Garbled Transmission - Printable Version +- Discovery Gaming Community (https://discoverygc.com/forums) +-- Forum: Role-Playing (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=9) +--- Forum: Communication Channel (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=59) +--- Thread: Garbled Transmission (/showthread.php?tid=61246)

Garbled Transmission - Vagrant Raiders - 06-10-2011 The screen flickers on to reveal the command deck of the Metropolis. The only sources of light are flickering control panels and small fires on the deck. Bodies are visible, strewn about like ragdolls. Everything, including the air, is faintly orange. The hull audiably groans under some immense strain. The camera shakes as someone grabs it and pulls it towards them. Visible in the darkness is Jordan Rudess, his face bruised and bloody, and a sickening bleeding stump protrudes from where his right arm should be. This is the *crackle*R-VCS-Me*crackle*olis requesting assistance. We've had no food for a *crackle*eek, and are running on *crackle*cycled water.." Rudess inhales deeply, and lets out a racking, wheezing cough. "Cardamine n*crackle*early depleted. Eng*crackle*es, weapons, deut*crackle*um reactor di*crackle*led. Saletun*crackle* Mirror similar..." At this point, the whole ship rocked with another explosion. Rudess drops the camera, which points at a nearby viewport. Visible outside of the ship is a pink nebula, and a bleak planet. Rudess rights the camera once more, back to the window. An eerie pink light silloetted him. "We were refueling at *crackle* Sprague, when a *crackle*ormhole formed without apparent cause. The *crackle*etro barely made it through, and on the other side, *crackle*omads were waiting for us. They took *crackle* of the crew, and *crackle*ortnoy from off the bridge, and left *crackle* *crackle* adrift." The camera is turned once again by a heavily muscled man. In a moment of clarity, you hear "You actually made it through? This is Petru- " A vicious fit of hacking and coughing followed. A moment later, the signal returning to its previous state "This is *crackle*hn Petrucci. We are *crackle*questing immediate assistance. Our location is *crackle*known. This signal will be repeated as long as *crackle* have the power to *crackle*mitt. Ple*crackle respond." The signal cuts out, with the following transmission tag attached: Authorization Verification Code: 901543-1265-OC-VR-23123-S-METROPOLIS Source: OMICRON-80 Retransmitting... Garbled Transmission - Suralin - 06-10-2011 ***INCOMING TRANSMISSION*** [color=#FFFFFF]Priority: High Encryption: Full Destination: John Petrucci, VCS Metropolis Source: NTF Executive Commander Greg Matthews, NTBS Belisarius Greg here. You saved our bacon back in Omega-3. Neo-Terrans honor their debts. We'll send a transport full of fuel and supplies for you, along with fighter escorts and a repair ship. Transmit your location on a secure channel and we'll get there as quick as we can. - Greg Matthews - ]NTF[-Suralin Garbled Transmission - Vagrant Raiders - 06-11-2011 The grainy video feed once again appears. Rudess points the camera out of the viewport, showing again the purple nebula and planet. "That's the best *crackle* can give you... try to trace the *crackle*. This system is unlogged on the Metr*crackle crackle* data banks. We're going to need cardamine *crackle* last supplies *crackle* airborn and fading. The Metropolis needs a dock if she has any hope *crackle* survival." The Outcast Commonwealth *crackle* docking facilities. Re-transmit this message to The *crackle* Commonwealth." The signal becomes a solid block of static once more. After a moment, the original message re-transmits. Authorization Verification Code: 901543-1265-OC-VR-23123-S-METROPOLIS Source: OMICRON-80 Garbled Transmission - Suralin - 06-13-2011 Greg entered the bar of Ibiza Base. Things had changed since he had left the Maltese Navy, largely as a result of battle damage from Corsair and Bounty Hunter raids. Yet much more was as he remembered it -- the grim determination, the camaraderie of the destroyer crews on break, the fine drinks imported (or 'liberated') from foreign lands. He sat down with a bottle of Kusarian sake and mulled over the options. He and Mario had just finished visiting Omicron-90, broadcasting loudly in hopes of getting a response from the beleaguered Raiders. Nothing. Which either meant they weren't in that system, narrowing the search possibilities to a scant handful of others, or they were powered down or somehow unable to respond. Or, Greg thought dourly, we got here too late and they're dead already. He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down what he knew: - Pink nebula - Barren planet - Radiation He then made a list of possible systems that fit that description, from memory: Omicron-90 Omicron-99 Omicron Delta (unlikely) Gallia (unlikely) He hesitated before adding one last possibility to his list: Kansas Gate -- LAST RESORT Too many members of the Neo-Terran Front owed their very lives to the intervention of the Vagrant Raiders nine months prior, during the convoluted mess that was the Battle of Omega-3. Greg was not about to let a debt like that go unpaid. Not while he still had strength in him. Garbled Transmission - Vagrant Raiders - 06-13-2011 Petrucci, Rudess and LaBrie watched in horror as a ship passed overhead, likely broadcasting in search of them. They had no power left to send or recieve signals, and were slowly orbiting around the planet which had become a farmilliar sight. "We just need to get a signal up to them," murmered Rudess. "But no power. What do we have that still works?" Labrie responded, "Everthing chemical and mechanical. Rockets. Flingers. Scrubbers.. and uh.." The three of them said in unison, "Mortars." Petrucci followed up with, "James, what's a flinger?" ------------------------------------------------- In the torpedo loading bay, Labrie packed the mortar himself, instead of letting the usual loading crew do it. One shot. No mistakes. The last visual of the seaching ship had seen it go through a jump hole some distance away. Far outside the normal firing range of the Metropolis' guns, but a specific tragectory with a good map of local gravity wells made the shot possible. Barely. After checking the loadout a final time, he didn't hesitate. He flicked up the armed switch, and pressed the button. ------------------------------------------------------ The Omicron 90 jumphole in Alpha lit up magnificently as gravitational forces within it detonated the TL-45 projectile. The entire cloud glowed for a second, visible from the bar of Ibiza Base