Players Creatively Warned

[Dusty Lens]

[*USI*]Orlando[VP], [*USI*]Miami[S] has been sanctioned owing to a report posted for:

3.3 Out-of-character (OOC) chat must not be used in system or local chat. OOC communication in group or private chat between players will cease if one player requests it. Admins are free to communicate with any player at any time.

Consequences: See green text.

D:<

His hand was there, he knew because he felt it. The deck was burning, he knew because he felt the burning heat of it on his hand. All else was darkness.

The Nav Officer of the [*USI*]Orlando blindly grasped a small panel beneath his command desk, its location pounded into instinct by years of drills, for the rebreather he knew to be stored there. The thick, acrid smoke choking pouring from the destruction of some surging panel burned in his lungs despite the relief granted by the filter he afixed over his mouth. He hid in the darkness behind his clenched eyes as the Mastadon shuttered again beneath him, the screaming of warning claxons and the choking of his crewmates filling his mind.

He could barely think for the fear.

He became dimly aware of the emergence of a dull red light followed by the taxed environmental systems clearing the bridge of smoke. The relentless cry of the hull had ebated, replaced with an omnimous groan from the tortured frame. He dared a glance beyond the scorched trans-steel viewport at the small flotilla of Farmers Alliance vessels.

The comm system squaked, he could hardly believe it was still operational.

Their leader spoke!!

Desperately he grabbed the mic

NO! YOU CANT! That would be re-engaging which is against the rules! If you attack I'll yell!

His sister ship squawked: LET THEM KILL YOU!

He continued to scream: WE STILL HAVE FIVE MINUTES!

But then oh god they were charging again with their pitchforks! Farmers! Farmers! Everywhere! OH god the horror!

OH NOOOOOOOOOooOOooOOOO FARMERS

And then he died.

The end.

[color=#33FF33]This is the kind of thing that I really, really do not like.

Every now and then a report comes across the desk which ticks me off to no end. The parties in question crossed every checkbox they were required. You were trapped game set and match. So you not only rule lawyered them non-existant rules but then you proceeded to submit a report to me, which provided not only clear evidence of them getting it right but pages of you returning that with threats.

Not once but -twice- they stopped to chat it out with you?

Just pay the bloody pirate what he wants or deal with the repercussions of your actions.

If you fleet to the next system it is -not- re-engaging for them to chase you down. If they issue a demand and provide you with a reasonable amount of time to fulfill it they're more than welcome to tear you up, tear you down and do things that would make Betty Page blush to see in print.

I've filled both of your cargo holds with OOC notifications and charged you roughly their worth. That's about 8000 OOC notifications all told.

I think it should impart the lesson.

Now your evening read, possibly one of my favorite intros on this forum

[font=Palatino Linotype]"In a world not unlike this one, but far away beyond man's dreams...
There were two sisters, bound not by blood, but by fate and belief.
Great burdens they bore, day after day...
Ever since the darkness had chosen to stay."

[color=#FFFFFF]On Planet Houston, deep in the slums south of Houston's capital city, there is an inn, going by the name of "Hope's End".
It is a building constructed in the traditional ways like on Earth of old, built of bricks and hard wood, supplemented by whatever scraps of modern technology the innkeeper could lay his hands on.
The door is made of Oakwood, reinforced with thin silvery steel stripes which come together in the center to form two words: "Always open".
And today, a very special man would step through that door, like he had always done since the first time ten years ago.

The door jarred as he opened it. Ever since he had come here the first time, the innkeeper, his name was Marcus, hadn't managed to fix it.
He smiled at the thought. It reminded him of that saying: "Some things never change."

"Like every year, tale-teller?" - came the innkeeper's voice from behind the bar.
"Like every year, Marcus. Like every year." - he answered in his calm voice.

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