11-25-2010, 01:59 PM
*heavy static*
*klaxon* 'SOS. This is an automated distress call. SOS. This is an automated distress call. Any vessel receiving this transmission please respond. Repeat'¦ SOS'¦'
*standard alert fades to system diagnostics, then cuts to a camera showing a man in a scorched shirt*
'To any ships in Omega fifteen or the surroundin' systems, I seem to'ave gotten myself into a spot'a trouble,' he says with a grating Libertonian drawl.
*swivels camera to show a landscape of sand dunes and badly eroded hills, then back to the pilot* *waves a datapad*
"My databloc tells me this here charming locality is called planet Skagen.
And despite my best efforts, I've become a reluctant visitor to its sandy'¦ ah, shores. Not that there's much shoreline to see, mind. Bit too dry. I did see a lake on the way down, but that might'a been my eyes flummoxed by the g-force. Or the drugs my pod shoved inna' me."
*the pilot takes a swig from a canteen*
"Up until a few hours ago, my freighter was using this rock for a slingshot manoeuvre. Pretty standard, plenty of orbital velocity, heaps o' height. Next thing I hear is the damn 'puter yellin' we're enterin' the atmo! At two thousand klicks up!"
*makes notes on datapad* *stabs at screen*
"Before I could engage inertial dampers or change my vector, a damn-near WALL o' gas spewed up an' enveloped my ship! Apparently this slag heap has an un-staaay-bull atmosphere! And nobody thought that might be worth a mention, like say, on the public star charts! Thankyou Inner'space. Yer doin' a bang-up job there, mappin' the galaxy"
*moves camera skyward* *shooting stars blaze across the darkening red sky*
"What yer seein' there is about seven thousand tons of freighter, armor platin' an' cargo turned into a 50 million credit firework display. Not that she dinnit put up a hell of a fight! We lasted a full minute before the iridium struts and platin' gave way. Just enuf' time for yours truly to scramble to an escape pod. Hell of a thing, havin' one's ship torn apart while you're still innit! I didn't have a suit on neither, so no auto-eject like normal. That's how I got this!"
*shows camera his chest, which is badly burned, but now covered in medical spray-skin*
"Caught a plasma arc from engine two! Who'n'the hell designs a ship with the bridge right over the reactor pit anyhow? Damn Borderworld engineerin''¦"
"So'¦ the short of it is, I need a pickup. This rock doesn't have a dockin' ring. Or anythin' else fer that matter. So I'm stuck. If anyone's pickin' up this d'tress call, I'm in need of a low-atmo rescue, in the next few days or so. I've got some gear from the pod, but it ain't much. Let' see'¦"
*pilot starts digging through a duffel bag*
''¦I've got'¦ '¦a weeks worth'a rat packs'¦'
*rations and water canteens get thrown off camera*
'...enuf Oh Two if the weather gets nasty'¦'
*three tanks of oxygen roll onto the sand*
''¦a few essentials'¦'
*a bottle of Liberty Ale and compacted-polymer survival tent get thrown onto the pile*
''¦ and my insurance policy.'
*the pilot brandishes an antique Liberty Marine Corps Laser Assault Rifle*
'I heard somethin' hootin' an' howlin' over the ridge before I got this transmitter t'work'¦ and I only got the one recharge mag. So come quick. I ain't plannin' to die on this rock.'
*the pilot puts on a worn LRMC desert camouflage jacket, packs the duffel and slings it and the rifle over his shoulder*
'I'll keep transmittin' as I move, so y'all can home in on it. Krauts, Hunters, 'Sairs or Junkers, aye dun' care. Now move yer'asses and come git me!'
*the camera cuts to static, as guttural animal calls can be heard in the distance*
*klaxon* 'SOS. This is an automated distress call. SOS. This is an automated distress call. Any vessel receiving this transmission please respond. Repeat'¦ SOS'¦'
*klaxon* 'SOS. This is an automated distress call. SOS. This is an automated distress call. Any vessel receiving this transmission please respond. Repeat'¦ SOS'¦'
*standard alert fades to system diagnostics, then cuts to a camera showing a man in a scorched shirt*
'To any ships in Omega fifteen or the surroundin' systems, I seem to'ave gotten myself into a spot'a trouble,' he says with a grating Libertonian drawl.
*swivels camera to show a landscape of sand dunes and badly eroded hills, then back to the pilot* *waves a datapad*
"My databloc tells me this here charming locality is called planet Skagen.
And despite my best efforts, I've become a reluctant visitor to its sandy'¦ ah, shores. Not that there's much shoreline to see, mind. Bit too dry. I did see a lake on the way down, but that might'a been my eyes flummoxed by the g-force. Or the drugs my pod shoved inna' me."
*the pilot takes a swig from a canteen*
"Up until a few hours ago, my freighter was using this rock for a slingshot manoeuvre. Pretty standard, plenty of orbital velocity, heaps o' height. Next thing I hear is the damn 'puter yellin' we're enterin' the atmo! At two thousand klicks up!"
*makes notes on datapad* *stabs at screen*
"Before I could engage inertial dampers or change my vector, a damn-near WALL o' gas spewed up an' enveloped my ship! Apparently this slag heap has an un-staaay-bull atmosphere! And nobody thought that might be worth a mention, like say, on the public star charts! Thankyou Inner'space. Yer doin' a bang-up job there, mappin' the galaxy"
*moves camera skyward* *shooting stars blaze across the darkening red sky*
"What yer seein' there is about seven thousand tons of freighter, armor platin' an' cargo turned into a 50 million credit firework display. Not that she dinnit put up a hell of a fight! We lasted a full minute before the iridium struts and platin' gave way. Just enuf' time for yours truly to scramble to an escape pod. Hell of a thing, havin' one's ship torn apart while you're still innit! I didn't have a suit on neither, so no auto-eject like normal. That's how I got this!"
*shows camera his chest, which is badly burned, but now covered in medical spray-skin*
"Caught a plasma arc from engine two! Who'n'the hell designs a ship with the bridge right over the reactor pit anyhow? Damn Borderworld engineerin''¦"
"So'¦ the short of it is, I need a pickup. This rock doesn't have a dockin' ring. Or anythin' else fer that matter. So I'm stuck. If anyone's pickin' up this d'tress call, I'm in need of a low-atmo rescue, in the next few days or so. I've got some gear from the pod, but it ain't much. Let' see'¦"
*pilot starts digging through a duffel bag*
''¦I've got'¦ '¦a weeks worth'a rat packs'¦'
*rations and water canteens get thrown off camera*
'...enuf Oh Two if the weather gets nasty'¦'
*three tanks of oxygen roll onto the sand*
''¦a few essentials'¦'
*a bottle of Liberty Ale and compacted-polymer survival tent get thrown onto the pile*
''¦ and my insurance policy.'
*the pilot brandishes an antique Liberty Marine Corps Laser Assault Rifle*
'I heard somethin' hootin' an' howlin' over the ridge before I got this transmitter t'work'¦ and I only got the one recharge mag. So come quick. I ain't plannin' to die on this rock.'
*the pilot puts on a worn LRMC desert camouflage jacket, packs the duffel and slings it and the rifle over his shoulder*
'I'll keep transmittin' as I move, so y'all can home in on it. Krauts, Hunters, 'Sairs or Junkers, aye dun' care. Now move yer'asses and come git me!'
*the camera cuts to static, as guttural animal calls can be heard in the distance*
*klaxon* 'SOS. This is an automated distress call. SOS. This is an automated distress call. Any vessel receiving this transmission please respond. Repeat'¦ SOS'¦'