RP Thread: New Eden

This is a Role Play thread. The rules are simple. Post as your pilot, describing in-character what he/she sees or says. Do not meta-game and give your character information that they should not have. Do not meta-game by writing in the actions of other player’s characters. Do not post anything other than in-character posts. Feel free to post artwork of your character. This is meant to be fun, so don’t ruin it for others.


The discussion thread can be found here: [http://forum.star-conflict.com/index.php?app=forums&module=post&section=post&do=new_post&f=229](< base_url >/index.php?app=forums&module=post&section=post&do=new_post&f=229)


The setting is on Station New Eden, in Federation Space. A new lounge/bar has just opened and are offering a free drink to the first 20 pilots who walk in the door. There are private booths against the wall, several large round poker tables in the center, an antiquated pool table, and a spotless mahogany counter with bar stools. Upbeat rock music plays from the ceiling, and the lights are set so the entire room is cast in shadow, with bright neon signs glowing up above the bar’s extensive beverage selection.


A man of average height stands in the doorway, surveying the room. His hair is just beginning to show the faintest signs of grey. A young woman brushes past his frame, slapping his shoulder playfully.

RaafeSnear.jpg Moriah-1.jpg


“C’mon Beroya! Don’t just stand there waiting to be invited to take a seat! You’ll scare all the other patrons away!”


With a small grin, the man ambles over toward the booth where the woman has seated herself. “The reason I don’t just walk in like that is because I want to know if there is anybody here that might want to kill me first. A man with my reputation can’t take chances, Ariphes.”


“Ah, you worry too much. Besides, who’d mess with someone as ugly as you anyhow?”


“Your mom would…”


“WHAT do you just mumble under your breath?!?”


“Ah ha haaaaaa… I said ‘they have Applewood’. My favorite, you know.”


“That is NOT what you said, and you know it!” Ariphes, rises out of her seat and deals the man a hefty blow on his arm.


“OW!!! Hey, that is no way to treat your boss, young lady! I’m old, and frail, and about to be put in the old-spaceman’s home!”


“Uh huh.” she grunts, “Sure you are gramps.”


A man wearing a waiters uniform approaches the table. “May I get you a drink, sir and mam?”


Beroya checks the stock of liquor on the wall behind the waiter. “Uhhhh… yeah. I’ll take a Sidewinder Fang.”


“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have those here.”


Ariphes shakes her head, “Just give him a Liberty Ale. He’s always looking for stuff that doesn’t exist. I’ll take a coffee, no sugar, one cream.”


As the waiter leaves, the two figures relax and wait to see if anyone else enters the bar.

Fresh from the hangar, still smelling of o-zone and machine lubricant, Jasan Quinn came in search of a drink. He had the body of a twenty year old, the walk of a man in his thirties and the weary gaze of the over fifty. He wore an old Imperial flight suit, nicotene yellow with age and of a kind that went out of use two centuries ago. His hair was dyed dark red and black. His eyes glinted a metallic bronze.

He found a free seat and plucked a FedCom data pad out of his chest pocket. A drink was ordered - the closest thing they had to Jericho port - and he studied the pad while sipping the dull red liquid. After a while he asks one of the staff, loud enough to be easily heard, “you know anyone here who deals in high-end salvage? I’ve got a hold full of junk I need to offload by the time the deck monkeys give me the all clear.”

Sitting in a corner was a teen barely old enough to enter the bar. He was clothed in the latest federation garb and he had eastern features, although the origins of eastern and western were long since forgotten. The teen was lanky but lean with black, almost mahogany hair like the bar counters. His name was Efefay.

Efefay suddenly perked up at the prospect of a deal waiting to be had. The young man heard the words “high-end salvage” and wondered if that could include ship parts he could use for the ship he was building. He recently just graduated from the piloting CDB academy. Gazes of a man and young woman passed over him as he walked to the ugly man who mentioned something about salvage.

“So I heard you got stuff worth selling. You want to discuss this over some food? I’m buying,” said Efefay. He pulled out his FedCom as he waited for the man’s response.

Beroya nudged Ariphes as she sat nursing her coffee. “See that man who just walked in? The one in the Imperial jumper?”


Ariphes cast a sidelong glace in the direction of the newcomer. “Yeah? So what?”


“See what he’s drinking? That’s got to be an acquired taste from time spent with the Jericho. I’ve tried that stuff before, and it’s nasty. Tastes like hydraulic fluid.”


Ariphes wrinkled her nose, “You don’t mean he’s a cyborg, do you?”


“What? No! No, that’s not what I was getting at. A man like that, dressed in Imperial clothes, handling a Jericho drink, and sitting in a Fed bar… a man like that has been around. He knows things. And seen things, by the look in his eye.”


She was giving him a blank stare. “Huh?”


Beroya sighed, “It means he’s probably an information dealer.”


“Ooooooh, gotcha.”


“Took you long enough,” Beroya muttered under his breath. “We’re in bad need of a payday, and he just might know where we can find one.”


Movement off to their right made the duo sit upright, focusing on a figure they had not noticed when they came in. A man, who looked like he was too young to grow a beard, much less be in a bar, was striding confidently toward the Junker.


“Now there is a man who has too much money for his own good, judging by his outfit…”


“Beroya…” Ariphes’ tone was heavy with caution, “don’t do anything stupid. This bar is full of vid-recorders.”




“I’m serious. There are at least 3 dozen Federal Marshals garrisoned on this base. We can’t afford any fooling around, not with our entire fleet sitting like ducks in the hangar. If we so much as…”


“SHHHHH! I’m trying to listen!” Beroya silenced his first-mate with a wave of his hand.


The two individuals had struck up a conversation about high-end salvage. High-end: most likely code for ‘military-grade’. Beroya smiled to himself. He sure knew how to pick a bar.

Quinn smiled at his potential customer. “If you’re buying, then absolutely. I’ll grab us a booth.”


He found an empty booth and set a portable holoprojector in the centre. It booted up under protest, spewing error codes and corruption alerts before finally settling down and displaying the contents of one of New Eden’s hangars, with interactive annotations. If the holo was to be believed, Quinn’s haul contained everything from fuel cells to a ‘Lance Bartle’ Jericho fighter, seemingly intact and undamaged.

“If you’re superstitious, don’t ask where that came from,” Quinn said when Efefay returned. “As for parts, I’ve got a little bit of everything. I’ve got weapons, shield projectors, generator units, you name it.”


Most of the gear was not as ‘high end’ as the dealer claimed. It was often a few decades old, which wouldn’t have been an issue were it not for the sudden surge of Iridium and the rapid development of related tech. However, there were a few curiosities; the odd weapon, or some unidentifiable piece of scrap that a suitably keen-eyed buyer might see as being more than it seemed.

Efefay stared straight through the hologram to the man. He looked tired and that drink probably wouldn’t help that either. Efefay wondered if he could pull off a deal in his favor. Efefay noticed the NASA logo on the man’s space jumper. “He might like liqour infused sweet rolls,” Efefay thought to himself.

Efefay said, “What is your name? Mine is Efefay. I’d like to know who I’m having business with.” Before the man could speak a waiter came over and ask what their food order was.

“I’ll take some liqour sweet rolls with a BLT sandwich please. What do you want?” Efefay asked the man across the table.

“Quinn,” Quinn replied. He glanced down at the badge as though he’d forgotten it was there.

He ordered breaded chicken in lemon sauce and waited for the waiter to leave before tapping the badge and continuing, “it’s a souvenir from a business deal a little way back. Hard to do business with the Empire these days, what with all the pirates in Ontregos. And ever since the Wardens lost control of Felony, well, let’s just say pirates are the least of your concerns out there. So for now I’m doing business out here.”

After briefly glancing toward the door, in a manner that suggested he might have been waiting for a friend or old acquaintance, he asked, “What about you? You a treasure hunter? Mercenary? Or are you one of those legendary ‘Armada Security’ pilots I’ve heard so much about?”

“I’m a military strategist working currently employed for the DOW corporation,” said Efefay in response.

Efefay started to look at the high end salvage on the holoprojector. He noticed most of the junk was from the Phase 3 time period and it wasn’t compatible with the ship he was currently building. There were some items from the Phase 4. Efefay could work with that. Something, though, caught his attention. It was the alien weapon he had seen in documentaries back at the academy. With a weapon like that he could mass produce it and become one of the richest men in the 'verse. There was also this strange material he hadn’t seen anywhere in any of his textbooks and research desks. He didn’t know what it was but he wanted it.

The food came after a short while and Efefay offered Jasan some liqour sweet rolls but didn’t touch any himself. They continued to eat their meals.

Efefay asked, “What currency are we using? What are you selling the Phase 4 items, weapon and that thing for?” pointing to the unidentified scrap.

A few presses of luminescent keys brought up a list of Phase-4 compatible gear. Most of it was internal stuff - engines, shields, generators and so on. There were a few weapons mixed in; a set of plasma guns that looked like they’d been cobbled together from spare parts, and some Gauss cannons with Jericho export badges still clinging to them. Virtually all the stock had Federation salvage tags on them, complete with identifier codes to confirm they were obtained legally.

“I take payment in many forms; credits, raw materials, anything that’s usable to buy or barter.”

He noted the curious artefact in the midst of the salvage and smiled. “That’s something special, pried from a drifting Blackwood crate. The guy I bought it off swore blind it was alien in origin, but I’m a little more sceptical. My guess is it’s some kind of experimental power source, maybe off a Phase V. Of course, they say those ships use alien technology too, so maybe it’s both? Either way, that little prize won’t come cheap.”

A silhouette of a thin man enters the Bar.

As one might looks at him, he wears fine clothing which feels like a politians space uniform.
Access ports on the grey and black suit giving the ability to act as an undersuit for spacesuits, show it is clearly intended to be worn on interstellar crafts, however the design itself also resembles a somewhat civilian bureaucratic style.
Thin blue lines, and an empty area where you usually put nametags and emblems, show he is clearly some official federation tablet pusher.
The man looks around 50, with worn eyes, a thin and shaved face, and receding greyish brown hair.
As he comes in, looks around puzzled for a short while, maybe to get used to the lighting, it feels clearly, as if he better belonged in some office, the next parliament, or on the bridge besides a captain, giving him official orders. A space G-Man. He does not feel right in the picture of the bar, almost as if he is lost.
But the man seems to know why he is here, orders some beverage, and moves quietly to a table/booth in one corner of the room, as if he does not want the waiter to come to him. He ignores most of the happenings around him, barely glancing at the customers.

He also refuses to take the offer to have the free drink, and seems to pay up.

(Anyone close to the encounter might recognize the beverage as some kind of beer, or hears the man ordering “Liberty on Duty.”)

Most of the bars’ professional residents do not react to him, as if he represents a person, who really nobody wants to talk to.

But to people who have spent long time in the area, he also seems unfamiliar, and a clearly fresh arrival.

Beroya’s ears were burning as he strained to hear the conversation between the junk dealer and the young patron. He was having trouble making out everything that was said. Across the table, Ariphes’ eyes grew wide as she stared sidelong at the holo-projector that had been placed between the two bartering men.


“Beroya,” She said slowly, so as not to have her voice carry, “I think he’s got an ‘Organic’ that he’s trying to sell.”


The privateer captain’s face hardened into a scowl, and he took a chance to peek over at the exchange. Sure enough, the man was selling the usual oddities, but probably only as cover to obscure his more rare find. Right smack in the middle of the projection.


Then another man waked into the bar.




“Uh-oh? What’s ‘uh-oh’?” Ariphes scanned the bar for the problem, and her eyes promptly locked on the Suit.


“Yeah, that guy.” The restraining strap on Beroya’s pistol came unhooked. “A guy like that doesn’t walk into a place like this unless something bad is about to happen.” He pressed a finger to the discreet earpiece he was wearing and spoke. “Mishra, get your butt in here. And don’t cause a scene.”


Yeah, yeah. I’m right here Boss. I heard everything. You really need to learn how to turn that silly microphone off.” A minute later, a muscular woman with a bright blue mohawk, facial tattoos, an enough piercings to make a metal detector kill itself walked in the door. An assault rifle, painted with red tribal designs was slung over her back, and several grenades jingled on her gear belt.




The waiter began to approach her about leaving her weapons at the door, but a quick look in her eyes convinced the poor soul to go take his chances delivering a drink to the thin man in the corner instead.


“That’s called ‘not causing a scene’?” Ariphes was incredulous.


“Ariphes, you should know by now that Mishra’s definition of ‘not causing a scene’ is not _shooting _as soon as she walks in the door… I know she’s a new hire, and you’re not very fond of her, but she’s loyal and good in a fight.”


Mishra swaggered over to the booth with the holo-projector and placed both hands on the tabletop as she leaned over. “Heard you were selling some interesting tech. Mind if I take a look?” Not waiting for an invitation, she planted herself firmly next to the rich-looking young man.


Now it was Beroya’s turn to facepalm. Hard.


“Sooooo, not quite what you intended?” Ariphes voice was dripping with sarcasm.


“No. No, it wasn’t. Please, just shoot me. I’ll pay you posthumously, just… ach.”

“Jasan,” says Efefay, “I can use credits but I need to know your starting price for the scrap. I’ll buy the whole of the Phase 4 material for 1.2 million credits and the weapon for 300,000.”

A stick walks in the bar and Efefay just throws a glance and goes back to bartering. A strange looking woman sits next to him. She smelled weird to Efefay.

“Hello ma’am, may I help you?”

“Hello ma’am, may I help you?” The attractive young man addressed Mishra.


She gave him a long up-and-down stare in complete silence before speaking in a deep alto tone. “Name’s Mishra. I’m your competition for this haul. You smell like… flowers. Or something.”


“1 million credits for the weapon. You can keep the rest.” She turned toward the Imperial junk dealer.


Across the aisle, Beroya’s head smacked the tabletop loud enough to be heard by everyone.

The offer made Quinn smile, but the tribal looking woman made him smile even more. He blinked at her, smiling warmly as his neural implants took in her markings and began comparing them to every known cut-throat gang, pirate crew and criminal syndicate in the Sector.


“Oh I knew today was going to be a fun one!” he chuckled. “You know what I find really fun? How quickly you’re willing to throw big money at me for this little prize. Either you’re trying to show off, or you’re trying to care off the competition, or maybe you know something I don’t. Either way, I’ve suddenly decided that this particular item is far too valuable to let go for anything less than two million.”

Before she could reply he held up a finger, somewhat rudely, for silence. To his original customer he added, “The Phase IV is all yours. The scrap varies in quality but there’s a lot of it. I’ll offload the whole thing three mil, and that’s a good deal because I know for a fact that at least two of those Jericho shield compression units are still considered top-secret by the Techs and will go for up to three quarters of a mil each in the right market.”


He lowered his finger and said with a grin, “now I believe there’s the matter of the weapon to discuss?”

The G-Man seems to ignore the whole scene, but his face went pale when Mishra entered the room. However, afterwards, his eyes stay on the door. As time passes, however, and his drink, he again stands up, and starts to walk to the restroom area.

If anyone might try to confront him, he would simply state
“If you would excuse me? I have to use the restroom”, with a dry voice and makes his way to his destination.

However, seconds later, another man enters the bar.
He seems to fit the usual guests of such an etablissement, his beard being only slightly trimmed, Caucasian with dark hair, wearing protection glasses and the smell of engines, and a pilots undersuit covered with a blackish-brown synthetic leather jacket, which seems to have been made eons ago.

Anyone with the knowledge of Federation history, might recognize the jacket as part of a uniform standard in the short timeperiod many many decades ago, maybe even over a hundred years, where the Federation aimed to create state financed pilot schools on member worlds in an attempt to strengthen it’s military - an attempt which was cancelled, once the whole project was privatized again, and private flight schools became more common again; it reminded however of the time, when the Federation was at one of its heights of power and yet fell into another crisis.
A closer look however does not show any emblems, or writings, except a small area on the right arm, where a more soft spot marks the place, where once a round logo was stitched in, most likely federal, with old expensively molded in plastic letters spelling “Persephone” in hardly recognizable black letters on the dark leathery backdrop.

The man looks in his thirties, but his movement is lazy and slow, almost as if he was tired. An expression, his face doesn’t share however, especially since his eyes are covered, as he continues right to the Bar, while taking an extensive look around.

As he passes through the room, his eyes also muster the pool table, putting a small and slightly grin on his face. Also the Poker tables seem to get his interest. Shortly in front of the bar, he stops for a brief while, takes a look at Efefay and Quinn, and Mishra, who he does not seem to know, and takes a small glimpse behind him to the empty door of the Bar he just came in, before he moves on to take a seat in front of the Bar tender. What follows is just a tired pilot ordering a drink.

“Whoa” he said, when he looked at the collection of drinks on display.
His eyes stopped at a dark brown scotch bottle, asking the bartender “What’s that?”
“Oldoaks Centurial” the bartender replied with a smile “aged with the finest of temporal methods, an excellent over hundred year old scotch whiskey blend, quite an exciting choice”
“Sounds expensive” the pilot replied.
“It’s on the house for the first twenty customers” the bartender explains.
“Make it a double then”, and with a grin to the nodding bartender, he flexed on the seat,
“So how many of those twenty are left?” he asked the bartender while turning around and finally take a look at what happens around him.

Mishra’s eyes narrowed at Quinn. “Two million, eh?” She paused, sizing up the junk-dealer. A lazy smile began to spread over her lips. “You really don’t know what you’ve got there, do ya?” She slouched back into the seat, her sides shaking with silent laughter.


When she sat back up, all signs of mirth were gone from her face. “Oh, you are so in over your head. You might not know what you’ve got in your hot little hold, but I’ll just bet it’s a one-way ticket to the station brig if the wrong people find out.”


It was a threat. Ariphes glanced over at Beroya. “Can we just leave her here to deal with the mess she’s making?”


The privateer’s face was the picture of puzzlement. “Wait… give her just a minute.”


Mishra was now leaning forward, eyes burning intensely. “With that kind of cargo, I could just blackmail you into giving it away for free. But seeing as I made you an offer for 1 million, I’m a pretty fair gal, wouldn’t you say? So here’s my counter-offer. I’ll pay you 2 million on one condition. You give me the weapon, and tell me where you found it. Then we go our separate ways and nobody has to know that you’ve got contraband goods sitting in the station hangar.”

Quinn’s eyes glinted like the targeting sensors of an attack drone. “I’m a legitimate businessman,” he said, coldly. “All my cargo is above board, all my paperwork is in order and, more importantly, my convoy is running enough firepower to cripple a battle platform. I’ve got a licence to operate in the Frontier and I’ve been threatened by better than you and in much less pleasant surroundings. No deal. No sale. Get the hell out of my sight and I might just consider not letting every bounty hunter in the sector know there’s a ten million cred reward for a pirate who looks just like you, payment on kill confirmation.”

He lifted a sweet roll in a mock salute and said in a louder, more jovial tone. “Pleasure doing business. Do come again.”

There was a soft click as Mishra placed a grenade on the table between them. Drawing back her hands, the twin activation levers sprang upright, showing the pin had been pulled. Her voice was low, barely loud enough to hear over the music playing in the background.


“Know what that is? It’s my own special creation with enough power to level this joint. If you don’t want to explode, you will place both your hands on those levers and squeeze real hard. You have 10 seconds.”


Beroya was out of his seat and across the room like a shot, hands pushing the activation levers down against the metal casing. Ariphes had her gun drawn and leveled at Mishra’s head.


“Mishra…” Beroya’s voice was strained, “put the pin back in the grenade.”


Ariphes chambered a round, adding weight to her captain’s words. With a grudging sneer, Mishra slid the small metal pin back through its hole with a snap.


“Get out of here.” His words conveyed a man who would not hesitate to kill if not obeyed.


Mishra stood, still guarded by Ariphes. With a backwards glance at Efefay, she walked disdainfully out of the bar muttering, “Too bad he wasn’t a woman…”



Beroya slid into the seat where Mishra had been only a few seconds ago. “Please excuse my crewmember’s… errrr. Ah, yeah…”


Ariphes left the embarrassed privateer to fix the blunder and headed for the bar to sit next to the man in the leather flight jacket.



He sighed heavilly. “Mishra is ex-Cartel. They do things a bit differently. She wasn’t treated very well while she was with them and tends to… well, you just got a small taste.” He paused, as if to collect the ragged fragments of his dignity together.


Beroya turned to Efefay. “You all right? You seem a little pale. Perhaps I can get us all a round of drinks and we can start over?”

“I’m decent but I’ll think I’ll say no to the offer. I’m full and I haven’t finished my drink yet,” replied Efefay. “Maybe we can do some business now. Please tell us your name. I noticed you and your girlfriend staring at us before Mishra came over. Tell us her name also.”

Efefay pulled up a camera on his glasses and snapped an x-ray picture of the weapon and the scrap for now and future reference. He then looked at each man and the woman and snapped a vis-light picture of all of them. He prepared contacts on all of them and searched their affiliations.

The privateer captain cleared his throat. “Actually she’d not my girlfriend. More like a daughter, in many respects. But that is beside the point.” The waiter brought over a Liberty Ale, and Beroya took a long swallow before continuing.


“My name is Beroya Kaine, I’m a… businessman of sorts with a special interest in rare items. The young lady over there at the counter is Ariphes Kobold, my first-mate. The woman who almost blew you up is Mishra, a relatively new member of my crew. We don’t know her last name. Just to be clear, I had no idea she was going to do that.”


There was an uncomfortable silence.


“Soooo. What about you two? Any light you’d like to shed on yourselves, or shall we get down to business, assuming there is still business to be had?”