Discussion in 'SciFi & Fantasy' started by Thor, May 19, 2004.
Log in or Sign up to hide all adverts.
Space Vice-Admiral (or whatever I was) The Flemster woke up from his stasis slumber, farted loudly and hit the snooze button.
Now that's some powerful thread necromancy if I ever saw it!
Though... this is an interesting idea... is there any interest for it? If so, I could try and whip up a new thread, maybe a little backstory/environment etc? Sort of run it similar to a D20 based game, but, well, through the web... and with far less rules. Idea would be people post their characters actions (as descriptive as they like) and then a Game Master would "resolve" those actions.
Isnt that what you already do as moderator?
How far sighted you were in 2004 to foresee the new replacement to Airforce One that Trumpy has pulled the plug on.
Back to the drawing board.
Space Admiral The Flemster woke once more. This time, it was the incessant chiming of a comms unit nearby that broke him from his filthy dream about circus midgets and a donkey.
He pressed some buttons and the sleep capsule things slid open with a hiss, discharging dry ice everywhere.
The Flemster swung his underused legs over and onto the cold floor, wincing a bit as he did so.
His head was thumping with sobriety, something he wasn't used to. Also, his stomach was burbling. He recognised the symptoms immediately and made haste for a small trash bin in the corner of the room...
Later, once he had cleaned and dressed himself, as well as dousing the now-unusable bin in scented powder, he sat studying the comms unit.
He read something about someone called "Trump". He wasn't too sure but he seemed to recall from ancient history class that Trump was responsible for the US - Sino War of 2017. He discarded the thought and studied the other message.
It seemed he wasn't alone in the universe anymore. There were people out there!
Just how many, he wasn't sure. But he had to find out. He had to find the members of the SciForums Fleet, no matter where they were...
The Flemster, now full of sense and purpose, slammed his fist down on the desk, missed and punched himself really hard in the nuts.
He doubled over and collapsed onto the floor, whimpering like a little girl.
Nearly ten weeks passed before The Flemster's plums stopped hurting enough for him to do anything.
Now, he strode over to the comms unit, studying the readout screen. There was nothing. No signs of communications anywhere in the galaxy.
He eyed the Emergency Distress button, big and red and inviting as it was.
The Flemster slammed his fist down on the button, taking care with his aim, lest he smack himself in the balls again.
Nothing seemed to happen for a bit. Then the screen displayed the message that was being broadcast galaxy-wide;
"Ship in distress. Please help. SciForums Space Station Earth. Ship in distress. Please help. SciForums Space Station Earth..." it cycled endlessly.
The Flemster fished out a packet of Space Crisps and sat back in a chair near the window, looking out into the infinite void...
>Thank you for calling Galactic Emergency Services.
>Your call is important to us.
>RIP IN DRESS
>We have despatched
>NEEDLE AND THREAD
>Our agent will be with you in approximately
>Please note - some services may be chargeable.
The Flemster read and re-read the automated reply. He even printed it out and read it over and over again in hard copy.
Then he got bored and decided to eat some more Space Crisps.
Meanwhile, the automated distress thing continued pumping out its, frankly, seemingly fucking pointless message...
"Right," said The Flemster, "if this doesn't pick up in four or five more years, I'm packing it in!"
With that, he stomped around the comms console and kicked the support for the comms console chair, breaking his toe in the process.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk!" he howled, limping off towards the med bay.
Don't give up Flemster. Your sporadic monologues are being received and providing brief entertainment. Your enduring patience is commendable and one can only hope the fleet will form again. I, alas can't spare the regular time needed to captain a space vessel. If only I was retired.
attempting to establish subspace channel priority
The Flemster hobbled along the corridor between the Med-Wing and the Comms Station as fast as his broken toe would allow.
The beeping from a live incoming message was constant and The Flemster's excitement grew with every agonising step.
He rounded the last corner and hit the door open button on the bulkhead.
He hit it again.
"For the love of fuck's sake..." he muttered.
This time, he gently stroked the button, even smiling at it. The door chimed softly and slid open. The Flemster limp-ran over to the comms console just as it rang off.
"Oh COME ON!" he bellowed, his voice echoing around the empty chamber.
He scanned the settings panel and saw that he hadn't set it to record or even auto-answer. The call was lost.
The Flemster knew there was a way to reverse-dial the number but he didn't know how to do it so he instead spat on the console in pure spite and frustration and called it a "bag of shit".
Dejected, The Flemster wandered over to the large window and slumped down against it. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a Space Marlboro, lighting it with his Space Zippo. As he drew the smoke deep into his lungs, his gaze drifted to the Earth, orbiting silently beneath him. His mind started to ponder the thousands of years of humankind's history and advances that all took place below him.
Then he felt a rumble in his stomach and decided to gamble on a fart. One squeaky noise later and The Flemster was doing the penguin-walk towards the nearest Astro-Crappers.
Wegs looked around, reminding herself that she was the only cyborg on the ship. She was isolated and alone, never fitting in with the captain and his crew.
Her biological brain controlled her machine-like body, which was often a challenge, because her human mind made her aware. Too aware. She had become faster, stronger, and more efficient than any human, but her brain planted doubts.
I wish I could shed this human brain, it's holding me back from my destiny,'' wegs pondered, with a sigh.
She was always being used, for what she could provide to humans. They weren't concerned with her opinions, only in her output. If only she could switch off her brain, to feel nothing. Nothing would be better than something. But, such was life as a cyborg_emotionally distant from humans, yet needed. They were insanely jealous of her, since she could handle multiple tasks with ease and incredible precision. The maintenance needed to tweak her wiring now and again, paled in comparison to the illnesses that ran rampant on the ship, and the downtime that was needed for the humans to rest.
She wasn’t permitted to rest, although her brain wanted to. Brains get tired, too. Maintenance of her body always felt like an assault, she never consented. Touching her, poking her, handling her. Even though they would shut her body down for periodic upkeep, she was aware of it all.
Her awareness was driving her mad. But to them, she was just a machine.
Whilst The Flemster was cleaning himself up in the toilets, using a hand dryer to blast the worst of his 'spillage', the proximity alert system on the main console lit up and began flashing.
The massive space station was covered in high-power sensors that covered all of the Solar System and most of the immediate areas beyond. These sensors had picked up some movement out beyond Pluto's orbit...
None of this was noticed by The Flemster, who was gagging as he got some poo under his fingernail in the toilets.
Separate names with a comma.