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97blackbird

“Space.

The final frontier.

These are the voyages of the E.S.F. SSgt. Reckless. A modern, exploration vessel whose mission is to explore strange, new, worlds; seek out new life, and new civilizations; to boldly go where no pony has gone before!” And just then, the advanced FTL drive engaged with a thrum that could be felt as well as heard, and the viewscreen stars turned blue, those not in the center began moving slowly, crawling snail-like toward the edges as Reckless accelerated to speeds only modern explorers could dream of.

“Put the blaster down, Blackbird.” Captain Joe said without looking. This wasn’t the first time he had to reprimand him when Ensign Exposition had rambled some especially irritating, unneeded, speech or explanation. He was sure that he wouldn’t actually harm the pilot pony, but he felt compelled to rein him in anyway.

Blackbird’s head trembled and he grunted like serious effort was required to bring it out of line of Exposition’s head and stow the blaster away in his side holster.

Despite Blackbird’s behavior, he recognized it as a symptom of the anxiety they all felt to some degree. They were all quiet. Contemplative. Their training was over. All simulations completed. They were on their way to a completely alien solar system. It was real now, and that thought sobered them all. For even though they were on a peaceful mission of exploration, the ship was armed for a reason.

Joe started at the indigo point at the center of the viewscreen, their objective. What awaited them? And would they be receptive to curious explorers?

He clenched the armrests of his command chair and released them. The indigo dot didn’t react. It didn’t care what he felt or that he stared. It waited there, and stared back.
97blackbird

@Communist Starlight
What is with the Cyrillic writing…? Are you being paid by a translation service, Communist Star…



No… You're a Communist!
You're trying to convert me, you Svengali!
Little by little, by minute degrees, you're trying to force me in to the communist mold until I lose all sense of self and become one of you!
I won't be part of your Machiavellian scheme!
I refuse compromise my position and remain steadfast!
Not one step will you get me to go on the path to perdition!
This far, and no farther!
I have drawn the line!
I will-

"Wow! you're really wound up!"

Yes, Medi, I am… I hate insidious subterfuge.

"I bet you could use a quick break."
*click beoooo Bling!
"Here, try this for a spell, Blackbird ol' buddy!"

Oooh Tetris! Thanks, Medi!

*Korobeiniki plays….
97blackbird

Белая армия, чёрный барон
Снова готовят нам царский трон
Но от тайги до британских морей
Красная Армия всех сильней!


So is that the traditional song for this season?
Communist Starlight

Crushing inequality
@97blackbird



Blackbird looked over at Joe and Starlight (the communist one), who were passed out from their frenzied search for the perfect vodka sauce variant for roast turkey, and then creating a vodka sauce for every side dish served; including finding a vodka sauce for the vodka sauce. Several empty bottles littered the floor. But he had to admit, they had been successful, as all the sauces were delicious and complimented the foods to which they had been paired. Whether they were sleeping due to their extreme sou chef exertions, or from imbibing the ‘fruits’ of their labor was a matter of speculation.

Белая армия, чёрный барон
Снова готовят нам царский трон
Но от тайги до британских морей
Красная Армия всех сильней!

Here's a short story I'm obviously a bit late on… Happy belated Thanksgiving!


I think you're a bit late there, bud!

Medi flailed her legs again but remained as immobile as ever. She smiled and burped again. “Perfect timing!” She declared, "I should be able to move by then!"


Ha!
97blackbird

Here's a short story I'm obviously a bit late on… Happy belated Thanksgiving!

“What was this holiday called again?” the grey batpony squeaked the question. She had failed repeatedly to upright herself on the soft pillow she had reclined on. If she was to be stuck for a while, being sated and supine was a great way to spend her time. “Is it… Glutton’s day?” Medi then shamelessly open-mouth burped.

Blackbird looked over at Joe and Starlight (the communist one), who were passed out from their frenzied search for the perfect vodka sauce variant for roast turkey, and then creating a vodka sauce for every side dish served; including finding a vodka sauce for the vodka sauce. Several empty bottles littered the floor. But he had to admit, they had been successful, as all the sauces were delicious and complimented the foods to which they had been paired. Whether they were sleeping due to their extreme sou chef exertions, or from imbibing the ‘fruits’ of their labor was a matter of speculation.

Big Buggy Bastage remained plugged-in to a marathon gaming session of some international MMO, while chatting several foreigners educating them about the Thanksgiving Holiday, and refining the fueling maps of the modern engines of the research vessel ESF SSgt Reckless, and also playing a game of solitaire because he felt a little bored. Blackbird shook his head slightly; it was too bad robots can't enjoy the sedative effects of Tryptophan.

Ensign Exposition crawled up to the dessert table, again, and eyed the confections longingly with a slow lick of her lips. A groan escaped as she slipped back down to the floor and rubbed her overindulgent, aching, distended, belly. It was the most silent she had been.

“It’s called Thanksgiving, Medi, but your confusion is understandable.” Blackbird answered.

“And when is the next feast holiday?”

“One month from now.”

Medi flailed her legs again but remained as immobile as ever. She smiled and burped again. “Perfect timing!” She declared, "I should be able to move by then!"
Joseph Raszagal
Wallet After Summer Sale -

Emily Brickenbrackle III
Just posting real quick to let you all know that I'm technically alive and I haven't forgotten about the thread. I'm just an idiot.

And drunk. Also that.

And life at the casino has gotten considerably worse. Of all the random jobs I've had in the last three years, why is this one the job that I've held on to the longest? I curse my own idiocy sometimes.

Unrelated, but I hope you're all doing well and staying healthy. My God, the Belterra is rife with human filth right now! xD
Communist Starlight

Crushing inequality
@Communist Starlight
The captain turned to the person in the red robes. "Ah, yes. I must say, it does add to the look. Tell me, magos biologus, have you heard of the Ancient Terran pirates?" The red robed figure shook its head. "I cannot say I have. Enlighten these servos, captain?" "The Ancient Terran pirates, Magos, were like our modern Imperial Navy, but of course they were traitors and lawbreakers, very much unlike us. But they're uniform, it was never complete without a bird on their shoulder. I believe they were called Porrots, and they followed their liege everywhere." Medi blinked. "I don't wanna follow you everywhere! I want to go back to Joe!" The Magos Biologus gently reached for Medi and cusped her in his robotic hands.
"Worry not, little LiMBaP. This is your new home. You-" He was interuppted by the ship shaking. The loud speakers creacked and crackled, and a familiar, staticy voice filled the bridge. "ATTENTION, SHIP! YOU HAVE SOMETHING OF MINE!"
97blackbird

The blank screen hadn’t changed for what seemed like an hour. The flashing cursor remained in the same place, dutifully flashing its readiness; apparently immune to the paralyzing boredom that had overtaken her. Medi looked again from the computer screen, to Blackbird, and back. Blackbird too, looked as blank as the screen, It was as though they were having a staring contest.

Medi blew a frustrated breath through pursed lips. “Um, Blackbird, forgive me for interrupting, but I thought that watching you write would involve a bit more-” Medi gestured to the keyboard “-button pushing, and stringing letters together on that screen.”

Blackbird’s mouth stretched into a weak, sympathetic, smile, then he looked down at the medibat. “Yeah, I thought there would be a bit more of that too.” He reached over and gently stroked the batpony. “Do you need anything? A drink, something to eat?”

Medi looked from her comfy, fluffy, towel-bed to her mostly full drink and her half-eaten mango slice. “Nope, I’ve been good for the past hour. And I don’t think the floor needs to be swept, nor does the fan speed need adjusting, nor do I think that your car’s oil needs changing.” Medi stood and marched over to the keyboard. “However, I do think you need to start pressing some of these buttons. I’m pretty sure that is what writers in this day-and-age do!”

She reached over and without looking hit the right-bracket key, repeatedly, “They press these buttons, and make words on the screen, and they do that for maybe an hour of each day.”

“Some writers have compared writing to ‘sitting at a keyboard and bleeding.’”

Medi’s eyes flashed red. “I can help with that.”

Blackbird pulled his hands back defensively. He chuckled, rubbing his hands together, “I thought that after the ‘introductions’ of the ship and characters were done, a plot-driven story would emerge, but I’ve been at a blank. Nothing is coming to mind.” He reached down and tapped the backspace key, removing the line of right-brackets.

“I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for writer’s block?”

Medi nodded. “Start writing.”

“Easy to say.”

“Easy to do,” Medi countered, “start writing and stop judging. Just write. No more backspaces, no re-reading what you wrote, just write.” Medi trotted back to her bed, “You can always edit later, but first you need something to edit.”

Blackbird looked at her, and then at the screen. He placed his hands on the keyboard, positioned his fingers by feel, and began to type.

Medi smiled. The clickety sounds were comforting like rain. She sipped her drink and laid down, staring at the expanding line of characters without reading them. If she had prohibited him from reading and judging, it was only fair that she too, followed the prohibition. And so, the writer wrote for an uninterrupted hour, clicking the keys in rapid staccato and then thoughtful plodding. But always making progress.

And the medibat enjoyed the process.

(Don't you hate it when batpony knows your business better than you?)

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