Frontier Blues (imaginativeavian)

[Lieutenant Sarcasm]

"Remember, if anyone offers you a Paradiso Rum, shoot 'em dead on the spot, it's poisoned. And don't let nobody trick you into accepting Karakosov Rubles, the Karakosov Central Bank went under six standard months ago, they're worthless."

Funny thing, how making faster than light travel so inexpensive that just about anyone can pack their hopes and belonging into a ship and head out lookin' for a claim makes for some fairly wild interstellar territory. You don't know what the feds expected with such a liberal approach to claim-staking laws, but here we are. By the time they pulled in the reigns, the inner colonies were all they could properly exercise their authority over. The Frontier proper ain't got no laws but the ones you make yourself, usually at the grip-end of a gun.

You figure that sounds just fine, compared to what you got. You were getting sick of this cabbage patch your folks called a claim, and the dust storms are a bitch on the sinuses. But now, you've got yourself a ship.

-

You fill out the form they gave you at the desk near the entrance.

Name:
Age:
Gender:

Height:
Weight:
Eye Color:
Hair Color:

You follow the instructions on the little device stuck to the corner of the paper, and it prints off a picture of you into the rectangle it was covering up.

Appearance:

There's a bloc of questions, employment, criminal record, next of kin, things of that nature.

Biography:

You sign and date near the bottom, clicking the pen.

[imaginativeavian]

Name: Corin Oliver
Age: 24
Gender: Male

Height: 6”1
Weight: 145 lbs
Eye Color: hazel
Hair Color: black

You follow the instructions on the little device stuck to the corner of the paper, and it prints off a picture of you into the rectangle it was covering up.

Appearance: Corin is a tall, wiry fellow with olive skin and curly black hair. He has a pointed, beaklike nose and hollowed cheekbones. His eyes are a little deepset, and obscured by thick eyebrows. This, coupled with a rather stoic resting face, make him hard to read. Corin typically wears a baggy, dark green jacket with gray cargo pants and heavy, steel-tipped boots. He has a habit of hunching his shoulders and his body language is generally tense. Finally, Corin wears a large, brown rucksack crammed with paperwork, a few tools, and a few provisions more geared for an extensive camping trip than space- a flashlight, utility knife, coil of rope, and so on.

There's a bloc of questions, employment, criminal record, next of kin, things of that nature.

Biography: Corin’s immediate family had stayed put on Earth, even with the rise of a boundless interstellar frontier (much to his frustration). A few more successful cousins, aunts, and uncles invested in ships and claims. Meanwhile, Corin’s family struggled to make a living, with his father working as an electrician and his mother as a teacher- neither of which were too profitable. However, his elder brother, Ernest, took a job as a spaceship repairman around the time Corin turned eleven. His spurred his interest in space and exploration. The two had a decent relationship, and Corin got the chance to begin learning about spaceships in his formative years. Not only did this give him a better understanding of the tools and business, he began working in the repair shop shortly after graduation. By then, he aimed to get his own ship and explore the solar system (he neglected to figure out what he’d do once that was done). Corin spent much of his youth working in the shop, doing the bare minimum in school, and screwing around with his friends and co-workers in the cramped streets and bars in his off-time (narrowly missing marks on his permanent record, thank god). All the while, he saved up money for his future endeavors and put a little bit of money towards keeping his family afloat. Up until one of his uncles passed away, just a week ago. He’d never married and really only stayed in touch with his sister- Corin’s mother. By this point, Ernest had a stable and profitable position in the repair shop, and had never really taken much interest in actively exploring an unstable, developing frontier. His uncle had also heard about Corin’s plans plenty of times, so it only made sense to write him into the will. For all his technical knowledge, work experience, and general ambition, Corin is largely ignorant of realities of the interstellar frontier and doesn’t put much planning into his projects.

[Lieutenant Sarcasm]

After some waiting, your ticket is called up, and you're directed to a small cubicle space, manned by a bored looking middle-aged man in a polo. He takes the forms feeds them individually into a bulky photoscanner, before passing you a small tablet with a stylus. On the tablet is a form form for insurance information, which you stare at blankly before the man looks over to your papers and realizes his mistake.

The ship wasn't insured, best of luck to you I suppose.

In any case, he presses the face of the tablet a few times before handing it back. This time around, it displays some basic information about the ship.

FTLV-SN-1279536 "The-".... well, let's say 'something rather lewd' and leave it at that. Thankfully, there's a place for you to write in a new name, if you so pleased.

Ship name:

[imaginativeavian]

Corin has to give this one some thought. After all, it was going to be his companion in the endless expanse of the- Destiny's Helm. That was it. That was the perfect name for his ship. Or the best he could come up with. Either way.

[Lieutenant Sarcasm]

You scribble the new name into place, your handwriting turning into a neat typeface as you write.

Below, the page goes into further detail about the ship, mostly measurements. She's a Bay-Class, a Light Freighter. One of the more popular classes among freelance traders, though unarmed.

You sign off at the bottom, and hand the tablet back. There's a few moments of agonizing silence as he taps away at his computer periodically, before a small machine near his monitor hums, and produces a plastic card, which he hands to you.

The face reads, "Hangar 131", with a barcode below, as well as further barcoding on the back.

"Did you need anything else?", the man yawns.