes it valuable. Several memory banks come free easily, their casings still sealed against time.

Not all survives their improvised extraction. A cluster of data crystals shatters when the casing twists unexpectedly, and several peripheral components prove too integrated to remove without proper tools. Still, what they salvage is worth the effort.

A Logistics Processing Unit - though rather damaged, two Industrial Memory Banks, a Power Distribution Module, and various smaller components and connectors. All in all, this is likely worth at least [1100 Credits] at the UNN’s salvage yards - although perhaps spending some time to sell to specific vendors may increase their haul of credits.

The haul isn't pristine - tool marks mar the casings where they had to force components free, and some connections are irreparably damaged. But even damaged tech finds buyers. The whole operation takes nearly two hours, their work periodically interrupted by distant echoes.

They press deeper into Cargo Bay Alpha's maze of containers, but fortune doesn't favor them further. Container after container reveals nothing but rotted packaging materials and worthless industrial supplies. Thaddeus marks several promising locations on their crude map - a half-buried forklift, a sealed medical crate that might be worth returning to with better tools - but nothing immediately salvageable presents itself. After nearly a day’s worth of searching, they call it. Better to secure what they have than push their luck in territory that's clearly been picked over.
[Cargo Bay Alpha Sublocations: Buried Forklift, Sealed Crate]

THE GHOSTS OF KAGGEN

Mhambi steadies the Infrared Nightvision Scope against her eye, its enhanced vision cutting through the perpetual twilight. The mechanical movement reveals itself - just an automated inventory drone, faithfully continuing its rounds through the aisles, scanning empty shelves with a patience only machines can maintain. Its patterns are predictable, its sensors likely degraded by years of isolation.

Gramps peers through the scope next, his chrome hand steady as he tracks the drone's movement. "Basic model," he whispers. "Won't even register us unless we're directly in its path. Seen plenty of these back in my maintenance days."

The climb to the maintenance access panel is methodical, silent. The twins move like shadows, their years of practice evident in every careful step. Their climbing gear takes their weight without a sound as they ascend, Nolwazi leading the way while Mhambi follows in her exact footsteps. Gramps guides them with hand signals, pointing out the most stable paths with the precision of someone who's done this countless times before. [Step Where I Step, Quiet]

The panel yields to their crowbar with barely a whisper, its seal long since degraded. Beyond lies a service tunnel that bypasses the laser grid entirely - exactly as Gramps predicted. They slip through one by one, their movements a study in practiced silence.

The store's interior is a time capsule of luxury. Racks of designer clothing still hang pristine, jewelry displays gleam untouched in their cases, and high-end electronics sit in their original packaging. The inventory drone continues its endless route, oblivious to their presence as they carefully collect their prizes. The three snatch everything they can easily carry - unfortunately, the service tunnel is cramped, restricting what they can take with them.

That being said, they manage to smuggle an impressive collection of compact valuables:

Three vacuum-sealed packages of genuine silken scarves, worth [300 Credits]. Five pairs of graphene-lined designer gloves, classic spacewalk fashion. [250 Credits]. Two bottles of ‘Starlight’ perfume in crystal containers. [150 Credits]. A collector’s edition holowatch, still in its initial packaging. [500 Credits].

All in all, their caution and preparation pays off - they exit the way they came, leaving the security systems none the wiser. The laser grid continues to shimmer, protecting a store that's finally been properly looted, while the drone resumes its eternal inventory of suddenly emptier shelves.

On their long and quiet traversal back to the UNN Daedalus, the Ghosts spot something fascinating - there, off in the distance, a graveyard of luxury glimmers in the station's eternal twilight. The broken dome of a stadium. An odd flower-like building rising between the other structures, its frozen petals casting strange reflections. And most peculiar of all, an enormous glass pyramid rises in the middle of it all. Within, only a dark mass of twisted shapes is visible, lit faintly from within by bioluminescent light. Strange colors pulse through its transparent walls - blues and greens that shouldn't exist in this mechanical graveyard. Mist occasionally escapes through cracks in the environmental seals, creating halos around the still-functioning emergency lights.

Gramps points it out. “That’s the Glitterati Playground.” he says, with a hint of disdain. “Bread and circuses.”

[NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED: Glitterati Playground]

Once they’ve returned safely home to Scav-Town, the Ghosts of Kaggen notate their explorations into the simple Satcommlink device the Sun-Eaters have given them. Minutes later, [500 Credits] are deposited into Nolwazi’s account. The depositing account’s number is an alphanumeric cipher, the Sun-Eater’s preferred way of communication. When decoded under Mhambi’s watchful eyes, it reads, simply - “Go deeper.” And that’s that.

THE VANGUARD OF THE SEVEN SEALS

The cramped tent that the Vanguard of the Seven spend their week in becomes both sanctuary and study. Lugal-irra sits cross-legged on his bunk, carefully annotating passages in "Prophecies in the Void: Science Fiction as Scripture", though his hands occasionally betray a slight tremor. The familiar words provide focus, each passage examined for relevant prophecies.

Meslamta-ea alternates between prayer and patrol, her footsteps tracing measured circles in the alleyway they've claimed. She watches the passing salvage crews with keen interest, noting their equipment, their injuries, their spoils.

Hank observes their methodical preparation with a mix of approval and gentle concern, his mechanical hand tapping out an old country rhythm against his leg. He's seen crews rush in, seen the cost of inadequate planning. But he's also seen analysis turn to paralysis.

It seems that the Seven agree with Hank’s slight concern - their megachurch sponsors' Motiv-AI-tor sends increasingly pointed messages:

"The signs are there for those who seek them."

"Faith without works is dead."

By week's end, Hank decides it's time to speak up.

"You've done the research, marked the maps, said the prayers," he drawls, mechanical fingers flexing. "Next week, we put it all to use. Can't interpret signs if we're not out there looking for them, y’know?”

by **Lunas Legion** » Wed Nov 27, 2024 3:01 pm

Ari & Asti's Misadventures
Week II

"Goooooood morning Icarus! It's another week on this ghost station, so you know what that means!" Ari's voice is as energetic as ever, carrying clearly as she posed beneath harsh fluorescent lights, a passage or two away from where Daedalus turned into Icarus.

"We've already got an episode up, but if you missed that..." Ari tutted. "Go watch it! But for those of our beautiful viewers that lack the time, I'll catch you up. Me and Asti found ourselves a Third, by the name of Shamzad, who's already proven his worth in looking after us and keeping us safe-" Asti spun the camera and herself around to look at Shamzad, who leaned against the wall opposite Ari. He grinned, light reflecting off metallic teeth. Asti turned the camera back to Ari, and she continued.

"But! We braved Icarus! Just the Promenade, the glitziest place on the station. There's some real good footage there, go check it out! With this camera, it's like you're here with us. There's more luxuries than any of us have seen in a lifetime, it's like walking through an apocalypse localised entirely to luxury! Eau de Europa, Venusian Outfitters, La Lune, the dried up artificial river... They're all in there, so check it out!"

"It's also, ah, violent. We ran into the aftermath of a particularly brutal brawl, and viewers of last week's episode may remember that me and Asti attempted to save a man's life by getting him medical care! And guess what, because I have updates!"

Ari paused, breathing. "Well, sort-of. You saw what state he was in when we got back. Real bad. We handed him over to the good people at the UN, haven't heard anything since. We'll let you know if we do! But that's last week! You want this week's stuff. But first, Asti has been herself, and she has stories. You see, the Promenade? That's just the storefront, she says. The stage. As luxurious as it is, as impressive an ode to decadence? That's nothing compared with the exclusive stuff, the stuff that isn't on shop signs and holographic advertisements, the stuff you got by word of mouth and weight of wealth. Rumour one is that on one of the sub-levels of the Promenade - yes, what we saw is, quite literally, barely scratching the surface apparently - there was a boutique called 'Beyond Flesh'. People went in looking human, came out... More. They didn't do just cosmetic mods, they did, and I quote Asti's source, 'bleeding edge biotech that never made it to the market.' There could be some real cool and creepy stuff down there, so if you want to check it out... Well, there'll be a poll up for us going to investigate it, or if we should instead go investigate somewhere else that we see in this episode or Asti's tapping of the rumour mill picks up on!"

"Rumour two is more out there. But you know Asti, she wouldn't report this unless it was at least credible! See, even deeper than Beyond Flesh, there's a place that Asti simply called... Lotus. Gives me the creeps, honestly. She said that prior to Icarus going dark, some real, real rich folks were focused on living forever by transfering their consciousness... And that some of them may have succeeded. Of course, if they did, they've been trapped on Icarus ever since. Sure sounds like a ghost story, but damn if it isn't a good one!"

"But anyways. Back to today. See, we're going a bit further than the outskirts of the Promenade this week. Those of you that missed last week will get some footage of it, of course, as we pass through, but the real focus this week is a stretch we're calling the Golden Mile. If the Promenade had a heart? This is it. It's a river of elevated marble snaking its way through the prime real estate there, right in the center. And yes, it's real, actual marble. From Earth. And they brought it to walk on."

Ari smiled. "You see how luxurious we're talking now, don't you? There's designer boutiques, like, the boutiques. Tiffany Orbital, anyone? Cartier Legacy? Brands that you haven't even heard of. I certainly haven't! So high-end that even high-end people like me go 'who?' They're that out of our price range. There's single pieces in there that, if me and Asti were dastardly criminals, might set us up for life. And at the center of all that there's Kreutzman's Casino. Now, I don't know of a Kreutzman, but if he has a casino named after him, and that casino is both seemingly untouched and at the heart of the Golden Mile? He's gonna be a big deal."

"But those are for later. We're going after something more... Private, today. See, where the outer Promenade had Club Nebula, and La Lune? See last week for the second, we'll get to the first eventually. There's a private member's club called The Pantheon, and that's where we're going. Becuase the rich among the rich didn't party where mere plebians like me and Asti could just walk in. They partied among themselves, behind closed doors. Who even knows what's back there? Me and Asti certainly don't! So that's where we're going, dear viewers!"

Asti didn't even need a signal. "So soon after last time?"

"Last time wasn't that bad." Ari said, crossing her arms. "We saved a man's life, potentially. Maybe."

"You took a hell of a risk." Shamzad grunted, standing up. "It didn't go wrong this time, but next time? We might not get so lucky."

"I'll keep it in mind." Ari said, tone slightly grim. "Let''s go." Her voice picked up. "The Golden Mile, here we come!"

Written with Laz

Ari’s journeys this week are quite successful.

Marcus "Webby" Webb cuts an unusual figure in the dingy bar - tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of expensive but subtle cybernetic eyes you'd expect to see in corporate security. His clothes are Europa-made, practical cold-weather gear that probably cost more than most salvagers make in a month. A thin scar runs along his jaw, disappearing under his neatly trimmed beard.

"Oh, me? Europa born and raised," he says with the characteristic slow drawl of deep-station inhabitants. "Worked corpo security for Zenith. Until I realized there's better money on this side of the law. Less paperwork too."

He laughs, but his eyes stay alert, constantly scanning the room.

"Look," he leans forward, voice dropping. "I could sell you the cheap stuff the Kupiers cook up in their hidden labs. But you strike me as someone who appreciates quality. This isn't some bathtub chemistry - it's clean, it's consistent, and most importantly, it won't leave you wishing for death the next day. Had it verified by three different med-techs."

He pulls out a small case lined with anti-static foam. "Personal recommendation? The Blue Dream. Perfect for when you want to unwind after a run without completely losing your edge. Popular with the high-end clients back in Europa.”

His mechanical eyes whir slightly as they focus. "But fair warning - this isn't street corner stuff. Quality costs, and I don't offer credit. Though," he smiles, "I do reward customer loyalty."

"And you can be sure we'll be very loyal, as long as your wares hold up." Ari smiled. This was just what she needed to take the edge off after their first delve, and the results of whatever this week's delve were. Asti would no doubt appreciate. She considered herself something of a connisseur of the various chemical substances one could imbibe, inject or otherwise insert inside one's body to achieve all sorts of effects, and so she knew exactly what she was looking for.

Blue Dream might be popular on Europa, but she wasn't from Europa. This wasn't a zero-G club she could float around in in safety and euphoria. This was Icarus. The absolute last thing her and Asti needed was a post-high crash at the exact wrong time, and although it was pricier, Starlight would be safer. Oh, Nova would absolutely hit the spot, but Asti would complain if she bought herself some and none for her, and the crash from that could be absolutely legendary sometimes.

"Two shots of Starlight. I can't say when we'll be back, but we will be back."

"Expensive tastes." He nods approvingly. He slides the small case away, and pulls out a pair of nasal sprays, dark blue steel with white dots. Ari handed over the credits, and slid the pair of sprays into her pockets.

"Pleasure doing business."

"The very same."

Ari left the bar with a distinct spring in her step.

by **New Socialist South Africa** » Fri Nov 29, 2024 6:35 am

Week 2
The Ghosts of Kaggen: Nolwazi and Mhambi Xasana and Tony “Gramps” Morrison
Daedalus Annex

“Risked it, got the biscuit” said Nolwazi with a smile, looking at their array of luxury loot. It should all fetch a pretty price with a trader looking to sell some old luxuries to someone seeking to live the good life. “Excellent work out there, both of you.” Mhambi and Gramps smiled and nodded. The winnings could always be bigger, but it was nothing to sniff at either, especially for their first delve.

“We should explore the Truemen sector and find someone looking to buy our haul” whispered Mhambi.

“Agreed” said Nolwazi, “and after you get your share Gramps, lets go get some proper food. This haul deserves a proper celebration. Let’s see if the Truemen section has any of our fellow Saffers who know how to do some proper shisa nyama. Otherwise any good food will do.”

“Sounds like a plan” said Gramps with a wry smile. “What do you plan to do with the rest of your earnings?”

“We should go back to the Megamart and see if that autopicker is still available for purchase. It may well come in useful when we go out again, though we should work out how to use it here first and practice with it a bit if we can before we go” said Nolwazi. She yawned, “though some shut-eye would also do us all some good at some stage as well.” The yawn spread contagiously to Mhambi, who didn’t look like she needed telling twice.

“And when we head out, where are we planning to go this time?” asked Gramps.

“We’ll follow our employers’ instructions, they want us to go deeper, we’ll go deeper” said Nolwazi with a shrug. “We’ll head into the Promenade again, but delve deeper into it this time, see if we can get up somewhere high and get a good view of the whole place. That would help us map it out. We can do some salvaging while we’re out there, but exploration should be more of the focus this time.”

“Fine by me” said Gramps. “And what about the Glitterati Playground?”

“It looks interesting enough” agreed Nolwazi, “but maybe a bit busier and more populated that what we’re interested in delving into this time around. We’ll keep it on the map and in mind for future delves, but for now let’s try get as close to a bird’s eye view as is possible of the promenade and see if we can get a good sense of how things look these days, as compared to what they might have looked like in the old travel brochures.”

Mhambi nodded in agreement. It was decided.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Nov 29, 2024 8:39 am

The Week of Silver Arms

The Smelt-Mongers

All things considered, the 'mongers had little reason to complain about the outcome of their first furtive steps into the wild interior of Icarus, and their less furtive forays through what passed for civilization out here on the station. Strength and steel and a bit of pluck had seen them through to, if not exactly a lucrative payday, a payday with the essence of fortunes to be made in latter days, and a payday which meant all of their limbs were still properly attached. Which, truth be told, was pretty important regarding those aforementioned paydays to come.

Jak winked off his communicator, rubbing his forehead. Avulstein out of the Current hadn't exactly been ecstatic to hear about some castoff hydraulics salvaged from an old cargo loader - that wasn't the sort of technological breakthrough they were hoping for - but the Administration also hadn't been expecting them to pull through with treasures and marvels five steps after landing on the Station. These things took time. And blood still inside of bodies was a positive outcome, as was the datadrive which had been pilfered from the loader. The Captain hoped the sky was pale gold back home, not pale red, and they would be able to pull a map out of the drive - or better yet, a cargo manifest. Direction to their scavenging would be exactly what set the Smelt-Mongers apart from your average scav in their productivity, and was precisely the edge Amalia loved to achieve.

The three laborers were lounging about the haphazard arrangement of tents and lean-tos which they had lugged over to the Trueman Columnade, Amalia at work with her unipad and a haphazard assortment of wires and code-transfer cables affixed to almost every surface of the 'drive. She hadn't spoken much in the last hours, her attention demanded by the data archaeology of getting modern tech to talk to the archaic information which the cargo loader had borne in its last hours. It was a task they had had to deal with dozens of times with hauls pulled up out of old San Franc, and the sunken cities of the Yanic Sea, but you could never quite tell how things would go. Not to mention the Icarians were their own hot slurry of cultures, tech-bases, con-langs, and encryption protocols. Even some modern cryptology might not be up to snuff compared to the old lock-ghosts dumped in genuinely secure Icarian files. If the Maker smiled on them though, a humble data-drive wouldn't be more than the 'mongers could handle.

Jakis shook his head. No sense borrowing trouble. He smoothly uncoiled his legs from the position they had been cramping in during the call, and Sergei followed him wordlessly out of their little lean-to. Time waited for no man. The tents in the borrowed peace of a plaza in the Columnade weren't too much of a concern, given they still hadn't accumulated much of value for flash-raiders to want to check out their stoop, but it was something to keep on the back-burners of the brain. More important, however, was getting the valuable hydraulics out to someone who could make good use of them, and there were two places which leapt to mind - the Rivet, and the UN. Either would probably be trying to make pieces of Icarian tech work to plumb their secrets, or simply need a good durable chunk of flash Icarian mechanics for integration into their own systems.

All things considered, the drifter was more predisposed to working with the Truemen than the white helmets. But a paycheck was a paycheck, at the end of the day. And then it would be back into the tunnels, to justify their continued existence aboard the Station, and fulfill the white-hot flame of a passion for discovery in his heart.

Initial Creds: 250
Delving +800 Credits: 1050 Available

1 - 2: Selling/Buying - Truemen, UN. No harm in trying to get the best cut available. A sturdy intact hydraulic system, Icarian manufacture, will hopefully fetch a pretty price to some mechanic at the Rivet looking to build a new rig, or UN boffins resuscitating other scavenged tech. Gotta wring those chits out where you can. While they're in Truemen territory, two lots of Scrap will no doubt come in handy from Honest Abe's, and there's no harm in trying to find a Tech-Tool for Amalia's use on the better side. [-300 Creds]
3 - 4: Exploration - Truemen Columnade. Scrapyards are good, conclaves helpful - but if the 'mongers are going to get really stuck in here, they'll need a place where they can lock up valuable loot, sleep easy despite night-runners, and build the sort of custom equipment Icarus will no doubt demand for success. Maybe that means staking their own claim to an isolated corner of the Columnade, fit for improvement into a proper hovel. Maybe that means finding an abandoned building to call their own. Maybe it might even, worst of all, mean paying for housing. But something more durable is necessary.
5 - 6: Hacking - Loader Datadrive. Amalia is hard at work, her dexterous fingers manipulating the code and cables necessary to get information from their prize. It'll likely inform their Delve, knowing where in the Cargo Bay to aim their efforts.
7 - 9: Delving - Cargo Bay Alpha. Only a moderate jaunt, other concerns being pressing. With fortune on their side, and a potential manifest guiding their boots, they'll have to do the best at funding their ongoing activities with only a few dozen hours in the belly of the beast.
10 - 12: Slumber, blissful unconsciousness to ease fears and rejuvenate tired minds.

Jak [Mechanic, Bad Back] - Toolhand, P-35 Pistol, Pressure Suit
Amalia [Scavenger, Bad Back] - Tech-Tool, P-35 Pistol, Pressure Suit
Sergei [Cybernetics] - Crowbar, Pressure Suit
Sustenance: Fresh Food (450 Creds) - Nothing like a fresh tossed salad of micro-greens in vingarette, some steaming meat-synth-loaf, and piping hot coffee to keep folks running on all cylinders. Not the tastiest cooked over a humble camp stove, but such is life.
Ending: 300 Creds, 2 Scrap

by **Ovstylap** » Fri Nov 29, 2024 3:52 pm

The Distant Lights

There was always something special about a new undertaking for people like Kuwame. Having worked on dozens of 'Roids out in the Belt, in stations and upon vessels bearing a myriad of loyalties, it was always fascinating to explore new areas. For Nadia, it was a means of intellectual escapism, to be freed from the routines that had been drilled into her circadian rythm, burned into her mind, for such a long time meant that her curiosity was once again sparked. Cargo Bay Alpha indeed seemed to promise a lot. Brother Thaddeus too seemed content with his lot, for he found it marvellous to engage in rigorous discussion on the merits and drawbacks of both theology and technology with the two Belters.

Always a positive when the Martians and Belters get along for once, eh?

Well what with the estimate of 1100 credits for their Logistics Processing Unit, two Industrial Memory Banks, Power Distribution Module, assorted other salvaged components, they appeared to be in quite good luck. Nadia and Kuwame naturally sought advice from Thaddeus on his views on the prices, given the time he had spent on Icarus already. "They'll see what they think its worth second-hand from a disreputable supplier, and then knock another 10% off, then they'll take a look at you Belters and once more knock off 10%, and then of course you're new around here, so that's another 10%. I'm sure you can find a much better price, but there won't be as many people with the capital to make an outright purchase."

Naturally, the sociable Nadia found herself going to Bantams, to ask around and find out about those engaged in the buying and selling of technical equipment.

Kuwame and Thaddeus made their way to Mister Minute- they showed their haul, especially focusing on the slightly damaged Logistics Processing Unit, and sought his advice on seeking buyers, if indeed he would not be willing. And what of the LPU? Could he make any fixes, safely? And what impact would this have on the market value? And whilst they were there, did he happen to have any firearms, crowbars, or even, Cosmos be damned, an autopicker?

A short while at the Work Exchange saw the simple asking- are there indeed any Odd Jobs of note to be done around the place? After all, it is never a false effort to ingratiate oneself with your own kind. Perhaps of course a buyer might be here too.

There was much to be done before the next delve, and with some good Credit made, there should be plenty for them to choose, which would then influence their decisions about where specifically to scavenge in the Cargo Bay.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Sun Dec 01, 2024 12:36 pm

Fissure Science Logging Service
Fissure Science Reclamation Team G: Operation Wax Wings
Time Since Mission Start: +1.005 Weeks

(Busy morning for me. Hoping to get some flavor here later today.)

Heirs Of Icarus | IC | Closed

Heirs Of Icarus | IC | Closed

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