Remnants of the Earth

Sea's eyes sparked, and her smile grew downright predatory. All bite and no mercy, she took the offered hand and gave it a firm squeeze. And continued squeezing.

"It's certainly not 'sugar', sugar. It sounds a little more like 'Sea'." She let go of Ari's hand then, satisfied in her own power play, and folded her arms over her chest once more. "But if you're buyin', I might let you keep mispronouncing it all you like, among other things."

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, just enough to shift her hips and keep his attention span where she wanted it. She let her gaze linger on his mouth, and the piercings there, and wondered just how many drinks it might take to see where those ended.

"Though ain't you worried about affording your, uh..." she gave a pointed look to the downright hideous smear of pink on her poor ship, "...paint job?"

Welcome!

Don't let the scifi stuff scare ya or nothing, ROTE is mad chill.

It was Zaro who spotted the incoming threat first-- Sea noticed the shift in his demeanor, the way he wasn't lifting crates anymore, the very subtle motion to touch at his hip just inside the fabric of his duster.

By the time the kid actually got within hearing range, Sea was more than prepared. She hadn't really even noticed she had clipped another ship, if she was honest, but if she continued to be honest, she'd have to also admit she didn't much care. Seeing the smear of paint that wasn't on her hull before, she was pretty sure she did the other ship a favor-- who the hell painted a ship such a piss-ugly shade of pink?

Oh, and the howling. She very nearly rolled her eyes clean out of her skull, and was ready to throw her accuser a very solid "son, are you sure you want to do this?" look, right up until the point where she turned around and actually got a look at him.

Well.

Well, well, well.

Hello, Mister Baby Blues.

Suddenly robbed of her urge to just deck the kid as soon as he got within range (that would just be a waste), Sea smiled. It only widened when the kid stumbled over his tantrum and verbally propelled backwards.

Oh, it was just so cute when they tried to act all smooth.

"Only one drink?" She countered, keeping her voice low and conversational, as if the kid had merely popped up to comment on the weather. The unloading behind her had come to nearly a full stop, and she was sure two of her crew were now putting every bit of their effort into mad-dogging their downright edible guest.

Which she was all but certain had absolutely nothing to do with his threatening entrance.

Name:
No Son

Age:
Three cycles, translates to about 30 years

Gender:
Male*

Sexuality
Does it move? Is it capable of thought? Does it look vaguely feminine (according to his species)? Well boy howdy, he gon' bang it.

Species:
Alien. Hunter in their own tongue but commonly called Glowsticks by other species

Height:
5'10"

Occupation:
Assassin for hire

Residence:
A single-man ship that he uses like a mobile home, presently piggybacking off of the Skeleton Grin.



Physical description:
No Son stands fairly tall for males of his species, with dark grey skin and acidic-yellow eyes, hair and markings. He sports a decent number of cybernetics, mostly in the area of ocular enhancement to better see in less-than-optimal conditions. Normally, all of this is covered up by thick leather armor, in order to dampen the fact he freakin' glows in the dark.

Personality:
No Son is the sort to viciously insult you with such a smile that you're not quite sure if he's joking or not. Really, sometimes it's like he picks fights on purpose, and leads to the assumption that he has a masochistic streak in him a mile long. His complete lack of scruples let him take even the most distasteful of hit jobs, which he does without batting an eye. You want someone dead, and dead now? You call him.

Magic/abilities:
Born and bred for stealth takedowns, No Son is a master marksman and assassin.

Relationships:
None, he has been completely disowned and exiled from his entire species.

History:
No Son is a fuckup, big time. There are few things that can get one in trouble on his home planet, especially when his gender is expected to engage in acts of wanton violence on a regular basis. The main rule is that this violence is never to be turned on the citizens of a city, ie a female. Males are free to murder each other as they see fit, but male-on-female violence is taboo to the extreme. But politics are a terrible thing, and he was the one who answered the call for a rival city leader to be put down.

Instead of being paid for the deed, however, his employers turned on him, and soon everyone was on the hunt for the male who dared to assassinate a high ranking city official. He was forced to flee, and has bounced from star system to star system as a gun for hire, before finally finding himself in Earth's own little corner of the galaxy.

No one on his planet would dare claim him as being related to them, and so he had his birthname stripped from him, and was left with the entirely shameful title of No One's Son.



About them aliems:

Hailing from a binary star system outside of ROTE's galaxy, encountering one of No Son's kind is extremely rare. They as a people have achieved interstellar travel, but have such loose systems of governance that expansion has not been a thorough topic of discussion. Primarily, their interest in extensive space travel is largely to do with potential colonization ventures, as their planet is not a resource-rich one. Typically, however, if you encounter one outside of their star system, you will likely be encountering a male.

In their native tongue, their word for themselves roughly translates to "hunter", as they are the apex predator of their planet, though they are more commonly (and somewhat derogatorily) referred to as Glowsticks. This is earned from the bioluminescence present on the males of their species.

They have a heavy kind of sexual dimorphism, where the males and females look vastly different from one another. Assigned males tend to be smaller (averaging at 5'6"), more wiry, and possess the bioluminescence their kind is famous for. These colors tend to range from poisonous looking yellows to neon blues. Assigned females, however, don't have this bioluminescence, and are much, much bigger than their male counterparts (their average height is between 7 and 8 feet, and they pack on far more muscle). Regardless of gender, all of the Hunters possess a series of poisonous barbs along their spines, which normally lay flat unless otherwise provoked.

The social dynamics are also different in how males and females are treated. Males live in isolation, possess a flexible "territory" and defend it aggressively from other males, usually to the death. Females live in groups, and have formed their own governance, cities and all around infrastructure. As the males are kicked out of cities after they reach a certain age, and often die soon after, they are not named in the same way that female children are. They take their mother's name as a surname like their sisters, but instead of a proper given name, they are referred to by numbers (First, Second, etc.).

This kind of attitude also leads to their social conditioning-- the males are forbidden from certain things, so they either have to have a female acquire forbidden objects for them, or they have to learn to sneak them. This ends up being good training for when they're out in the wilderness and have no one but themselves to rely on. Because of this isolation, the males tend to rely on stealth and ambushing in their combat, whereas females have the bulk and the numbers for more open combat should they need to defend themselves.

Because of the high precentage of violence between males, and with higher and higher populations of them, many have taken to the stars to establish territories outside of their own planet. These are usually the outcasts, either because they couldn't hold a territory on their home world out of weakness, or they committed a heinous crime of some sort.

"Ooh, confident, are we?" she all but cooed, though when she finally circled to face him again, it was clear she was pleased. "I hope, for your sake, what you say is true. I take it you told him about his pay? You didn't leave that part out, did you?"

She was addressing King, then, who snapped to attention and nodded. "Yes, ma'am, temp shares until pilot grade."

"Good, good. Well then, Master Stormclaw, welcome to the Skeleton Grin. You may address me as Captain Mean, or ma'am. Zaro."

The younger brother jolted a bit, and stepped forward.

"Show the good sir to his station, and his bunk." With that, the captain stalked off, taking the elevator back up to the upper decks. Zaro cleared his throat, glancing at his brother, who looked as if he were thoroughly busy kicking himself.

"So, yeah, okay, this is the cargo, and home is this-a-way." He led the Wolfen up the short elevator, to the upper decks, which were not much more furnished than anything else, but definitely more lived-in. "Side's the mess, attached kitchen. We take turns cooking. Just ahead is the armoury-slash-workshop-slash-medbay, I'd recommend washin' your hands every few minutes in there, and on the right are the quarters. Pick an empty bunk, most of the rooms're free up. Aaand this is where you'll be workin'."

They took a small set of stairs upwards, past a set of twin doors and into the cockpit.

"Like we said, she's old and patchwork, but pretty standard otherwise. You'll be focusin' on this, the other two consoles back here are for the main guns. That'll be me an' King, right before a boarding. Anythin' else?"

A storm was brewing. It didn't take a genius to notice the blackening sky, the way the winds whipped back and forth, throwing sharpened sand motes and small pebbles into the skin of one's shins.

In an hour, or maybe two, the skies would open up in a great cacophony of acidic rain, each drumming drop packed with enough chemicals to burn your skin like the sun already did. What mud there was (it was rare that the soil could hold any kind of water, even for a moment) felt oily, clung to whatever it could, and never quite washed out, no matter how many times or with how many caustic chemicals it was scrubbed.

And then there was the air. The rain brought up the moisture index by a fair margin. What was once simply dry air (smoky and not at all healthy) became packed with microscopic droplets of that same acid rain; it got in your lungs, made it hard to breathe, and if you got on your mask quick enough, the worst you got for it was a wet cough for the next few days. Thick. Mucous.

Green like the rain.

Sister Sarah Toombs (why she kept the title was anyone's guess) sat out on what was jokingly referred to as her porch. Really, it was just the mere foot of ground that was still covered by the overhang of her roof (a joke in and of itself; it was little more than a haphazard assortment of aluminum sheets, tilted downwards to keep the rain from sitting). She looked skywards, took a breath, and shivered.

A storm was brewing, she could feel it in her bones, in her hair, in her skin and every molecule beneath it. It made her break out in goosebumps despite the choking heat; it turned her stomach sour and her pulse cold. She felt sick, and was made to feel even more so from the sheer anxiety of it all.

Her supplies were late.

She ticked off the list of what she had on hand, for the fifth time since her scheduled drop off was supposed to have been there.

Four days of rations-- assorted cans of nutrient-infused mushroom paste, a few bags of jerky. Her mother had gotten her different flavors, bless her, and somewhere deep inside, Sarah's shriveled conscience gave a shudder of guilt. Sarah had long forgotten what guilt felt like, and simply thought it another wave of impending sickness.

About another week's worth of filters, both for her mask and the water filtration system she'd rigged. She'd had to burn through those pretty quick; it was summer, and summer still meant roiling storms and great deluges of poisonous rain, rain that lingered in the air even after the storm had passed on. Her mask was going to need a new lens in one of the eyes, soon, too.

Assorted tools. A mostly functioning spade shovel, the head and handle very nearly rusted to the point of breaking. She had to wear gloves to even handle it anymore, for fear of metal splintering off and getting into her skin. She wouldn't survive that. Her machete, which was going to need sharpening soon, if she wanted it to keep in good shape.

No medicine. This was what worried her the most, especially with the growing ache in her bones. If she got sick, out here, and that storm cut off her supplies for another week, she wasn't sure she'd be able to come out of it alive. If she got sick, her suppliers might not, either.

She shuddered, squeezed her eyes shut, and fought the wave of nausea down. No, no, not yet. Not before the supplies got here. Not yet.

"Fuck."

The elder, King, looked more than a little relieved that the Wolfen wasn't offended, though that didn't stop him from giving his brother a very solid kick to the shins under the table. Still, he didn't waste too much time abusing his brother's legs, very much interested in what the Wolfen had to say.

"Piloting, huh...? Yeah, yeah we can use one of those..." King reached out to touch at the shoulder piece, pulling it towards himself to get it into better light.

"And we wholeheartedly guarantee adrenaline." added his brother, this time with a wide grin. "Buckets of it, if you can stomach where it's comin' from."

"You'll be on temp shares to start, until you're settled in more regularly. Impress us and in a few months it'll be up to full pilot's. If you get that far, we'll be docking back here again, and you can choose if you want to hop off or keep on. Deal?"

At first, the two seemed thoroughly wrapped up in their conversation--argument?-- to notice the Wolfen's approach, but the closer he got, the harder he became to ignore. The one with the hat half-glanced to his side, and then did a very exaggerated double-take, his dark eyes open wide.

"Zara's Bones, that's a big dog!" he yelped, which earned him a sharp hiss from the other, redheaded man.

"Shut your mouth for two damn seconds, would you?" the one called King shifted in his seat, scooting further in in order to make room. "Ignore my brother, he's an idiot; have a seat."

At the very least, the other had the common decency to look apologetic for his outburst, partially sulking into his drink. King leaned forward, gesturing at a passing waiter for another round, before focusing on the Wolfen once more.

"Yeah, we've got a few openings, depending on what you're after," King said, his dark eyes flicking over the Wolfen's armor, visibly calculating.

"And depending on how you stack up," chimed in the other, his drink finished just in time for the fresh round.

It was perhaps lucky that the human's comrades were too drunk or too amused (or both) to really do much more than laugh at their friend's humiliation. The man in question had turned an ugly sort of puce in his fury, but any retaliation was deemed thoroughly unwise. Muttering about aliens not being worth his time, he contented himself with sulking into another drink.

The little bit of violence over with, the rest of the bar's patrons continued their adventures in inebriation with great gusto. A few sat in quiet corners in order to better conduct their business, and paid the Wolfen no mind even as he passed them in his way to his favourite booth. For a while, it looked like this would be another disappointing night.

The bar doors chose that exact minute to fly open, thin metal clanging loudly like some kind of providence. Two men stepped in, one after the other, and while the first seemed to be ignorant of the glare he was receiving from the bartender, the second at least had the sense to look contrite for the noisy entrance.

The pair made their way to the bar, ordered their drinks, and promptly sat down in the booth behind the lone Wolfen's own. They clinked their glasses together, before draining half the contents in a single swig.

"Good haul today. Cheers."

"Woulda been better," griped the first man, as he set his hat to the side on the table. "'Cept we're--"

"Short-staffed," finished the taller of the pair, giving a grimace, "You know we can't do much, not as we are. We're short a gunner, mama's taken over piloting, it's all shit. We gotta weigh risk versus payload, otherwise--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, King, I get it, we all get it. Don't mean it doesn't piss eggs."

"Yeah, well, hopefully it'll pick up soon."

"Hopefully the next asshole knows how to duck. I swear, I still find teeth layin' around from time to time."

"That's disgusting, what the hell--"

"You ain't the one findin' the shit, man! How do you think I feel?"

The Skeleton Grin is one ugly ship. Whoever designed her, designed her for practicality and performance versus aesthetics, and this shows in her almost skeletal, borderline-gothic architecture. Her age is visible in both her structure and how patchwork her guts are, the old pieces stripped and replaced over the years as technology advanced.

That being said, where she lacks in looks, she more than makes up in her performance-- she is incredibly nimble, able to maneuver on a dime, making her a delightfully agile flyer.

Her strongest armor plating is found on her front, as part of a ramming mechanism meant to puncture the hull of her victims and create a bridge between the two ships. The front half of her is meant to withstand a lot of abuse-- extreme temperature differences, weapons fire, and all but the strongest, thickest hulls.

She packs a fair amount of heat, though her specialty is lying in wait outside of her victim's view, and then shooting up into their underbelly for boarding. As her defenses are largely in her front, she relies on her maneuverability to keep her facing an enemy, and, failing that, relies on cloaking to get out of dodge. Her favourite means of escape is to hit her attacker with an EMP to scramble their tracking/communication systems, cloak after, and scurry away while her attacker is blinded.

The Skeleton possesses two pairs of plasma cannons, one situated on the upper part of the middeck and the other on the lower. Both sets are capable of 180 degrees, and are manned by separate gunner stations on the upper deck.

Smaller guns litter her underbelly, and are largely controlled by the ship's AI.

The Skeleton Grin's crew are thick as thieves, which is understandable since many of them hail from the same pirate clan, who are almost all some variant of family. Not all crew members are necessarily part of the clan, and it's easy to recognize which ones are by their tattoos (or lack thereof). Each clan family has their own variant, and the Skeleton Grin's family sports stripes of bone-white down their mouths and onto their torso, mimicking the mandibles and ribs of a skeleton.

Applicants should be in good health, able to lift up to 100 pounds with or without reasonable accomodations, and able to take a bullet or two. The Skeleton Grin boasts excellent health care, with a state of the art medbay/armory! Arm yourself while we sew your arm back on! Join today!


Captain:

• Sea Mean

First Mate:

• Kin Mean (current acting, position technically open)

Pilot

• open

Medic:

• Currently a very surly Teinari man, who may or may not be up to his eyeballs in Sea's horseshit. Position subject to availability.

Engineer(s)/Mechanic(s):

• open
• Open!

Muscle, general labor, misc.:

• Zaro Mean
• Sister Sarah
• Open!

Weapons Specialist, gunner(s):

• No Son (periodically)
• Open!

Cook:

• Open!

Any interested parties, feel free to post here or send me a PM! If there's something you want to play but I don't have listed, let me know and we'll make you a position.