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[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 12

“Disbelieving. You came here. Seeking refuge,” Bronzemarch echoes.

Conan’s expression doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

“Incredulous. You do realize this planet is near a trade route. Informed. We may be borderline frontier and lacking formal law jurisdiction, but many of us have connections to Peacekeepers in one way or another.”

“I’m just trying to go clean,” Conan says, holding his hands up just enough to show the palms of his black gloves. Creases and scratches criss-cross the leathery material like they’ve been through a lot. “I have no intention of harming this town; I just need somewhere to lay low until the heat’s off my back.”

Bronzemarch eyes Conan for a second, then looks down at the rocket launcher placed between them. He carefully picks it up by the handle and inspects it as he continues, “Protective. This is still hardly the place for…”

Scout glances between the two men as they continue to debate, but she loses track of their conversation as she studies the rocket launcher herself.

It’s definitely an older weapon. Its metal casing is buffed near the butt and near the support halfway up from repeated handling, but the rest of the metal is matte and decorated with scratches. None of the scratches are severe enough to interfere with the rocket launcher’s functioning, but they’re clearly visible as they catch flecks of light from the lanterns illuminating Bronzemarch’s workshop, the healing water below, and from Scout herself. 

It seems to use an older energy system, too. Scout only catches a glimpse of it when Bronzemarch opens a panel along the top of the rocket launcher halfway down, but the glimpse she catches looks similar to the older, depleted energy cores she’s seen now and then in the corners of Bronzemarch’s stashes. Huh.

Eventually Scout catches Devon glancing at her. Devon wandered around to the other side of the workshop at some point and is now lightly leaning against one of the wooden support beams between workbenches. She’s still holding that vase of hers, looking down at it with a softer expression as she slowly turns it in her hands. At least until she glances up at Scout and quirks a flat eyebrow. Scout just tilts her head back at her. 

The pulse resonating from the vase is duller with the distance between Scout and Devon, but Scout can still faintly feel it trying to pull at the plasma behind her brand. 

“Oi Bronze-head?” Scout whistles idly, interrupting wherever the men are in their conversation, “Ya got any inklings as to why Devon’s vase feels like Riku’s?”

Conan frowns and glances between Bronzemarch, Devon, Scout, and the others in turn, asking for silent explanation but getting none. Meanwhile Bronzemarch’s LED eyes flicker in a simulated blink. Then he asks, “Bewildered. No, I would not. Why?”

“‘Cause it does. Got a funny pulse to it or somethin’. Semyon felt it too.”

“I-it made my fur tingle,” Semyon supplies when Bronzemarch glances at him.

Bronzemarch studies Semyon for a moment, glancing between him, Scout, and the vase still in Devon’s arms. Devon clutches the vase closer to herself every time Bronzemarch looks at her. 

After a minute, Bronzemarch looks back at Scout. “Curious. What about it, Scout?”

“I was jus’ wondering if they came from the same sorta place or somethin’,” she shrugs.

“Intrigued. Hm.” Bronzemarch sets the rocket launcher back down on its end in front of him and crosses his arms, tapping his chin with the knuckle of a finger. “Curious. Well, you said you had found the structure the other vase had supposedly been found from, but you never did describe it.”

“It was…like a gate or somethin’,” Scout fizzes, miming as much of the shape of the gate with her hand. She can only mime half of it at a time—her left shoulder keeps reminding her of its non-existence whenever she tries to gesture with that side. “Mighty tall, a mite spooky. It was all stone, an’ there were these ol’ obelisk thingamajigs around it to light it up. Same kinda obelisk thingies I saw back in that door.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes narrow curiously with another tap to his chin.

Scout continues, “I think there was some sorta carving on the gate? Like, somethin’ squiggly clingin’ to the top but it was built-in? An’ there was somethin’ else carved into it but I didn’t…”

“Faces,” Alice says. Scout tilts her head at her, and even Conan half turns to pay attention. 

The attention makes Alice try and hide partially behind her broom, but she elaborates, “There were faces on the gate, near the base.”

“Curious. What kind of faces?” Bronzemarch pries.

“I…couldn’t quite tell in the dark,” Alice admits, “But they each looked different. Like, different species entirely from each other. There were seven of them on each side.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes flicker briefly with another tap to his chin. Tick, tick. Eventually he muses, “Ponderous. A gate with faces… Informed. I’ve heard of such gates. The Outpost has one. People say they’re of Ancient construction. Thoughtful. So if those antiques came from a gate like that, then…” Suddenly he pivots on a heel to face Devon. “Curious. Devon. Where did you originally get that vase from?”

Devon blinks and flinches her head back like she got whacked, but after adjusting her hat briefly she turns the vase in her arms, studying it with a bit of a scowl as she says, “It’s been in my family for years. How am I supposed to know that?” Her voice has that sharper bite it usually has, but oddly that edge isn’t reflected as much in her scowl as usual. Huh.

Scout tilts her head. “Ain’t ya got any stories ‘bout it from yer folks?” she bubbles.

Devon just shoots her a look beneath dark eyebrows, one brow quirked.

Bronzemarch hums for a moment, the tinny buzz of air through his own pipes instead of a recorded sound. He studies Devon and her vase for several moments—long enough she shoots him a look and partially turns as if shielding her vase from his scanning gaze. Then he studies Scout with the same gaze. Eyes narrowed slightly, with the steadiness of a scanner. Sometimes he glances at Semyon and Alice. Once or twice at Conan. 

Eventually he sticks a hand in his trouser pocket and pulls out his old ID card. Then he messes with it a bit until the back of it slides off like it was just a case. Then he offers it to Scout, saying, “Giving. Take this, Scout. You’ll need it.”

Scout takes it from his hand with a curious buzz. It’s a thin card-like attachment, dull brass in color, with roughly the same dimensions as Bronzemarch’s ID itself save for a small extension to the top left corner that looks like a clip and a patch in the bottom right corner that looks like a chip connector. “What is it?” she asks.

“Informed. A Falcon license. Formal. As of now, Scout, I am officially transferring command of the C.S. Icarus to you.”

Scout whips her head up to look at him with a surprised whistle. “Wait, ya serious?!”

“Affirmative. I am.” Bronzemarch folds his hands behind his back. “Practical. Of course, you’ll have to stop by the Outpost at some point soon to get your own ID card to make things completely official. Thoughtful. But considering you’ll want to get Elliot to print you another sleeve,” he adds, gesturing to Scout’s empty shoulder, where Semyon’s jacket and bandaging have managed to stay put so far, “I’d imagine you’ll be stopping by the Outpost soon anyways.”

Scout looks down at her shoulder, idly bubbling, “Might jus’ finagle my own printer eventually.”

Bronzemarch shrugs, “Indifferent. Either way, you’ll need your own ID sooner or later.”

Semyon steps forward with a careful frown, glancing between Scout and Bronzemarch. “But Bronzemarch, isn’t the Icarus your ship?” 

“Informative. Technically, no. It was never my ship. My late captain transferred command to me, and now I’m transferring command to Scout.” Bronzemarch looks back at Scout with a bit of a hum, clasping his hands behind his back again as he notes, “Thoughtful. She’ll likely need the ease of transportation if she wants to figure out this mystery about the vases and the Ancients.”

Scout ponders that for a moment, plasma churning slowly. She does want to figure out what the heck is going on with things like that gate.

While Scout ponders, Bronzemarch turns to Devon and advises, “Advising. I suggest you go with Scout, Devon.”

Devon frowns, “Wait, why?”

“Practical. If you want to learn anything about that heirloom of yours, this may be your best chance.”

Devon’s frown deepens, but not with sharpness. Her brows furrow softly as she studies the vase in her arms again.

Meanwhile Bronzemarch finally looks back at Conan, who has settled his own hands behind his back by now and has been watching the conversation like a sport. Conan quirks an eyebrow at the eye contact. 

After a moment of regarding him, Bronzemarch finally says, “Firm. And Conan. If you really wish to ‘lay low,’ as you say you desire, becoming a formal member of Scout’s new crew may be your only option here. Certain. I cannot reliably promise you refuge here in town; we’re growing too fast. But—”

Devon’s head whips up as she snaps, “You can’t be serious, Bronzemarch! Letting a bandit join  with Scout?”

“Ex-bandit,” Conan insists, “I don’t—”

“I don’t care! You’re still tied up with those jerks that tried to steal this and Riku’s antiques!” she accuses, pointing a finger straight at his face. She keeps that finger pointed straight at him, even as she looks back at Bronzemarch and objects, “I’m not going with Scout if he’s on the crew.”

Bronzemarch sighs roughly, running a hand down his face, and says, “Placating. I am not forcing you to, Devon. But if you want to—”

Conan barely glances at the accusing finger still in his face as lifts his chin and interrupts, “Listen. If this vase of yours is connected with what I think it might be connected with, then I may have source that can help you figure things out.”

Devon pulls her hand back to her vase, regarding Conan with narrowed eyes as she lifts her chin herself. “We have sources too, you know.”

“Different sources.”

“You mean illegal.”

Conan concedes with a small shrug, “In some sectors, perhaps. But they may have information your sources do not.”

“But—”

“As long as he don’t bring that there launcher, I don’t got a problem with him taggin’ along,” Scout cuts in with a pop, gesturing to the rocket launcher on the floor after tucking the license into her pocket. 

Devon blinks away from Conan, glancing at Scout, then the launcher. Bronzemarch nods, picking the rocket launcher back up enough to set it just behind him, making Semyon take a step back from it.

Meanwhile Conan quirks an eyebrow, glancing at his old rocket launcher before leveling his curious look at Scout and saying, “Alright…that seems like a bit of a specific condition, though.”

“Well, fer one thing, ya blasted my prosthetic off with it,” Scout crackles, gesturing to the empty space where she had just gotten used to her arm filling. “And fer another, that thing’s heckin’ old! Ain’t ya ever taken a good gander at how empty its energy core is?”

Conan actually chuckles a bit at that. “Fair point,” he concedes.

“Firm. So you agree to the conditions?” Bronzemarch says, his tone leaving no room for further debate.

Conan nods, crossing his arms. “I do. No weapons is a fair price for my freedom.”

Bronzemarch turns back to Devon. “Patient. And Devon? Do you still want to stay behind?”

Devon glances at Bronzemarch, scowls at Conan, looks to Scout, then studies her vase for a long moment. It’s as if she thinks she can say paragraphs with her eyes alone. But after enough time that Scout almost starts to fidget, Devon sighs. “No. If you think we’re gonna find anything out about this, I’ll…tag along.” She levels one last narrow look at Conan and adds, “As long as he doesn’t touch my vase.”

Conan lifts his palms and shakes his head slightly, a silent promise to not touch.

Scout looks around at everyone when Bronzemarch—and everyone else in suit—looks back to her again. Finally the situation starts to sink in past her brand. Excitement brightens her palms and she starts to bounce on her toes.

“Amused. Command of the Icarus is yours now, Scout,” Bronzemarch says, tone light with the smile he can’t show on his face, clasping his hands behind his back once more, “Do what you wish.”

Do what you wish. Freedom! 

Scout whoops, a high whistle as she pumps her fist. Then she taps the microphone on the translator still securely pinned to her collar and trills, “Oi, S.A.I.L.! Got a couple new folks taggin’ along! Warp us up!”

~~~~~

<< Previous

~~~~~

And that’s it for Episode 3!

I’m taking a break from this project to focus on NaNoWriMo, but thanks for following along so far!

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 11

“It feels like that ol’ gate we found,” Scout repeats, tilting her head at the vase. “And like that other antique Riku had.”

“What are you talking about?” Devon frowns, setting the pistol down to pick the vase up herself. “It just feels like stone.”

“Ya don’t feel a buzz or nothin’?” Scout fizzes. She fishes through her pocket for her Manipulator.

Devon just frowns deeper at Scout over the lip of the vase, her dark features starting to blend into the shadows behind the already dark stone vase. In the settling night, only the whites of her eyes and the glitter in her pinkish eyeshadow catch much light. Mostly Scout’s flickering orange. “The only ‘buzz’ I’m noticing is the one you make constantly,” Devon eventually says, turning the vase in her hands.

Scout flickers, studying the way her glow catches on fine structures in the vase’s stone, like nigh-microscopic flecks of crystalline gold buried in the grey. They look like tiny stars of their own, twinkling with the vase’s resonance. 

So Devon doesn’t notice it. It’s starting to remind Scout of her dagger’s song, meant only for Scout to hear. 

Except…

“Oi, Sem,” Scout says, waving him over with her Manipulator, “C’mere a sec.”

Semyon blinks and glances between her and Conan. But with a final blink he complies, scurrying over to Scout and Devon in a bit of a jog. Conan takes a partial step forward, but Alice stops his path with the shaft of her broom. 

Semyon crouches to his haunches in front of Scout and starts to ask, “What’s—”

She gestures to the vase in Devon’s hands. “Ya notice anything ‘bout that ditty?”

Semyon tilts his head slightly at the vase, his eyes dancing up and down to take in the details. After a moment he glances back at Scout with one eyebrow quirked high enough it nearly hides in his curls. So she gestures to it again.

Semyon gives a huff deep enough in his chest to sound like a grunt, then gingerly reaches a hand towards the vase. Devon stares at his hand, then right before he can so much as brush it with a knuckle, she wraps both arms around it and turns away from him, vase tightly clutched against her chest. Semyon scowls.

“He ain’t gonna hurt it, Dev; jus’ let him poke it,” Scout fizzes.

“No.” Devon releases one hand from the vest to slap Semyon’s hand away. “I don’t need Apex fur on it as well as well as all this stupid sand.”

Semyon starts to object, “Hey! I don’t shed that much—” 

But Devon stands up with the vase, cutting him off. “Let’s just go.”

Scout crackles annoyance at Devon, but when that doesn’t get any response, she looks at Semyon and pries, “So did ya notice anything? Or…”

“I noticed something,” Semyon shrugs, pushing himself up from the sand, “It…was kinda like the buzz back on that other planet? Dunno.”

Devon shoots the two of them an odd look. “…I swear you two are some of the oddest people I’ve met,” she eventually mutters. Then she turns to start back up the hill.

Semyon offers a hand to help Scout up, meanwhile still tracking Devon with a contorted expression. 

Once Scout finds her footing, she calls to Devon, “Oi, shouldn’t I maybe scan yer thingy? Would be a mite safer to—”

“I don’t trust my heirloom in your knock-off Manipulator,” Devon calls back, holding the vase tighter against her and turning as she walked up the hill until the vase was barely visible over her shoulder. Once she nears the crest of the hill she stops long enough to glance down at the rest of them and huff, “Are you coming or not?”

“We’re coming! We’re coming!” Semyon huffs back.

Alice nudges Conan forward with the handle of her broom—pointedly holding it as close to the broom’s head as she can to give herself space between her and the ex-bandit—until the two of them approach Scout and Semyon. Conan doesn’t seem to resist enough for her to prod any harder than a tap to his shoulder blades, but he does glance back at her with a slight twist to his expression that Scout can’t puzzle out. There’s no resentment, or even annoyance in his thick eyebrows. Whatever his expression is supposed to mean, it’s softer than annoyance. 

But whatever. Scout shrugs to herself and twirls her Manipulator around a finger.

She nods Alice onward, and she and Semyon follow on either side of the ex-bandit.

Although Semyon pauses briefly enough to pick Scout’s pistol up from the ground, holding it gingerly in both hands. It’s small enough to fit in one of his hands, but he holds it like even touching the barrel wrong will set it off. “You, uh,” he gives an awkward huff of a laugh as he holds it out to Scout, “You might want this back.”

“You can keep a hold of it if ya want,” Scout bubbles, amused by the excessive care he’s giving the gun.

“N-no thanks.”

Scout bubbles a giggle, then shrugs again and tucks her miniature Manipulator back into her pocket to free her hand. Part of her tries to reach out with her non-existent left hand for the gun, only for the bandaging over her shoulder to remind her about its presence. Right. Gonna have to get her prosthetic sleeve re-done. Or figure out how to do it herself later.

But for now she takes the gun back with the hand she still has, then waves Semyon onward.

They opt to take a more roundabout way back to town. Now that the sun has thoroughly set, the cool of night is bound to send half of town to bed and draw out the other half. But there’s already been enough of a ruckus today, so Scout and Devon silently agree to avoid getting spotted with Conan in tow.

So they circle around the hills surrounding town to pass through the back entrance of Bronzemarch’s workshop. 

Semyon scurries ahead of them to fetch Bronzemarch, ducking through the fabric drapes. A minute later, he comes back with a very concerned Bronzemarch.

“Concerned. Is everyone alright?” Bronzemarch demands as soon as he steps through the drapes.

“Fine enough,” Scout pops, shrugging her right shoulder as much as she can without disturbing the sealing bandages covering her left, “But we got a feller here that wants to chat with ya.” She steps to one side, ignoring the dubious look Bronzemarch shoots her at her claim of being fine, then waves Conan forward with her pistol.

Conan steps forward, seemingly ignoring the last little poke Alice jabs him with the end of her broom. He rests his rocket launcher to the side of him and puts his hand on its end, fingers clear of the trigger. Then he lifts his chin ever so slightly, as if reasserting a confident posture even though he seems completely incapable of slouching. “You are Bronzemarch?” he guesses.

Bronzemarch’s LED eyes narrow almost to slits, but even he lifts his chin in some sort of reflection of Conan’s posture, hands folding behind his back. “Suspicious. Are you the bandit that followed one of us planet-side?”

“I…did not follow anyone,” Conan claims, picking through his words slowly, “But I am—was—associated with those other bandits that I hear raided this town.”

“Dubious. If you didn’t follow anyone, then why did your ship pursue one of ours so closely?”

“Coincidence of timing,” Conan shrugs.

Bronzemarch studies him for a moment, silent except for a low, simulated hum. Then he says, “Interrogating. Why did you come back here, then? Sarcastic. We are not much of a ship pit-stop.”

“First of all, I was never actually part of the raiding party,” Conan clarifies, a scowl touching his otherwise neutral expression. “Secondly…I recognize that you have no reason to trust me. Understandable. But now that I am here, I have a request to make.”

Bronzemarch’s eyes narrow a bit further at Conan, and only one of them widens subtly when he casts a brief, inquisitive glance at Scout. Scout just replies by tilting her head back towards Conan.

Bronzemarch crosses his arms in front of himself. “Wary. You’re right in supposing we don’t trust you. Bandits are rarely trustworthy. So why should I trust you enough to listen to your request?”

Instead of answering immediately, Conan lifts his rocket launcher by the end—fingers still well away from the trigger—and places it between himself and Bronzemarch. The handles and trigger face Bronzemarch.

Removing his hand from the rocket launcher, Conan says, “I have no intention of harming this town. I came seeking refuge, away from those other fools passing for bandits.”

~~~~~

<< Previous || Next >>

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 10

With Semyon’s help, Scout makes it back to the crest of the hill right as the bandit calls a cease-fire. Semyon had worked quickly to stop her venting out, using a lot of bandaging to fold what little was left of her prosthetic sleeve against her side. The slightest breeze could push her over now, and the shifting sands beneath her feet kept threatening to do so, but between Semyon’s hand to her back and her boiling annoyance, she keeps herself upright.

“Yer doin’ a mighty fine job at that!” Scout snarks at the bandit’s claim of meaning no harm. Wait, where’s her—Devon has her pistol. And she’s sidestepping down the crest of the hill, keeping the pistol trained at the bandit. She doesn’t seem to notice how much her grip is shaking.

The bandit keeps glancing between Scout up top and Devon flanking progressively closer to him. 

“Who are you?” Devon demands.

“Conan,” the bandit replies quickly, “Jakob Conan.” Right. Those other bandits had called him Conan.

As if to prove his identity somehow, Conan tugs his hood off his head and cloth mask off his nose and mouth, revealing a head full of slightly wavy blond hair, slightly muted by incoming grey. He has a couple scars crossing his face: one long one bisecting the space between his left eyebrow and right check, one cutting through the greying stubble along his jaw. 

“Yer the one them other bandits were lookin’ for, ain’t ya?” Scout fizzes, studying him as she and Semyon start picking their way down the hill themselves.

Conan’s eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

“We got ways,” Scout dismisses. “Point is, y’all raided us, then scrambled. Then ya come back here? What’re ya doin’ here?”

“Where’s my antique!?” Devon butts in, storming up to him gun-first.

Conan blinks and steps away from her, deflecting the gun away from his face with a finger. “Which antique? What’re you talking about?”

Devon sneers, “Don’t play dumb! The one you stole from Riku’s store—you know which one!”

“Listen, I wasn’t part of that raid,” Conan says, pushing the pistol away from his face again when Devon points it back at him. “I gave no permission for that. The only thing I’ve taken lately was an artifact from those other bandits. I don’t know where they got it or if that’s ‘your’ antique or not. All I know is that I was going to sell it for enough Pixels to go clean, but if you want to—”

Devon’s eyes go wild as she all but shrieks, “You what!?” She tries pointing the gun at Conan a third time, but he deflects with a swift hand to her wrist. So instead she almost pounces like an enraged tiger.

Semyon only barely stops her by pulling her backwards by the shoulder. “Devon! Back off! Let him talk!”

“He’s a bandit!” Devon objects, yanking her hand out of Conan’s grip but failing to tug her shoulder out of Semyon’s. “He’s nothing but—!”

“Devon! Calm down!”

“No! He’s—”

Scout winces at Devon’s ever increasing volume, the frequencies of her voice poking at the cracks in her brand already made tender by her plasma loss. So she sidles away from Semyon as he wrangles Devon back, instead scooting closer to Alice, who has snuck down the hill finally. Meanwhile she asks Conan, “Whaddya mean by fixin’ to ‘go clean’?”

Conan blinks away from Devon at Scout’s question. Then a shadow crosses his face as he scowls, “I’ve lived the bandit life long enough. I’m done.” His scowl softens but she shadow remains across his face, even as he looks square at Scout and pleads, “But there are people after me. The other bandits in my old gang. And the Peacekeepers. I need somewhere to lay low.”

“And you really think you can ‘lay low’ in the same place you and your idiots just raided?” Devon spits, finally pulling her shoulder away from Semyon’s grip. 

Conan shoots a look at Devon and insists, “I told you: I was never a part of that raid. Those idiots, as you so aptly call them—” he curls his lip as if the mention of them tastes foul— “Went against direct orders. They stopped listening to me long ago.”

“So what makes ya reckon that hangin’ out here counts as layin’ low? We were able to track ya after ya skedaddled back there; can’t them bandits do that, too?” Scout fizzes.

Conan shakes his head with a sound that Scout can’t quite tell if it counts as a snort or a deep cough. “Not likely. The ship they use is so old it doesn’t even have an ID number.”

“Huh.”

“Forget about the other bandits!” Devon huffs, bringing the pistol up again. “What makes you think we’ll let you just hang out here? We may not have the Peacekeepers at our beck and call, but we know people who do and we can still bring you into custody!”

Conan’s hand twitches on the safety of his rocket launcher, even as he’s leaning on it like a stout pole. Scout watches his hand. But instead of any further movement past the twitch, Conan holds up his other hand and implores, “I promise I won’t do you people any more harm. Please. I just need somewhere to hide for a while.”

“We could always bring him to Bronzemarch,” Alice suggests in a lowered voice to Scout.

Scout tilts her head at her, then looks back at Conan. He hasn’t lowered his free palm once; he’s been holding it up empty in a gesture halfway between surrender and shielding himself from Devon’s verbal onslaught. 

Conan glances at Scout and Alice with a curious twitch in his eyebrows. “Is this ‘Bronzemarch’ in charge around here?”

Alice startles, but manages a nod as she confirms, “Y-yeah, he’s kinda in charge.” 

“Then bring me to him if you wish.”

Devon starts to snarl, “Not on your—”

“Cool yer engines, Dev!” Scout crackles, flaring to get Devon’s attention, “The sooner we can get this feller to Bronzemarch, the sooner he’s outta yer hair. Geez!”

Devon blinks at her flare, but her expression quickly settles back into a glare that she levels at her first, flicks quickly at Semyon when he goes to pull her back again, then points back at Conan for a long moment. At length she finally concedes, “Fine. If he gives my antique back first.”

Everyone looks to Conan. His eyes flick between the four of them, studying each of them in turn. Scout can’t parse the subtle changes across his expression as he studies them. Whatever those tiny twitches of his eyebrows or tightening of his lips are supposed to mean are lost on her.

But eventually Conan’s features slump into resignation and he points between Scout and Alice’s shoulders. “It’s over there. Under the sleeping bag.”

Scout turns and finds a makeshift camp of sorts nestled under a small overhang she hadn’t noticed coming down the hill. The overhang looks like an old slab of sandstone had been shoved into the sand and the hill formed around it over time. And under it is Conan’s camp—if it can be called that—with little more than a backpack, an unlit lantern, and a partially unrolled sleeping bag crumpled into a heap populating it.

Scout makes it to the sleeping bag heap moments before Devon does. But as soon as she squats and starts pulling the sleeping bag away from the overhang, she feels a faint, pulsing resonance sing through her arm and into her brand.

“What in tarnation…?” Scout bubbles.

“What? What’s wrong with it?” Devon all but demands as she squats on the other side of the sleeping bag pile.

Scout can only shake her head first as she continues rifling through the folds of the sleeping bag. The more fabric she pulls away, the more that resonance buzzes ethereal feedback into the nicks in her brand, singing of stars. Almost exactly like how that gate had. 

Scout pulls one last fold of insulated sleeping bag away to reveal what looks like a vase. It’s bigger than the one she’d found in Riku’s stash, but with similar construction: wider at the bottom, made out of a similar sort of material. It doesn’t have handles; instead it has a small lip in the top and rings of patterns evoking foreign constellations circling its tall neck. Something about the patterns tugs at Scout’s subconscious.

As soon as Scout puts her hand around the base of the vase to wiggle it out of its sleeping bag nest, the resonance singing from it makes her hand throb as her plasma syncs to its pulsing. But somehow it’s not a painful throb, despite her thinned plasma. Just…strangely familiar.

Devon’s face softens when she sees the vase, but then her brows contort into a knot again as she glances down at Scout’s hand. “Why is your hand blinking?” she frowns. She whips around to snap at Conan, “What did you do to it?!”

“It ain’t hurt, Dev,” Scout fizzes before Conan can respond with anything more than a shake of his head and a frown. Devon whips back around to frown at Scout, and that frown only contorts more as she clarifies, “It jus’ has a funny aura or somethin’. Feels like that ol’ gate.”

“What?”

~~~~~

<< Previous || Next >>

[scout-company]

Update

Good news! I finally finished writing Episode three: Dead or Alive!

Expect the last few chapters to come out each of the upcoming Mondays.

Thanks for y’all’s patience with the slower updates!

[scout-company]

Hey, uh, I just got this comment on ao3 and I’m kinda sus:

(I blurred out the username and the discord code just in case this is legit, but the username wasn’t underlined so idk) Is this comment a legit one or is it a bot or something? I don’t have a clue about how to tell

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 9

Devon hasn’t stepped foot this far out of town in years. But now she is running across the sand as fast as her heels will let her.

The setting sun is starting to ignite the air a golden orange, grazing the tips of the hills Devon crosses. Just a few more hills. The yellow beam had shot down just past the oasis sands. 

As soon as she finds this bandit, she is going to give him a piece of her—

“Oi!” Scout whistles somewhere just behind her.

“Devon! Wait!” Semyon all but barks somewhere nearby.

“No!” Devon steals a brief glance over her shoulder as she starts up the next hill. The Novakid is charging—scrambling—ahead of her buddies. Semyon is helping Alice up the hill with a tug to her arm.

Scout’s fast. As soon as Devon looks away from her and the others, Scout is almost by her side. “Where do ya think yer going?” she crackles, her plasma churning and flashing like an angry lava lamp with each syllable.

Devon presses forward. “I’m finding that bandit,” she declares.

“Alone? Y’ain’t armed!” Scout pops, the frequencies behind her voice sailing high like microphone feedback. “How do ya know where yer goin’, anyhow?”

Nosy Novakid. “I saw him beam down this way,” she huffs, “Good enough?”

Scout doesn’t seem to catch the venom Devon injects into her voice to tell her to go away. Instead she brightens, the ends of her untamed corona bob perking like animal ears. “Ya did? That makes our job mighty easy!”

Devon shoots her a glare. “Your job? It’s my antique that bandit stole.”

“So we deal with the bandit and get it back for you,” Semyon says as he cuts between Scout and Devon, voice tense with breathlessness. 

“You? You can’t even lift a butter knife to defend yourself, Semyon!” Devon scoffs.

“Shut it!” Semyon snarls, face and ears blooming red. “Point is, we deal with the bandit, you head back to—”

“No! I am going to—!” Semyon starts to reach a hand out to stop Devon before she can crest the hill. She smacks his hand upwards with a pivot of a heel. But that movement catches a stray root skimming just below the sand. And angers a nearby Trictus burrowed in the sand.

Devon trips over the root just before the monster cactus can swipe at her with its thorns for claws. It sneers, the rainbow leaves atop its head quivering while its “face” stays static.

What happens next is a blur for several moments as Devon tumbles down the wrong side of the hill. She hears the trictus growl, hears Alice yelp. Semyon shouts something, a gun fires once. Twice. Three times. 

Finally Devon slides to a stop. The world takes several more moments to stop spinning around her. She registers the rough grit of sand sneaking its way under the cuffs of her jeans and into her vest as she starts to push herself up. Ugh. She’s going to feel gritty for days now. Her vest is probably scuffed, too.

Dully Devon registers Semyon’s voice calling at her. “Devon! Are you ok?!” Then as he gets closer his warning shifts. “Don’t move!” he insists.

Devon pushes herself to a sitting position anyways. “Go home, don’t move. Make up your mind,” she drawls, squinting against the world trying to spin again. 

Semyon slides to his knees just in front of her, swinging his oversized medical bag off his shoulder. Meanwhile Scout takes a few steps down from the top of the hill above them, now being a brighter light for them than the fading sunset. Alice stands behind her, clutching that broom of hers close and glancing around.

Semyon takes a moment too long for Devon’s liking to open his bag and pull out a roll of gauze bandaging. So she tries to start standing up. Only for a bolt of pain to object from her ankle. She bites a hiss back, but Semyon glances up at her anyways. Great. He has that expression of knowing concern he’s mimicked from Bronzemarch. It looks cartoonish on him.

Devon growls at herself and tries standing again. Other foot first, then—

“I said hold still,” Semyon grunts, placing a huge hand heavy on Devon’s shin to keep her down. “Your ankle’s twisted. Bad.”

“Think I don’t know that,” Devon mutters rebelliously, eyeing the guilty ankle. It’s twisted inwards at an angle even her boot can’t hide. Still she insists, “I can still walk. I need to find that stupid bandit.”

“In this condition?” Semyon scoffs, concern still showing despite the exaggerated twist of dubiousness pinching his features. 

From her position atop the hill Scout pipes up, “What’s got ya so riled up ‘bout that antique anyhow?”

Devon shoots her a look. “I told you: it’s my antique! It’s an heirloom.” She tears her glare away from the Novakid and shifts it over the hill towards where she’d seen the yellow beam. “I’m not going to be the one that loses it after Earth,” she adds under her breath.

Semyon looks up at her with that concern again, eyes softening with something like pity. Sentimental Apex. Devon refuses to meet that pity with anything less than a scowl. “So can you fix this or not?” she huffs at him.

Mild annoyance twists at his thick brows—better than pity, at least—as he reaches back into his back. “Yeah, just give me a sec,” he grunts. “Take off your boot.”

Devon complies this once, gingerly working her boot off. Its black leather has been scuffed by the rough sand and scratched by more than one branch. She dusts it off as much as she can, scowling at the scratches she’s going to have to polish later. 

Meanwhile Semyon gently pulls her foot back into a more proper angle, muttering something like apologies when the pain makes Devon wince. Once it’s less twisted but still visibly swollen, Semyon carefully wraps it in place with the bandaging. Then he pulls out the small syringe of a Stimpack, the red liquid catching Scout’s light. Its needle glitters, highlighting the point in angry orange. Semyon mutters some sort of warning, but Devon bites her lip and forces her focus away from the needle to much to register the words. 

The poke from the Stimpack needle hurts more than it has rights to, but immediately afterwards her ankle is washed with numbness. At least she can breathe now.

She barely listens to Semyon’s warning of caution as she works her boot back on, loosening the zipper an inch to account for the bandaging. His lip twists, but then he puts his surplus supplies away and stands up. Once Devon has her boot back on, she tests it, then starts to stand back up. Semyon offers a hand, but she slaps it away. She’s fine. Putting weight on her numb ankle feels like standing with inanimate lead for a foot, but at least she can stand. 

Devon makes it up the hill, having to slap away Semyon’s offers for assistance twice. Once they make it back up to the crest of the hill, Scout has Devon point the way towards where the yellow beam had been. And by now they’re only one hill away.

The last hill is the tallest yet, reinforced by hundreds of shrubs that are trying to overcome the desert. The sand here is staring to mix with rocks and actual soil, but it’s still dry this time of year. Their footsteps crunch loud enough in the silent twilight air to echo.

Something else also starts to echo as the four of them near the top of the hill. A voice.

Scout stops everyone with a static-like hiss, dropping to her hands and knees to creep the rest of the way up. Devon and the others follow suit.

The voice is grumbling to itself. Devon can’t quite pick out the words, but she recognizes the language as a fellow Human one. 

When the voice exclaims something of frustration barely louder than his grumbling, Scout and the others share a glance. The look in Alice’s eyes is something nearing recognition when she glances at Scout and whispers, “The bandit?”

Scout nods just enough for her bob to rustle with faint static.

“I knew it,” Devon hisses under her breath. She crawls forward a few more feet until she can barely peek over the hill. When she doesn’t see anyone immediately, she raises her voice. “Alright, you idiot! Come out with your hands up!”

Alice squeaks, “What are you—!?”

“Who’s there?!” the voice barks. A weapon clicks.

Scout crawls forward until she passes Devon. Then she carefully scoots to a kneel, pistol in hand. She peers over the edge of the hill, plasma churching and crackling like a campfire. 

Then a man comes into view, storming out of a hiding place beneath the hill. He’s wearing all black, and holding a massive rocket launcher.

As soon as he comes into view, he fires.

Scout whistles and ducks. The rocket pierces the air just over her and Devon. Devon can feel the heat from the rocket as it passes.

Scout fires back, rising to one knee. The gunshots ring in Devon’s ears until she can’t hear anything else.

But the bandit seems focused on Scout. Maybe if Devon takes this chance to sneak around…

She only gets a yard sidling along the crest of the hill before Scout calls out, “Oi! Where’re ya—!?”

Devon looks back right as the bandit fires another rocket. And immediately the air between Devon and Scout bursts into orange plasma. The rocket hit Scout’s arm.

Scout shrieks like the worst speaker feedback. Her gun and a scorched fragment of her prosthetic sleeve hit the sand. The rest of her tumbles backwards, leaving a cloud of glowing plasma behind her. 

Devon registers Semyon crying Scout’s name. Glances over as he rushes to catch her.

The gun. Devon dives for it, biting her lip against the sharp heat as wisps of plasma graze her face. The fragment of Scout’s sleeve flops to the ground as Devon snatches the gun up and stands. She fires a warning shot at the bandit before she can even aim.

“I’ll give you one chance to surrender and return that antique to us, bandit!” she barks.

Below, the bandit raises his rocket launcher again. But then he pauses at Devon’s warning. “You’re not them, are you?” he says.

“We’re Haven Valley,” Devon snaps, ignoring whatever he meant by “them”, “The town you stole from. I’m going to give you three seconds before I—” 

“Wait wait wait wait!” The bandit all but drops his weapon and raises an empty palm. “Cease-fire! I don’t mean any harm to you people.”

~~~~~

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[scout-company]

Chapter - 3 Page 8

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 8

Devon paces along the crest of the hill marking the north wall of town. It’s been several hours since that Novakid shot off. A few hours since Riku discovered one of the antiques—Devon’s antique—was missing. How did he not notice that before? How did one of those stupid bandits get inside without anyone noticing? How—

Devon shakes her head sharply. Focus. She tugs her broad-brimmed sun hat lower and scans across the desert. Those bandits would hav head to warp in from somewhere, and Devon knows for a fact that Haven Valley isn’t too far from one of the easier warp points. 

If anyone else warps near town, she’s going to be the first to know.

The town behind her is unusually quiet for this late in the day. Normally the others are socializing in the lengthening shade as the sun starts its descent. But right now, the only socialization Devon can hear are hushed mutterings carried along the dry breeze. After a day like this, she can’t be surprised. 

Devon huffs as she continues pacing. The quiet before an unseen storm sets her nerves on edge. Only the whispers of the palm tree leaves and the crunch of her boots’ heels in the sand graze her thoughts. If Essa ever let her borrow her rifle, Devon would probably be shooting the critters scrambling for shade off in the distance. Just for something to do, something to root her thoughts out of her head.

But Essa and her rifle had retreated back to her hut and her farm animals shortly after the incident this morning, hissing something about waiting for her mate. 

Some “hunter.”

Devon reaches the end of the hill she’s been pacing lines across for the last hour, pivots, and starts to retrace her steps for the hundredth time.

But then a flash of light stops her.

A green warp beam shoots down straight into town, next to the flag Bronzemarch had set up.

Immediately after, a yellow light steaks from the sky, landing several hills off into the distance. 

A Floran Devon doesn’t quite recognize yet—one of the newer move-ins—materializes out of the green beam and immediately scrambles towards the pavilion. Whoever materializes out of the yellow beam is concealed by distance and by hills.

But barely a minute after those two beams, a trio of beams shoot down to the flag. Orange, yellow, and magenta. And like that Floran, the trio that materializes out of the beams takes off running as soon as the light flickers away. The Novakid Scout scrambles ahead of the others. 

Scout’s always in a hurry. Normally that wouldn’t interest Devon. But the events of this morning—and the way Scout is frantically whistling Bronzemarch’s name—draw her to investigate. 

Bronzemarch has been at the pavilion for the last half an hour or so, taking shelter in the shade while discussing something with one of the other move-ins, a fellow Human named Nell. Nell startles when the Floran scrambles up the steps to the pavilion, then removes herself from the conversation. Devon isn’t close enough to hear the Floran’s hissing until she reaches one of the pavilion’s support pillars, at which point Scout all but leaps up the steps herself. 

“Alarmed. Scout! What’s wrong?” Bronzemarch demands. 

The Floran startles, the cone-like purple flower atop their head fluffing as if in a static field as they whip around. Devon presses herself behind the rough wooden pillar, taking off her hat and peeking carefully around the support. Part of her prays splinters don’t get stuck in her vest.

“We found them bandits!” Scout meanwhile whistles, sounding for all the world like Riku’s shrillest teapot. Semyon and Alice nod as they finally catch up with her. “S.A.I.L. tracked one of ‘em down, and—”

“Floran wasss followed!” the Floran hisses, voice trembling with their leaves. 

Scout’s messy bob of plasma flickers like a shaken candle as she pops, “What?”

Bronzemarch puts a supportive hand on the Floran’s shoulder as he explains, “Informative. Muthon thinks he was followed here.”

Muthon the Floran nods hastily. “Floran saw small ship chasssing Floran. Yellow light followed Floran.”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Scout buzzes, her twang getting thicker the faster she speaks, “We found them bandits squarin’ off against one o’ their own or somethin’, and then he zipped outta there.”

“Grim. And then he escaped back to our planet?” Bronzemarch concludes, crossing his arms.

Scout nods. “Yeah. S.A.I.L. tracked him down.”

Bronzemarch makes a tinny note of a pensive hum as he looks around—Devon ducks back behind the pillar before he can spot her—then says, “Serious. We need to protect the town.”

Semyon steps forward around Scout and suggests, “Should someone go get Essa?”

Muthon shakes his head hard enough his leaves rustle. “Essa will not fight. Floran issss terrified of her weapon.”

“But she used it earlier on one of them bandits this morning,” Scout points out with a confused pop. 

“That…explainss why Floran was so ssad earlier.” Muthon ruffles a hand through the petals of his flower, then starts to back up, looking apologetically at Bronzemarch. “Excuse Floran. Floran musst go comfort Floran’s mate.”

“Understanding. Go do that,” Bronzemarch bids. Once Muthon turns around and scrambles off towards Essa’s farmstead, Bronzemarch looks back over the three in front of him. “Pensive. This still leaves the dilemma of how to protect the town. Practical. Scout. If you three—”

“What if we find that feller first?” Scout suggests. “If we track him down before he can cause a ruckus, the town won’t be in any trouble.”

Alice leans forward a bit to frown up at Scout. “Wait, how would we do that? S.A.I.L. couldn’t track him planet-side.”

“He’s gotta be ‘round here somewhere.”

The yellow warp beam. Devon steals a glance over the hills in the direction she saw the beam earlier. 

Bronzemarch frowns audibly while he glances around again himself. “Worried. Find him quickly. One of those bandits somehow made off with the antique Riku was holding for Devon, so if there’s any chance this bandit has it—”

“Wait what!?” Devon bursts despite herself. She whips around the pillar.

The four in the pavilion startle and turn to her. Three sets of eyes stare wide at her; the Novakid’s glow flares and her plasma churns. Scout starts to whistle, “When did ya—?!”

But Devon ignores her for the moment. She storms up the steps to the pavilion herself, straight to Bronzemarch. She demands, “You’re saying the bandit that stole my antique turned tail and ran straight back here?”

“Hesitant. There is a possibility, but we cannot say for sure. But if he knows where—”

Devon doesn’t give him a chance to finish his statement. She pivots on one heel, tugs her hat back on, and starts off the pavilion. That stupid bandit warped in behind Muthon, under the cover of the hills outside town. 

“Alarmed. Devon! Where do you think you’re going!?”

She ignores the several voices calling her name as she rushes off. They try to call her back; she had no weapon, they don’t know where the bandit is. They don’t. She does.

She scrambles over the hill walling Haven Valley off from the outside desert. Northward. That beam shot down past the hills that way. 

Multiple sets of footsteps scramble through the sand somewhere behind her, but she’s too laser-focused to care.

That antique has been with her for years. Been with her family for longer.

If that bandit—that idiot—thinks he can get away with stealing it out from under the town’s collective noses, then come back to this planet for shelter, he’s got another thing coming.

~~~~~

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[scout-company]

The Monthly Starbound Prompt for September is:

✨ Ancient ✨

A mysterious vault, a dusty temple - whatever "ancient" makes you think of, I can't wait to see it!

Art, building, graphics, or writing. Use this prompt to inspire you, however you create!

Use the tag #sbprompts23 to share your work for the 2023 Starbound Prompts challenges.

[scout-company]

I think I finally figured out why Dead or Alive has been giving me such a hard time lately: other than the obvious factor of end of semester shenanigans, the story took such a sharp turn away from my original outline that the plan for the climax/ending completely changed. Good news, though! This also means I basically wrote the new climax without even realizing it. So I’m closer to being done writing this episode than I thought!

[scout-company]

Howdy!

From the Corrugated ask game:

🔎What's a small, easy-to-miss detail that you just love?

🧸Teddy bear or bear plush? (ie the one your make vs the one you find in Hyltol cities)

🛋️Top 3 furniture mods?

Howdy howdy!

🔎: The soundtrack! Starbound has one of my top favorite soundtracks ever. Curtis Schweitzer is such a good composer.

🧸: Hmmmm…probably the teddy bear you make? I think that’s the one I usually place.

🛋️: I actually don’t use a lot of furniture mods I think. I do have Plushbound (and actually designed one of the community-designed ones—the pineapple plushie), but off the top of my head I don’t think I have any other ones other than Arcana (which has a LOT more than just furniture so I don’t think that counts lol)

[scout-company]

Corrugated starbound ask game

🌈Which of the basic sb color palettes do you find most pleasing?

💺What is your favorite furniture set? What is your favorite standalone furniture item? Do they go together?

🏠Wood starter house or brick starter house?

👾Which vanilla race is your favorite and which modded race is your favorite? If a representative from each fought, who would win?

🎣What emotion does the fishing minigame make you feel?

🤕Which boss is the hardest?

❤️‍🩹If your save data was somehow lost or corrupted which character would you remake first and why?

🌶️What do you think is your most unpopular sb opinion?

🧰What huge, super ambitious mod would you make if you had the time/energy/skills?

🚪Imagine you are a resident of the starbound universe and you are running away to make your forever home. In your inventory is: two crop seed types of your choosing, a stack of logs, a stack of stone, a stack of water, and some glass. Which biome on which planet are you moving to?

🤿Which ocean type is the best?

🚀Which ship design is the best?

💀Save the cat or save the bunny?

🍴Which alien food do you really really really wish was real?

⛽Gather erchius or buy erchius?

🧸Teddy bear or bear plush?

🌌Favorite expansion mod? Eg. Shellguard, Maple32, Elithian, K'rakoth, Arcana, Frackin, etcetera

🧱Favorite block(s)?

🔦Best flashlight color?

🏪What outpost vendor do you utilize the most?

🎳Funnest toy?

🛋️Top 3 furniture mods?

👤Which npc would you like to know more about?

👥What race would you like to know more about?

💄What's a cosmetic item you wish existed but doesn't?

🪞Which starbound oc made you discover something about yourself, or inspired you to try something new?

🥁Favorite musical instrument?

🔭Favorite celestial body to see in the sky?

🔎What's a small, easy-to-miss detail that you just love?

[scout-company]

In the meantime, I’m finally getting around to posting this episode to Ao3! Check it out here

Heads up:

I’m gonna have to pull back on updates for Dead or Alive to being every other week instead of weekly. Between finals and being on break with family, the ol’ writing brain hasn’t been wanting to cooperate so I’m gonna take it a bit slower.

I think I’m getting close to writing the end of the episode, though! (hopefully)

So expect the next chapter to be up on the 4th

[scout-company]

Heads up:

I’m gonna have to pull back on updates for Dead or Alive to being every other week instead of weekly. Between finals and being on break with family, the ol’ writing brain hasn’t been wanting to cooperate so I’m gonna take it a bit slower.

I think I’m getting close to writing the end of the episode, though! (hopefully)

So expect the next chapter to be up on the 4th

[scout-company]

Dead or Alive—Chapter 7

Semyon’s idea of stealth seems to include putting Scout in his jacket and attempting to cover her corona. His jacket is several sizes too big for her and fairly heavy on her shoulders, making movement somewhat awkward and making her have to roll the sleeves up several times just to be able to do anything with her hands. But it does cover her arms, at least.

His and Alice’s attempts to cover her corona are less successful. Semyon’s first attempt involves just trying to tie the unruly wisps back with some loose bandaging, but her corona just flickers through the broad fibers. Alice then offers to have Scout try and wrap her scarf around her head and look like some sort of merchant in the process. Again her unruly corona bob refuses to be contained.

Scout gives up on hiding her corona before they can think of a third attempt, instead just promising to keep her head low and stick behind bushes as much as possible as the three of them sneak down the slope. 

They pick their way down the slope carefully, sticking to the more stable parts and avoiding the rain-slicked slides of gavel as much as possible. Semyon turns off his flashlight early on, and Scout’s exposed head only shines a few yards of their path ahead, so they have to rely on that little light and the flickers of light from the glowing raindrops here and there. Their path takes them roughly clockwise around the massive gave in the valley.

The closer they get to the gate, the more powerful the pulse in the air pulls at Scout’s brand. It tugs at her brand’s core with each thrum, and soon it starts making her plasma pulse in sync with it. It’s a strange resonance, but oddly familiar in the same way that door beneath Haven Valley was. The stars in Scout’s subconscious seem to recognize the energy. But she doesn’t. 

Scout forces herself to not focus on that for now, though. Because the closer they get to the gate, the more they start to hear voices. Angry voices. Barking into the air in a different Human dialect than the one Alice often slips into.

But it’s still a dialect that Scout’s translator can catch and relay in Common. 

As the three of them reach the bottom of the slope and creep up to the gate, hiding behind what little shrubbery dares grow this close to the ancient stones, the four figures Scout spotted from the top of the slope spread out on the top step. They’re all wearing the same black-toned uniforms as the bandits who attacked Haven Valley, each with the same scarf covering half of their faces. 

“Time’s up, you coward!” one of the bandits with a flashlight-gun barks as Scout, Alice, and Semyon settle behind a bush mere yards from the base of the gate. “We know you’re here—you can’t hide forever!”

Scout flickers, almost thinking the bandit is talking to them. 

But then a miniature rocket answers the bandit, shooting through the air from the far side of the gate and piercing the gap in the arch. All four of the bandits whip around, guns pointing at the unseen assailant. 

“What do you want?” snaps a voice hidden from Scout’s angle. The voice is rough, masculine, and almost as guttural as Semyon’s, just not quite as deep. And it’s just as angry as the bandits’.

The first bandit scoffs hard enough the noise sounds painfully nasally. “You know sparking well what we want. Come out with your hands up!”

Footsteps on hard stone echo in the rain. Slow and methodical. Eventually a rocket launcher peeks over the far side of the top step into Scout’s view. Then the owner’s head.

Another bandit? He’s dressed the same as the rest of the bandits, except perhaps with heavier armor over his broad shoulders and chest. The head covering is nearly identical, though; all Scout can see is hints of pale skin and narrowed eyes. Against the other bandit’s demand, however, he’s still wielding the massive rocket launcher, levering it on his shoulder and pointing it straight at the four bandits. 

“There you are, ‘sir,’” the first bandit spits. Like the title of “sir” is an insult the rocket-launcher guy doesn’t even deserve. 

“Oi, what did we say about ‘hand’s up?’” one of the other bandits snaps.

The rocket-launcher guy narrows his eyes further and points his weapon at the bandit that just spoke. “Like I would listen to your orders,” he growls. The offending bandit shrinks back.

“Like you ever listened to any of us!” the first bandit accuses, shoving their gun further at the rocket-launcher guy. “What ever happened to being a team, huh?”

“You lost that right when you lot killed that caravan!” he barks back. “You crossed the line, and refused to back down when ordered.”

“You’re the only reason we got caught! If you hadn’t—”

“If I hadn’t pulled out when I did, we all would have been busted. And yet you ingrates still insist on pulling the same stunts.”

A few of the bandits behind the one arguing with the rocket-launcher guy murmur and shoot each other looks, glancing between each other than the arguing one like they’re the designated leader. Scout catches Alice glancing at her and Semyon, but doesn’t return it.

The leading bandit shuts the others up with a sharp glance over their shoulder. Once the muttering stops, they huff, “It’s a dog-eat-dog galaxy, Conan. I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

The rocket-launcher guy, Conan, narrows his eyes, adjusting his weapon’s weight on his shoulder and pointing it square at the arguing bandit’s face. “And here I thought we had agreed to be better than that. Guess I was wrong after all. Consider this a warning.”

He didn’t give the bandits any time to retort before shooting a rocket just barely over their heads. It pierces the air with an angry whistle. All the bandits duck.

The rocket slams into the slope just out of the light of the obelisks, echoing across the valley like its own burst of thunder in the rain.

By the time the rocket’s smoke trail clears, Conan is gone.

Scout barely stops herself from whistling in surprise. Meanwhile the bandits erupt into startled shouts, few of which her translator can catch fast enough.

“What the—where’d he go?!” one of the bandits in the back exclaims.

“We lost him!” another one gasps.

“Smith, what do we do? He just—”

“I know, blast it!” the leading bandit snaps, cutting them all off. 

One of the other bandits with a flashlight-gun points their light in every direction as they huff, “First he intercepts us at Veil III and yoinks that vase. Now this?”

“Sparking coward,” the leading bandit spits. They start to bark orders at the rest of the bandits—something about splitting up and searching around the gate—but Scout’s focus snaps elsewhere as something rustles.

Scout glances at Alice and Semyon first. Semyon has planted himself thoroughly on his haunches, using his knuckles as balance support. Alice has been completely sitting behind the bush, hugging her legs to her chest to make herself smaller. So neither of them made that sound.

Scout dims warily as she looks around, prompting a small frown from Semyon. She ducks a bit when the bandits start scattering from the top step of the gate. But then she spots movement in the bushes at the far end of the gate’s base—brief rustles in the flickering light of the glowing drizzle. 

Then a yellow beam shoots up from behind those bushes. It’s only a blink, barely lasting longer than the glowing raindrops. A warp beam.

“Oi, S.A.I.L., reckon ya can track that beam just over yonder?” Scout fizzes quietly, covering her translator’s microphone with a finger.

It takes S.A.I.L. half a second to respond, “Tracking warp signal,” its automated voice sounding through her plasma while hopefully being muffled externally. 

Alice and Semyon shoot her wide-eyed glances. Alice looks like she’s barely holding down a hiss. 

Then all three of them duck further when the nearest bandits whip around. “What was that?” a bandit in front of the nearest obelisk grunts. “Is someone there?”

“Oi Smith!” one of the other bandits calls, “I think I found something!”

Shoot.

The bandits start moving, shining their flashlights over Scout’s head. Now they’ve got the leading bandit’s attention.

Shoot shoot shoot—

“S.A.I.L., beam us up!” Scout whistles.

“Oi! Who’s—”

“Now!”

The world blurs into the light of the warp just as guns fire.

“S.A.I.L.! Get us out of orbit!” Scout orders with a spark as soon as she materializes in the teleporter room. She barely waits for Alice and Semyon to find their footing on the teleporter pad before she bolts out.

“Acknowledged,” S.A.I.L. replies. The ship jolts beneath her feet, nearly making her tumble into the couch near the stairs. And making Alice tumble into Semyon, judging by the sudden yelps echoing from the teleporter room. 

Scout catches a glimpse of the planet’s horizon rotating out of view of the lounge windows, giving way to the void of space, as she races up the stairs. She’s halfway up the stairs when S.A.I.L. announces, “I have tracked the signal’s course.”

Scout gives a sharp whistle, scrambling up the stairs on all fours to go faster. “Where’s it goin’?”

“Aaoe Veil V.”

Footsteps scramble up the stairs behind Scout, but she barely registers them and Alice squeaking, “Wait, they’re going to—!?”

Scout just scrambles to the landing faster, dashing to her feet and barely giving the automatic doors between her and the control room time to open for her. She nearly collides with the last door. Then she darts across the control room, ramming into the captain’s chair as she flares, “Take us there, S.A.I.L.! What’re ya waitin’ fer!?”

“I cannot move the Icarus without direct orders,” S.A.I.L. evenly replies, flippant despite the situation. “Engaging FTL in 3…”

Scout flings herself into the chair.

“2…”

Alice and Semyon scramble for handholds.

“1…”

~~~~~

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[scout-company]

I didn't want to derail draconon's post about starting a new playthrough, but something they said in it got me thinking.

Please note: this isn't a diss, competition or whatever, I'm just thinking here.

They said:

despite me having over 600 hours in starbound I've killed the runin maybe thrice

As of 15 Jul 2023 I'd played as Mio for 1,268 hours and I've only killed the Ruin once (I've got some time on another character but they're only for screwing around in creative).

Now to me, killing the Ruin 3 times in 600h sounds like a lot. But equally, killing the Ruin once in 1,268h might also be weird.

So I'm just wondering: What's y'alls "Killed Ruin : Played Hours" ratio?

Once again - this is not a competition, insult or anything. I'm genuinely interested what the average ratio is. Please be nice to each other.

[scout-company]

My headcanon:

I’ve always considered their brands to be their “cores”. @nyotasaimiri had a headcanon write-up about her idea of Novakid brands being dual-layered, with the inner layer being more of the actual core (if I find the link to it I’ll add it), and frankly that makes the most sense to me. A Novakid’s brand seems to be what keeps them together, being basically equivalent to all of an organic’s vital organs, which would also explain the really weird face-pieces on the higher tier armor.

So I don’t think Novakid have internal cores—unless their brand is “ingrown”, that is. At most their plasma is just denser in their torso and head, and thus more vulnerable to venting out faster when hit there.

Novakid are incredible mimics, though, and this extends to them taking a more humanoid appearance. (That, and heavily-theorized connections to the Cultivator, who seems to have been humanoid) So young Protokid develop the basic physiology “silhouettes” of those they grow up around. Which is broadly humanoid.

But because their core is their brand and their entire insides are plasma, I think taking a hit in the torso or back of the head would be close to equally dangerous as taking a hit to the arm, aside from density difference—create a hole in their shell anywhere, and they’ll start to vent out. But it won’t be immediately lethal.

Now if they take a hit directly to their brand, that is more likely to be immediately lethal. Or at minimum, permanently debilitating. Scout, for example, literally cannot reform her left arm’s shell due to brand damage. Because their brand is what keeps them together in my headcanon.

Evidence:

Head core: Makes the most sense when looking at the functionality of the brands. I feel like in order for the brands to work, they need to be as close to the core as possible.

Evolutionarily though, it doesn't make sense that they'd have a humanoid shape at all, let alone a head that's got the core in it. That's a LOT of body mass that's hanging on by a neck of all body parts. Novakid are not organic. No muscle and bone and ligaments to help hold it all together. OG lore states they're made of gas. Some in-game lore states they're made of hardlight. Either way, I just don't think they'd form such a complex shape all BELOW their core. Especially in a universe where many organic creatures have heads with brains in them, and thus would be the go-to target for an easy kill. Unless the Novakid evolved to mimic that, and they are a case of "this is The Worst Evolutionary Decision Ever but this is the one that outlasted the others so oopsies."

.

Torso core: Makes the most sense when looking at how Novakid armor works. Most protection seemed focused to the body pieces, while the headgear is more oriented toward protecting the brands and looking cool, and the pants often are nothing more than a pair of jeans and chaps. Wouldn't really do that unless there was something vital in the torso that's not in the head. But then again, one wide slash to the abdomen and that gas is pouring out FAST.

Speaking in terms of evolution though, it doesn't make sense that they'd have the humanoid shape they do with a torso core, especially the head. I feel like they'd look more like snuggets or the Trinks in general body shape. Unless they specifically evolved the head as a decoy, and later on realized they could use it further when mimicking talking to the other races. The brands general function of holding their body shape makes sense here (its something else to anchor to), but again, I feel like the efficiency level is directly tied to how close it is to their core. Overall, this is my second choice. If someone told me "yes they have one singular core, where is it?" id pick this option.

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Two Cores/Split Core: This one makes the most sense to me. Following the original lore for how Novakid are made, they start out kind of egg-shaped and their humanoid form gradually develops. I like to think that early on, their core splits into two. One stays in place and eventually becomes the head's core, while the other moves down to help form the rest of the body and the limbs, thus becoming the torso core. Double the cores, ideally double the stability, but they tend to be differing sizes, and that adds stress. The brands ease this by helping to keep the cores in balance.