Neural Net Log: Vincent Pryor
Affiliation: Freelancer
New Personal Log Entry: 3.30.818.A.S.
Just call me Mister S#%& Hot
Oh damn, a filter? Stupid computer, wheres the.. nevermind Im too lazy to find it, hah. Anywho, Im kicking off this log just so I can keep track of all the junk Ive been up to. Heard its sorta useful, although it strikes me as some kind of diary, but I guess if other Freelancers do it its gotta have some worth.
I rule. Thats right. A lot of people cling to their groups, their factions, their militaries, their bands of pirates. Guess its all well and good, but I dont need anything but myself, my ship, and some guns. Thats why Im going to come out on top every time; nobody to rely on for anything important, nobody to interfere with my jobs.
Speaking of which, Im a man of many talents. Ive been virtually everywhere and done virtually anything at least once. Bounties, escorts, cargo, smuggling, been through the Sigmas and most of the Omicrons, been through all of Gallia, had my run-ins with Squiddies, you name it. Needless to say I lived to tell about it, and I intend to live a little more. They say money makes the universe go round. I reckon thats true, but its only really worth it if youre screaming through lasers and burning plasma to get it. Then I can look down at that credit card with a million credits on it and say to myself, Damn, Im good.
Case in point, I am Invincible. Thats right.
But back on track, Ive already done a lot of crap before I started this thing. Came up with contacts in Gallia, been running through there like a bat outta Hell for the past month. Took out a small job for the Zoners in regards to undercover Royals out there, but no luck in that so far.
Best of all, though, I finally got my good ol Outflyer One up and running. Cant believe I started with nothing but a twenty year old Dagger and managed to keep it intact long enough to practically rebuild the ship from the inside out. Its essentially one of those fancy Sabres now, but with my own little touch, which automatically makes it better. Even reworked the afterburner to compare with one of those Outcast Cheetahs.
Now that the Outflyer Ones patched up again after my latest stint in the Omicrons, I can do some combat-related stuff, no more of that long-haul cargo crap unless I need the money in bulk. The ICMG gave me a great deal on a loan in order to buy the Outflyer Three so I could do those damn runs to begin with. They might have use of a fighter pilot like me, I reckon I'll look into it.
Course I also have the Council, and maybe the Union Corse, depending on how stingy they are; my contact in Gallia warned me about that whole business. Their fight with the Royals seems to be perpetual, and seeing as how theyre blatantly hostile to all Sirians anyway I dont think it matters much if I splash a few of em for a quick buck.
Anywho, time to get rolling.
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 3.31.818.A.S.
Progress
The deal with the ICMG ain't bad. Mainly because I managed to fudge the deal.
See, in my travels I've seen a helluva lotta ships flyin' by, and knowing me I'm a bit of a critic. Some of 'em are nice and all, but I love the Border Worlds style; it just plain suits me. So when I see this big ol' three engined thing that looks like an overblown Sabre roll by, well, my heart just went thumpin' through my chest.
Luck would have it that the makers of that fine specimen were Outcasts. They call it a "Tridente".
I call it my next ship.
I reckon I always intended to get some heavy-hitter someday. Not a bomber though; SNACs are hard to keep workin' without a good supply of parts. But gunship? Sure thing. A single-seat gunship? Hell you bet! A Border Worlds styled gunship? I'm first in line.
So, here's the score: I help 'em protect their miners and escort 'em when they make their runs down to Rheinland and all that stuff, but whenever some fella in a Tridente feels like ruining the party, his carcass gets towed straight to Java. They tie it down in one of the hangars and from there I get to rip it to pieces. I'm gonna rebuild one of those suckers.
Kinda crazy idea, huh? Well, I reckon if they look like Border Worlds ships they must be Border Worlds ships, give or take some fancy gadgets here and there. With a steady stream of parts rollin' in from Tau-23, I should be able to piece one back together some way or another.
The downside is that any pay they'd normally give me is cut in half.
To be honest? Ain't much of a downside if the upside involves that monster I intend to build.
Anywho, I made a run with 'em all the way to New Berlin and Nuremberg, and back again. Nothin' terribly special, they like to buddy up with other ships on the way there and form convoys. Smart move, if you ask me, but you ain't gonna catch me dead in one; one or two pirates will run, but a gunboat and three bombers would prolly lick their chops if you know what I mean. I suppose it's better if you have more than one ship, but damn, I'd rather speed in there and speed out without even being seen to begin with.
Anywho, they paid me two million for the run. Eh, kinda low wage when you think about it, but then I got a message from Mister Lobster Guy, one of the head honchos of those fellas.
He had a Tridente frame waiting for me.
Can you say Outflyer Four?
I can.
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 4.3.818.A.S.
Baby's Got Wings
Absolutely Awesome.
With that lovely gravy train of Tridente parts rollin' into Java I managed to piece together the engines on that sucker. The three things are nothin' but oversized Sabre jets. I mean hot damn, how basic can you get? That's Border Worlds for ya, Love it.
Anywho, Mister Lobsterguy was callin' me some kinda lunatic for thinking I could rebuild one of these things. Now naturally he's wrong, but unfortunately I didn't make him place a bet so the joke's on me.
After scrounging up enough half-beaten parts and a new afterburner assembly, I finally got the Outflyer Four's engine system into some respectable shape. Now, granted, the afterburner was easy, and the engines were just overblown stuff like I said, but I reckon it's that jury-rigged cruise engine that was the tough part. Tryin' to squeeze constant engine burn out of those beat up things took quite a lot, but thank the Outcasts for those big damned intake vents all over it; cooling them didn't look half as bad as it coulda been.
So I took her out today, with a couple of IMG fellas looking on all bugeyed of course, and put her through her paces. I am mighty pleased to say that that bird's got some kick. Throttled up to Min power, no sweat. Took the afterburner nicely, burned through to the tolerance limit and it recharged all the way. Then came the cruise, and I'll be honest, was a tiny bit worried, but as always I kick ass and so did those engines; running down fellas in a cruising Tridente is freakin' fun. Trying to dodge all those rocks is a bit less fun, but I reckon I'll get used to it.
Hah, that cocky SOB, says I couldn't do it... *pompous voice* "Oh really? Well good luck with that." HAH!
Anywho, absolutely Awesome. Freakin' great, I swear to God. She may be somethin' of a flying junkheap at the moment, but the engines are purring with the best of 'em. Next on the list is bodywork, of course; don't want it flying apart out there. 'Course, I like the way it's all beat up lookin', makes it look like a veteran or something, y'know? I rigged the lights, though, no sweat with that. It's got blue runnin' down the sides, twin headlamps, standard nav lights in the right spots...
Damn I rule...
Can't wait to get her in tip-top shape. Would love to see the looks on those fellas' faces when they're about to pirate some poor miner and this freakin' beast comes screaming down on top of 'em. I reckon they won't like it too much. 'Course it's only business; nothin' personal against the Outcasts or anything. But if they try to shoot me down, well, I don't need to say much else there do I? As for the Police and such, they prolly won't like seeing her around either, but maybe they'll change their minds when they find out how awesome the driver is?
Did I mention I rule?
Well that's enough for today, I got a lotta work to do on that sucker, but by God she's my next masterpiece. She'll never replace the Outflyer, oh no, that girl's my trusty steed. But the Outflyer Four will turn heads, and shoot heads, like there's no tomorrow.
Oh yeah.
I rule.
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 4.17.818.A.S.
Slow. And I mean Slow. Slooooww.
Yepper, just bummin' around for the most part nowadays.
The Tridente parts keep coming on in, but it's got to a point where I need new gear rather than recycled old junk. Plus, I can never seem to get out there when they do gun down a Tridente, so I feel a little guilty about it.
Well wait, Hell, no I don't, I'm not getting paid otherwise!
It's alright I guess. But it means I need to start doing Neon runs or somethin' again in order to get my wallet in shape for this project. It's a hefty one, that's for damn sure; the Outflyer Four needs a couple hundred tons of bodywork if you know what I mean. After that, well, I suppose the ICMG wouldn't mind helping me out with the weapons. The power core's all set, but I don't have anything to mount, and those damn Outcast guns are too fragile so none of 'em work by the time they get to me. I dunno quite how they work, either; I reckon they aren't Border Worlds stock.
Anywho, otherwise it's been alright. The ICMG ain't bad fellas. A little quirky here and there, stuck mining in that Hellhole for months on end, but they're alright, in fact sometimes awesome. They even have beef jerky!
But now I'm just ramblin'... Fact of the matter is that stuff's slowed down too much around here. I think I might tie down the Outflyer Four here at Java and take the Outflyer back to Erie, break out the Three and get some credits flowing. I need the cash, pure and simple, otherwise, well, no fancy gunship for me.
And you just know I ain't gonna let that one die. Shot too many Outcasts, saw too many rocks, and burned too many hours out here to give up now.
<End of Log>
Vincent Pryor. Human male, age twenty-two. A Freelancer in the truest sense of the word. Born under harsh circumstances, escaped under harsh circumstances, continued to live under harsh circumstances. Such was the story of his life.
He'd been chased down, targeted, shot at, cursed at, bountied, and even punched in the stomach. Conversely he'd shot people, shot their ships, smuggled their contraband, hauled their goods, and protected their butts. Story of his life.
His rather short life.
Walking along the hangar decks of Java Station, alone, Vince was partaking in what he referred to as "a good hard think". Under normal circumstances he'd do this sort of thing with some wonderful vista that the universe had provided, like Planet Eris, or the Avlemore Nebula, but out here in the Tau Systems he'd had nothing but rocks. Rocks upon rocks upon rocks. It was oppressive to his tastes; he wondered how the miners here ever managed to settle here let alone work here. But indeed, he was here to work.
The ICMG, in their quest to safeguard their vulnerable transports from the likes of the Outcasts and the nefarious Cartel, had begun hiring mercenaries and Freelancers such as himself in order to bolster their numbers. This was nothing new; even the IMG was getting wary as Outcast vessels grew larger, both in size and number. He was there to work alright: nailing Sabres. While in fact his Outflyer was a Dagger, it had received enough after-market parts to constitute a Sabre, so somewhere in the back of his mind there was always a dread that followed after watching one light up under his cross hairs.
But that was another matter entirely. The matter at hand was that giant blue monster sitting at the ready less than a hundred yards away.
Vince looked over his shoulder at it and grinned slightly, certainly proud of his accomplishment. The Outflyer Four was a masterpiece of haphazard engineering: an Outcast "Tridente" Gunship built using nothing but parts recovered from charred wrecks out there among the rocks. Some of them he'd caused himself. Some of them were the ICMG's form of "payment". But in any case he'd finally got it in working order, hull strengthened, engines humming, armed to the teeth, Battle Razors and everything.
His second baby, after the Outflyer of course. A damn fine job if he thought so himself.
But it was his second baby. True, the Outflyer Two and Three were unforgettable, but those were just transports, and the Three was almost entirely stock DL Series. He now had two brainchild projects, both bought with blood, sweat, tears, and a fistful of credits, tuned by his own hands, operated by the same.
He felt old.
The feeling was unnatural to him. To think, him, Vincent Pryor, "Freelancer Extraordinaire", age Twenty-two. Old!
But there was no escaping it. The feeling had crept up behind him and choked him without any warning.
He felt old.
Why? Had he lived a full life? His rough resume would indicate that; he doubted many other people had gone to the lengths he had. After all, who else was running around with a custom-built Tridente, a custom-built Sabre, and heavily modified transports? Who else owned an entire hangar complex that was foolishly condemned when it had plenty of life left in it, and had turned it into a proverbial fortress of sorts? Who else had battled Outcasts, evaded fleets of bounty hunters, stared down Squids on several occasions? Who else was Vincent Pryor's brand of Freelancer?
How he Hell had he done all that anyway?
He wasn't sure he wanted to remember. "Not by clean livin'," was one of his excuses, afterall.
But this ship, the Outflyer Four, a piece of jury-rigged Outcast technology standing defiant amongst the puny vessels of the local miners... what did it represent? A culmination? An apex? A sign of things to come? Or a sign that things would never be the same again? What would he do with it, in the end? Where would he take it? Where would it take him?
He felt old.
Staring at the floor as he went, his hands shoved deep down into his flight-jacket pockets, Vincent Pryor once again found himself pondering questions that a simple man like he could not possibly hope to answer. Deck crew occasionally bumped into him. Others stared, then looked at the Tridente and gaped. But he'd forgotten they all existed, and continued walking.
The hangar decks were rather extensive; Java served the dual purpose of a mineral depot and as a dwelling for the local miners, so there was plenty of room here to go around. It'd be several minutes before he reached the destination he was seeking. It suited him fine; he needed the time to cool off and have this "think".
Retirement.
What a word. It made him frown on the spot, a bitter taste impressing itself on his tongue. It meant the end-all, the point where one "gave up the ghost", and settled down somewhere to essentially rock in a chair until their time was up. Inactivity.
He feared inactivity.
It wasn't hard to see why, either. What had motivated him to do what he'd done? The feeling of adventure? The drive to shoot the stars? Maybe, but by now the tales he'd heard traveling pilots banter about on Freeport Ames paled in comparison to his own. He felt as if he'd seen everything, or at least seen everything he'd ever want, or could stand, to see. "Adventure" no longer applied.
Had his adoptive father encouraged it? Hardly; though he was a Zoner, Gerald Pryor had entrenched himself on Ames. He'd "retired".
Had his real father encouraged it? Perhaps; that drunken beast from Hell certainly gave him all the reason in the world to run away as far and as fast as he could. But did he need to run anymore? He was dead; the obituaries made that clear. Besides, Papa Gerry had given him another start which should have voided this emotion; he had nothing to fear from ghosts.
One thing was for certain: inactivity, to him, was comparable to mental death. He shivered at the thought of being some bitter old man, sitting alone in some apartment on Denver or Manhattan, watching the Holonet or some other such nonesense, bereft of his wings and his will to soar...
... sitting alone in some apartment on Denver or Manhattan.
Vince shook his head as his boots continued to hammer away at the deck beneath. Alone. He was alone, afraid to be alone, to stay alone. Was that it? Really?
He'd been almost entirely alone this entire time. He had few close friends, if any, to speak of, and a Hell of a lot more enemies. Papa Gerry was still there, but he'd always felt odd going back to Ames after striking out on his own the way he had. Women? He didn't even want to start with that one; a fighter pilot's charm required a taste that was probably extinct along with Old Earth.
The Outflyer sat before him, powered down, running lights off. It sat alone in the corner...
Vince grimaced; damn analogies like that. He didn't need them now.
What did he need?
He ran his hand along the port-side pylon that extended from the lower engine pod to the main wing. It bore the scars of many a laser blast, and many a spit-and-polish repairs. This ship was his pride and joy, his only companion. A faithful steed of sorts, if that didn't seem too absurdly romantic for a man of his profession.
It was his reflection. A beat up, weary, starfighter was a reflection of himself. It had been where he had been, seen what he had seen, been shot at all the same. An old, lonely...
Damn analogies.
But what of the Outflyer Four? It was new, wasn't it? It was, right? He'd built it himself, finally completed it that evening, test flown it too. It was new, right?
Except it was built with charred leftover parts that belonged to a host of other ships, some of which had fallen to the very pilot who now wished to fly that gunship. It was just as old, just as beat up, just as weary...
This psychology stuff was really starting to piss him off. Maybe he was looking too deep into it? Yeah that was a good excuse; save it for the shrinks. He had better things to do, like slag Outcasts and earn some damn money instead of twisted metal. Yeah! He had battles to win, jobs to do!
Again?
More jobs? More shooting? More of the same? More blast scarring on the hull?
The frown from earlier was now cemented on his face. Vince Pryor, Freelancer Extraordinaire.
Old.
Nonsense right? Of course it was.
Of course it was.
Java was settling down for the night. There really was no "day" or "night" here, but the miners ran on a schedule, a kind of double-shift system that mimicked these times. But most of them congregated around the "day" schedule, hence the sudden dispersal of the deck hands nearby.
Vince climbed up one of the service ladders and pulled the primitive but reliable Border Worlds lever that popped the cockpit canopy open. The inside was a mess; not hard to believe given that in some instances he'd actually lived in this ship for several days at a time. The privation would be remarkable for any regular fighter pilot, let alone a cruiser commander, but for him it was all natural, all part of the job. Story of his life.
He hopped in and got comfortable... then heaved a sigh.
What now? Where to go, what to do... more of the same?
Maybe. Maybe not? Maybe he could find other groups to deal with, strike up jobs he hadn't done before?
... Like what? Make balloon animals at birthday parties? He was a fighter pilot, damnit. His venues were limited indeed.
They were limited even moreso by the demands of real life: respect was hard to come by, trust to an even greater extent. It wasn't always easy trying to find jobs he could actually enjoy himself with; he didn't really need them for the money, like your average mercenary would, but while this might have propped him up on some pillar of moral superiority it did not change the fact that he was now being picky in a very fickle universe.
Where to go. What to do.
Sleep.
He didn't mind. Yanking the canopy shut, Vince settled down in the ejection seat and stared out at Java's hangar bay with half-closed eyes. Most of the movement in his area had died down, and sound was entirely blocked by the canopy necessary for surviving the toils of a vacuum.
It was kind of peaceful. But it was missing something.
Vince reached out with his hand and lightly tapped a switch on a side console. Slowly but surely a low humming noise began to make its way through the alloys behind his seat, and a slight rumbling soon followed.
Now it was peaceful. This was his element. This was where he belonged.
Because, in reality, he could not belong anywhere else.
New Personal Log Entry: 4.28.818.A.S.
Back in the Groove I Guess
So, that monster of a ship, the Outflyer Four, got its first taste of battle.
Kinda brief. Roger kinda shot first, kinda blew up the target before I did..
Oh but he was gracious enough to let me shoot at a half-dead bomber....
... Goddamnit come on! I can't get better at flying this oversized Sabre without some kinda practice! Jesus..
Anywho, so she works. Like a charm, actually. Should be fine for all kinds of stuff up there in the lovely Taus. But the damnedest thing occurred to me: I wasn't lookin' forward to completin' her so much as getting it over with so I could take the Outflyer out for a spin elsewhere. Suddenly things were lookin' up, y'know? Have the Four over there tied down at Java, break it out whenever I need to, and in the meantime ferry myself around in the Outflyer, taking other jobs.
I guess..
Hell, so I figured maybe those "Temperaneous Automatic Zoners" or whatever would have a job or two lined up. They seemed like nice fellas; I can respect their religion and all that... but I show up in Baffin and there's some Russian-sounding chick there who just...
Jesus Christ what is it with women anyway? "Babe" does not mean I'm a "show van ist" and whatnot. It was the way I was raised! Just the damn way I speak! I reckon if some women got so damned offended by it maybe they could, oh I dunno, do the nice thing and ask me to stop usin' it for that particular person? Instead of going straight to "I'll rip your throat out with my bare hands" literally?
So anywho there I am, and this... pip is practically taking a crap all over those Zoner fellas' beliefs, spouting junk about "math" and "science" and "you're all gonna die" or something. So I start interjecting on the side of the Zoners, cuz, Hell, I'm a nice guy, but what happens? They tell me to stuff it! And they let that damned... person continue!
I even said their damn weird greeting thing! One of 'em said "Thanks for the nicety"!
Thanks my ass!
Really pisses me the Hell off.. but I got the Hell outta there and stopped by Barrier Gate. Felt like talking to that crazy ol' coot Tinsley; not really friends but sometime's he's a nice fella to shoot the breeze with. But the sucker "wasn't available", so said one of his lackeys. That's crap; he never leaves the damn place for fear of his freakin' life. I was gonna hit the bar and drown myself but remembered that Barrier Gate has one of the worst bars in the whole damned Sector so I just up and left.
So I made my way back to good ol' New York, hoping for some kinda action out there like always... There was a little bit. Tried to talk to Audrey whats-her-name from the Liberty Marines but she kinda bolted something quick. Then there was that "Vixen" girl who claims she's a cat.
I called her "Babe".
She threatened to claw my larynx out.
I mean what the Hell.
But anywho, she didn't sound too great; started babbling something about controlling that ship of hers with her mind through some kinda uplink, and that if she took it off she "went into withdrawal" like it was drugs or somethin' and "would die". I dunno how accurate that is, but she said she was boozing it up with wine and God knows what kinda meds, so for all I know she's just lost it.
Poor girl. Not like I wanna see her hurt or screwed up or somethin'...
... even if she does wanna claw my laryaranks out...
The Hell's a...
Whatever, anywho, after bummin' around a bit and havin' nothing terribly special going on I decided to call it quits and head back for Erie. I gotta tell ya: I might be a roamin' Freelancer but my place down at Erie just... I dunno.. I can't call it 'home', but it's just... nice? I guess? Like a weird "vacation" from the cockpits of my ships or something.
Ah well. At least I get to sleep in that old bed that somehow stayed together ever since Papa Gerry filched it from someone way back when. There ain't an engine hum but at least I can stretch.
Speakin' of which that bed's lookin' mighty fine right about now...
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 4.30.818.A.S.
Back in the Groove, Seriously This Time
Can you say splash one?
Er.. well actually it was a mission kill, but I had that sucker whipped, honest! Got a call from the ICMG that some of their ships in Coronado, of all places, were gettin' jumped by Cartel. Hopped on over, scaring a few merchants as I went, found 'em, and before I knew it we just laid into 'em. Two bombers versus a colony ship, a gunboat, two fighters, and the Outflyer Four. Well, those Cartel had a chance: at first it was just a fighter and the colony ship, but as soon as the others sorted out whatever the Hell was goin' on with their gunboat we just swarmed in like a wave. One of the Cartel bit a Battleship Razor in the face and popped on the spot, and the other, well...
I started chasin' him after Roger gave me the target, nothing new. But after his buddy got slagged, he started to bug out a bit, with me hot on his ass. Roger called the other fellas off, so before I knew it I was in a one-vee-one with a bomber, soarin' through the dust rings around Sarissa. The sucker tried using torpedos on me; not a terribly good idea, I dodged 'em pretty well. Then he tried usin' SNAC shots, but to do that he needed a high-aspect passing shot. Other fellas call it a "Joust". Big mistake: twin Battle Razors make a nice dent in the face if y'know what I mean. Eventually he ran for it, his ship just a hair short of falling apart, and I gave him a sendoff: a Razor in the ass at max range. Meanwhile the Outflyer Four hardly had a scratch on her. I had that sucker beat, no doubt about it; if he kept pressin' I'd have trashed him for sure. But what's important is he didn't nail the colony ship I guess...
Ah what the Hell, I can't chalk it up on the hull in good conscience...
Anywho, after stoppin' by Barrier Gate, where Tinsley once again was "indisposed", I went back to Java. Other than a few run-ins with very confused Outcasts who probably thought they were takin' too much Cardamine when they saw my ship, it was pretty uneventful.
But damn, this ship rules. I like it. It's kinda slow, but I'll deal.
Bet your ass I'll deal.
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 5.4.818.A.S.
Skin of My Teeth
Well, it's official. I owe the Outflyer Four my life.
I'd just got ferried back to Java in order to do some escorting when all I heard was screamin' about some Zoner Carrier of all things attacking the ICMG colony ship Lollignite. Nearly broke the poor fella's nose when I pushed the transport pilot out of the way and sprinted for the Four.
So I head out to Orkney, and there's nothin' but confusion and Hell's Bells on the comms. And then finally someone says it's heading for Languedoc. Great, a minefield, and Gallia, Perfect. But in the meantime its crew's yammering... crap over the comms. Some weird stuff about vengeance and "Her Might", whoever the Hell "She" is. Needless to say I jumped right in after the sucker; nobody touches those colony ships on my watch.
Some Colonials managed to catch the thing deep into Languedoc, but the coward went straight to the local Royal Navy battleship and sat behind its guns. Everyone was freakin' out, so naturally I try to keep my cool... and then the freakin' carrier picks me as its favorite target and starts riding right up to my doorstep! Now I ain't no rookie; I'm using all these asteroids to cover myself from that battleship, the gun platforms, the Navy patrols, and all that, but I found myself staring down the barrel of a Heavy Mortar. Thank God for asteroids; I love rocks now. Saved my ass, for Damn sure.
And then Lady Luck decided to flip us off. A damned Royal Navy Battleship hops into system right on cue, on guess who's side? Yeah, skipper of that thing was some bloodthirsty SOB; talkin' about all of us like we were just meant to be slaughtered. I caught him with the whole civilians on the colony ships, but all he said back was "A dead Sirian's a good Sirian". Sweet Jesus, we need to stop these bastards...
Anywho, so they show up, next thing I know half the Colonials get creamed by missiles, and Roger's ordering the retreat. Thank God they didn't bring in the colony ships; they'd have been wrecked in no time. So what was left of us bolted; didn't nail that damned Zoner Carrier, whatever the Hell it was doing for these Gallics. Ran back to the jump hole, had a colorful exchange with those genocidal maniac Gallics...
... and then a Mandalorian shows up in a bomber. Refers to us all as "flying money" and then singles me out (Yeah I suppose I'm mighty popular now) saying something like "I'm sure the Outcasts would love to see your ship turned to debris." When I mentioned I only worked in defense of the colonists, he didn't give a crap. That's just plain Evil, period.
Holy Jesus, there are a lot of messed up people out there. I'm glad I'm not one of 'em, but I feel like I'm surrounded...
'Least the ICMG aren't that bad... Y'know, with the beef jerky and the community, and girls like Violet and whatnot...
Me and girls... Damn, I'd take another slap over those Gallic SOBs any day. If they come knockin', though, you can bet your ass I'm gonna be right up in front.
Genocidal freaks don't mess around on my watch.
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 6.27.818.A.S.
- No Title -
Been a while since I made a log for myself... Figured, what the Hell, I miss speaking my mind somewhere, as opposed to keeping it all cooped up in my head...
Just sitting here over that Geode thing in Baffin.. nice view, always good for a think, y'know...? No TAZ fellas around either, nice and quiet...
What am I doing with myself, man... Jeeze, feel like I'm runnin' around without a head, not a whole lot of purpose... Tired. Like I ran my share of a marathon and then up and fell flat on my face. Been tryin' to think of what's up, why I'm so...
Damn...
It's that whole "loneliness" crap again, I reckon...
Yeah that's gotta be it... Eating at me again. Don't have anything to do to keep my mind off it.
I mean Hell, those two police fellas, talking between each other, you just know they're together, guy freakin' dropped a hint over open comms for God's sake, but...
Jealous? Nah, can't be, I'm glad I'm who I am, where I am... I think... I...
Jealous... not jealous of them really, just...
Yeah... And then Rach shows up, everything's all fine and dandy, and then I get that speech about "can't imagine dealing with people outside of the Navy"... Cock of bull if you asked me, I mean for crying out loud, I've seen enough to...
No... No that's not it, it was the way she said it... That "I'm forsaken" or "I'm kinda lonely" sorta thing, I don't know, just pisses me off though... What does she want from me? Reminding me of how SOL I am while saying she's sort of screwed, but "can't imagine..."
Damnit... Just, damnit to Hell...
I can't keep thinkin' about this kind of crap or I'll got nuts... Hell I already am goin' nuts, least I was right for a change...
I don't know. Really don't. Where do I go, what do I do? Been flying solo almost my whole damn life, you'd think a guy like me could keep his crap straight, but no. Here I am, staring at some freaking gas giant and... and...
Nah... Can't bash the place, it's a pretty system...
Anywho...
Times like this I'm glad I don't booze up too hard. I mean I can have fun with it, loosen up, but I've never drowned myself in the stuff, that'd never end well, 'specially in a cockpit. Last thing I need is to wreck this girl anyway...
Girl... No, no, stupid, I mean the Outflyer. Damn... We've been through a lot, haven't we? I remember when I bought you off that lot, you looked like somebody took a rusty bucket and glued engines on it with spit and chewing gum... Good times, I reckon...
Still got you, I guess. Me and you against the universe, like always... Just a bit lonely is all...
Kinda cold in here...
Freakin' vent's broken again, that's why, I'll kick you back to life you little son of a- there, all better, nice and cozy.
Should be headin' back about now, check on the "homestead" and all that jazz. Maybe have a drink, still have some Jackhammer brew layin' around I think. Should last me for another week, then hop up to Ames, get another...
Aw Hell who am I kidding, I feel like flyin' myself into a star...
And this thing's still recording? Crap, not one of my better logs...
<End of Log>
New Personal Log Entry: 6.28.818.A.S.
"Business"
So uh... Yeah, I felt like putting my terms out there for that LPI contract. Funny, I mean I do this outta passion, so I can work for dirt cheap. Just gives me somethin' else to think about.
Wonder if those fellas will get mad though. I mean really, they can whoop my butt at will; all I've got is the Outflyer Three, so it'll take me time to get it done. All these companies can haul the whole damn order in a single run. Question is whether or not they know that, and whether or not Karl can hand the contract over to little ol' me; penny pinchers in the government would feel grand, but I reckon if they saw the "corporation" to send the cash to they might flip lids, y'know?
Anywho, we'll see where that one ends up. If it works, cool, if not, eh, I'll live... Just need stuff to do, keep my mind off things... Y'know I thought I saw a contract offer from the Cartel a while back but Hell if I'm gonna work for them; they ain't all that personable, but aside from that they'd prolly want me flat out dead. Not so great.
Now I wonder if I can build one of those "brick launchers" Riza was talkin' about...
<End of Log>