"- Attila? Odd name for a Libertonian."
"Yeah, I get that a lot. It's an odd name anywhere, actually."
The bartender handed back the ID Card slowly, sizing up the man. He looked odd as well. The whitewall haircut and the liberty emblem tattooed on his face was anything but subtle. His 5'9" tall, somewhat lithe frame -the determined look on his face, especially the dark brown eyes and low, creased sharp eyebrows were usually enough deterrent for most thugs, and decent folk alike.
"- There you go, mister.."
"Stoakes. That's the surname. But I go by Attila."
He answered in a low voice as he took the card, sliding it back into the inner pocket with a routine motion.
"- Anything else?"
"No, thanks." He said, as he turned around as he was getting ready to leave. But he stopped abruptly, realizing the force of habit. Turning back toward the bartender, he glanced across the room.
"Actually.." He began, reaching for the card in his pocket. "I can't remember when I last had some Liberty Ale."
The bartender smiled as he placed a cup on the counter and raised the jug of liquor.
"- Half or full, Mr.Attila?"
"Half, please. I'll be flying today."
Drink in hand, he began to walk toward a single table in a secluded corner of the bar. The material sank as he eased himself in, taking up his form for comfort. He was relieved to finally be able to sit in something that didn't make him sweat. All the while reminding himself that it was high time he changed the seats in his ship and not just the weapons after the next contract.
The gloomy bar, filled with the smog of cigarettes was mostly quiet. A group of Bounty Hunters at one table, a handful of LPI officers stationed at key junctions in the room, keeping an eye on things. Stoakes could have sworn that one of them was eying his tattoo with suspicion just moments before he turned and looked.
Taking a sip of the mostly sour tasting bitter beverage, he leaned back and rubbed his temples with his hands. As the heat of the drink coursed form his throat, down to his abdomen, then up to his head, he tired clearing his toughts as best he could before turning on the Neural Recorder - a sub-system of the chip in his head he bought a few years ago.
He needed to start now, if ever. Strangely enough, alcohol made him see things with greater clarity - useful in the recollection of events he was about to evoke. A buzzing feeling could be felt in his right inner ear, the junction at which the protruding metallic device was attached -the signal that it was ready to record.
Quote:
My name is Attila. I was born on planet Los Angeles in the California system as the eldest son of a reasonably well-to-do trader, Anthony Stoakes; and Martha Stoakes - both in the employ of Ageira Technologies. I also had a younger brother I heard nothing of for ten years -John Stoakes.
I was four when mother died. Over-exposure to radioactive isotopes at work. Ageira informed us that -despite the countless safety measures- accidents do happen.
But my father wasn't buying it. He sued Ageira, and lost in lack of sufficient evidence. We literally went down under night after that. Father lost billions of credits, he was fired from Ageira, and not only that -the bastards even told his best customers that his merchandise was fake.
The eviction notice from LA struck us tykes hard. We were young, no more than six years old. The family struggled to stay afloat on a worn-out trading freighter. But even though we were miserable, Dad tried to stay cheerful for us. He taught me to fly and shoot. He also taught me how to talk my way out of anything Sirius had to throw at me.
The years passed as I literally grew up in space, in the cockpit or cargo hold of the freighter.
Age 16, things finally started looking up. We were running Borderworld shippings, essentials for colonies like water and machinery. Then another thing happened that marked my life...
On our return trip to New York, we were hauling H-Fuel from the Borderworlds. Even now, as I recall the events, they still seem sudden and fast -the Lane was disrupted. We found ourselves surrounded by a dozen Bloodhounds -the trademark vessel of the Liberty Rogues. They demanded we jettison our cargo. Dad looked at the comm, hovering his thumb above the cargo bay doors' button. Then he looked back at us, looking back up at him with fear and expectation.
I still remember the determined look on his face..
He then slid his thumb from the cargo bay door button, on to the main cannons -and without saying a word, opened fire on the Rogue right in front of us. He then rose from the seat, picked us up and placed us in two separate escape pods.
The last sound I heard was the hiss of the pod's door closing. Then a white, blinding light. It was only then I felt the sore pain in my throat, the wetness across my cheeks -realizing I had been crying, screaming all the time.
I don't know how much time passed before I finally came to.
The first thing I saw was a man with a mustache with a gold trimmed uniform. The humming of unfamiliar engines in the background.
"You alright, boy?" -He asked. Even after all those years, I remember every single word. His name was Andrew Carson. Lieutenant Andrew Carson -of the Liberty Navy.
Stoakes could feel his head starting to hurt so he decided it was best to turn the thing off for now. He had finished his Liberty Ale as well, so he rose up from his seat and headed toward the exit.
<<LOGS>>
- 2009. 07. 17.: Topic Posted.
- 2009. 07. 18.: Character Concept Art Added.