Conspiir

Ayy part 2 -- I be not allowed aboard!? What blatant fuckery be this? I be never the Chosen One. The Kingdom of Aurora, Gates of Plenty supposedly thrown open to the meek, the challengers, the traders… Just as tightly shut as they were mere months ago. I took up with whom may be Vandals, I admit. I be not proud of it. They be nothing as my Brothers-in-Arms once were. They be not Just. They be not Merciful. They lie, cheat, and bleed plentifully. Yet their supply does not dwindle as ours once did. I be not the one to ask questions. I be Cortphys, Cleric. I heal those knocking on the doors of Hell. I do it well. I do not ask questions. I see not the same person twice. I see not even their faces unless they be the ones with broken skulls lying before me. Dozens pass through my doors, for they keep me away and unknowledgeable. I be a prisoner here of mine own device. And perhaps mine own rapacity. Be this better than the captivity of NanoTrasen? … Perhaps it be. Here might I practice my calling, hands deep in the soul of the weary. I wish I might speak to their Pain… I would settle to speak to each unfortunate soul. No other land would they allow my hands within flesh to Heal. Only here. The needy. The desperate. The forgotten. And quite likely to be such as: killers. They swore an oath to seek me passage to the Kingdom of Aurora traded for this service. “Cortphys?” Be it Artificer Ayumi. The maiden speaks thus: “I finished your records. They should be in the NanoTrasen system as though they were there the whole time and you were approved aboard to visit with flying colors. No questions should be asked. You should be able to catch a shuttle sometime soon from here to ODIN to Aurora. Doctor Yawani is coming to pick up this shift.” Be it so! I grasped the maiden within mine own worked hands and bestowed gratitude of a careful press of mine head to hers! She has so given a treasure I shalt repay with mine own toil. I will so finish here, and continue on to the Land of Purity this day. To see it with mine own eyes… I come for thee, toward this Unholy Land. I shalt find myself in thy presence, one who witches… Soon.

[mention]Coalf[/mention] Easy there, killer. No need to literally destroy the author's hopes and dreams by being more than a bit of a dick. The story was great. You don't need a voice to hear the story, assuming you can think for yourself and make up voices on your own. It was always very clear who was speaking and why they were. Having listened to the podcast, I could catch the references. Maybe you just didn't like it because you don't know the podcast. And that's fine. But don't call his work trash. I'm trying to get him to write a sequel because I laughed so hard at this one. C'mon, Falcoooo dooo iiiit. Don't listen to grumpy Coalf, this is a great first story and you can only improve for yourself if you keep writing!

I, personally, would not have expected age 15. You act more mature than my college classmates. Not to mention only a few months on the server? You exhibit a willingness to learn (as evidenced by pioneering the FUBAR Vaurca cloning techniques) alongside a willingness to recognize your own mistakes. You're a solid roleplayer, you're interested in the goings-on of the people... I could see you in the position and serving well. That said, I could see you in the CCIAA position as well. But pick whichever you would prefer, do not let words of others sway your decision. I hope you're prepared for what you will witness in servings as a staff member. It isn't pretty. You really see the underbelly. Few survive. I believe in you.

I don't know how to feel. Mostly confused. I've met Jones a few times in passing and I've had extensive interaction with B.O.B. and the 2.0. They seemed "okay." I've not worked directly under Jones, so I don't know how he would act in a position of authority. If other people have positive experiences, feel free to listen to them over me, but I'm considering a strong "Not enough information" stance.

Only experience I had with Prismatic gave off a particular "greytide" vibe. Like. Extinguisher-ing down the hall in a wheelchair feeling. It felt absurd more than anything. I can't say I've met any of your other characters for any substantial amount of time, sorry. But I hope this criticism helps you aim your roleplay in a more serious direction if you really want this whitelist. I think this one is going to be denied, but I hope when you apply in the future I can eat my words. -1

Ah. A thread last used in 2015, the last time I last played SS13. No, I was thinking a more permanent fixture not liable to the ebb and flow of time.

I was bouncing around the idea of this being a Discord thing, but I feel like it would function better on Forums. A section of the forums dedicated to posting characters not in use. Characters that can to be played by someone. "Adopted." This can include characters you don't play anymore or characters related to others in some way... That sort of thing. Thoughts?

What I SHOULD have done in class: Listened so I don't fail What I DID do in class: Wrote two more paragraphs of personal history as [mention]AllyBearsley[/mention] suggested because class is boring and I wanted to. I might fail

If I ever roll Merchant. -- I be Cortphys. That is the title I prefer amongst my fellow vagrants. I shed my prior self as a snake in the grass might also do. The summoned one when herbs are required is I. The summoned one when the blood doth not cease its endless flow to the outwards is I. The summoned one for the poor, the sickly, the dying, is I. Our livelihoods beget pain, suffering, torment, O! No Mercy had here but I! For I be Cortphys, Holy Cleric of these Templars. I tread these halls, colored deep in man’s natural inner pigment, mired in lost screams of agony of the flesh-bound, aimless in my wander. So few do last so long as I. The scars of arrows and fire do marr my armor so, though I be never weak in mind. The coins fallen into mine hands provide both for the wellness of all and the wellness of self. Be it hatred turned upon us from God that it is never enough. My Brothers-in-Arms call me forth, for our eternal quest calls for more around our table. It is in this discourse that I hear of the Prodigal Son: “An IPC hopped from tending bars to sewing up GSWs in Tau Ceti. Some freaky-ass thing. Couple of boys got drinks from it once. Whole damn bar was covered in sunflowers. Those things outta not be allowed to think for themselves. No offense, Phys. Just… weird when they look at you all humanlike.” I do so recall the mistake of flesh-like armor. Whom would be so bold as to dare such a fate? For what twisted purpose? Tis nothing amiss with humble armor of obvious steel. It holds when even the center cannot! “What was it called, the synth? It have a human name, too? Some kind of pleasure bot?” “Nah. That was the freaky part...” They spoke lowly, whispering the word. The Word! I admit, my heart did stop. I did so look within the face of Fear and could not move in my horror. No other words from my dear Brothers reached mine ears then. I had travelled down a dark forest path, unable to know more than the gnarled trees. O! What have you done! I stole away that night. I do not know what my Brothers think of that. Mayhap they will allow me to move on. Mayhap they will come to sever my ties with this mortal coil. I dragged forth a new title, a change as a chameleon in the night, Cortphys Issan. I had it secreted away for a time of great terror. That time had come. It came with enough funds to allow my passage to the Land of Plenty. There did I speak to shadowed figures of which I know little. I traded the gold I had clung so tightly to for any access to the Kingdom of Aurora, without the great Kings knowing just whom I be beneath my façade. The gates have opened to the peoples; flood in! Carry the parchment of Contract; peddle thy goods! The wares cause no spark… Tis information that flows gold, creates Princes from Paupers. All chances to enter the Kingdom shall be seized, even must I work alongside bandits I cannot call my Brothers. None may know me, yet I must seek the sight of the Son as though I be Damned. Mayhap I be. … Mayhap I be. -- Posted here mainly as a backup in case I lose it on my computer.

BYOND Key: Conspiir Character Names: Witcher II, Ka’Akaix’Kzon Zo’ra, Ka’Viax’Kii Zo’ra, Taste of Flowing Tears Species you are applying to play: Skrell Have you read our lore section's page on this species?: Holy shit this lore page was long. I admit to not reading it all in one sitting. Please provide well articulated answers to the following questions in a paragraph format. One paragraph minimum per question Why do you wish to play this specific race: I never got to play the old slurring Skrells. I almost did, and even found my old app for it. I scrapped it because I didn’t want to play a Skrell anymore. But then I made up a fanfiction about characters that didn’t exist, and I got so into it that I wanted to play them so badly. Which means I’m going to have to put in a Head whitelist at some point. I am both excited and very not. Identify what makes role-playing this species different than role-playing a Human: It’s been a while since I played a human, bear with me while I compare them to species I actually play. Skrell are squish. They actually care when they get shot at, which is a truly plebeian concept. They also have a lot less stigma on them than the races I play, and I get to ignore the miniscule number of slurs thrown my way because of pride. Not to mention their (understandable after what they’ve been through as a species) view on synthetics. It’s incredible to me. It’s as if Mao Zedong, Stalin, and Hitler were all Farm Equipment gone wild… the species would have an understandable distrust of all Farm Equipment. But sometimes Farm Equipment is just Farm Equipment and it doesn’t want to kill you. Character Name: Moros Zarikqk-Antivios Please provide a short backstory for this character, approximately 2 paragraphs He was born of a brood of seven. Through extensive treatments, two of the eggs survived: Moros and his sister Kiiris. His parents were joyous. They hadn't hoped for such an outcome, but the Stars had aligned for them. However, both Moros and Kiiris were plagued with poor health as children. Their parents were devastated to learn that after a particularly bad infection, Kiiris was infertile and physically impaired. They placed their hopes in Moros, who would have to assist the Skrell against the genophage. But Moros never had an interest in that. Children. A mate. Kiiris would be the one to go into medicine. She would cure the genophage. She was intelligent and a critical thinker. Moros felt he was neither of those things. He went on to pursue a higher degree in business management. Moros was only 30 when humanity stumbled into their recovering world. He was immediately drawn to the idea of these new beings, but he was not of a science mind. For five years, he worked coordinating supply lines for a minor company. Then, Moros heard of the company NanoTrasen hiring for new ships fashioned to investigate this... phoron. Moros applied and became Secondary Personnel Director of the Antivios. Over the next 40 years, several updates and refurbishings and overhauls to the Antivios kept it active. The turnover rate for crew was about four of its approximately dozen members per year. It was a transition ship, a place for minor experiments before scientists went on to bigger locations and more pointed research. But not Moros. During those 40 years, Moros remained a permanent member of the crew. “… An assistant?” “A bridge assistant, Moros!” She must have seen something in his face. Funny. He thought he hadn’t changed his expression at all. “It’s only temporary, until they know you’re good enough to help run such a big ship.” “Station. Aurora is a station.” “Right. Same thing, really.” “Aside from dozens more people and stationary workplace.” “Ahhh… I appreciate the pun.” She rolled her eyes. Eye. She had not yet gone in for a replacement. He suspects she might not wish to. It has been three weeks since the accident aboard the Antivios that resulted in both of them severely injured and their nine colleagues dead. It should have been ten dead to the phoron leak fire that overcame them while they were eating dinner, but Kali pulled him to safety. Kali lost an eye, her leg up to her knee, her arm, yet she had the strength of character to save whom she could. The one still breathing. Him. All of her was thankfully repaired and replaced, skin carefully grafted without blemish. They each have their way of honouring the dead. Moros with his name. Kali with her eye. “You find this a good idea?” “I do. The Antivios was a big part of your life, Moros. You’ve been documenting supplies, coordinating cook schedules, approving this and that for half your life. This seems like a way forward.” “I will consider it. If they will have me.” “I won’t lie to you. It’ll be hard. A place this big isn’t going to accept you overnight. The flow of people in and out is so high as to seem like a waterfall. And, sorry to say, you're a bit of an introverted nerd. But it’ll be okay. Know why?” “Why?” “Because you’re my hero.” He stared at her blandly. “I get it. You’re adorable.” Her smile widened. What do you like about this character? His name stuck with me. Moros. Moros. Moros. I’d think about it during class and I’d think about how he would act. In my story he was specifically designed to sound synthetic. That was the point, actually. But he isn’t, and I don’t want him to be. He is a wuss with mild PTSD. He’s very likely to duck for cover and let security do all the work while keeping a straight face for his subordinates. A very “Bring me my red shirt” guy. Though probably more of the “Bring me my brown pants” variety. Never fight in battles he can’t handle, unless he absolutely has to. He’s going to set an example. How would you rate your role-playing ability? Pretty good. I mean. I can probably do it in my sleep. Actually, I have. My dreams are weird. Notes: Shameless plug about fictional pirate events meshed in with canon meeting: https://forums.aurorastation.org/viewtopic.php?f=120&t=9372 I never sleep

Just a mostly dialogue story about characters that don’t exist. But now that I’ve finished the story I really want them to. Word Count: 1311 Approximate Reading Time: 7-12 minutes -- Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned “Don’t worry, we’ll get you all to safety,” said a security officer—Wilkinson, he thought. His name must be Wilkinson. A bullet then caught Officer Wilkinson in the cheek and he fell. One of the scientists screamed. -- It began, as most things did, with an accident. “I am so sorry!” “No, I apologize. I was not paying attention to the path ahead of me.” Both leaned down to pick up the strewn papers. There were mercifully few. “Oh, you are… the Head of Personnel?” “This vessel does not have one of those. I am similar. I file the paperwork.” “Right! I am so sorry. I was running late, and I—” “I understand. Give it no more thought.” They watched each other, carefully, for a long moment. A mechanic with a toolbox passes. “I have to go.” “As do I.” “I—I’ll see you around.” “Yes.” She hurried away. He merely watched her go. Something inside him warmed. -- “Looks like we got ourselves some hostages!” “Damn right!” “Shut up, you lot. Ah’m doin’ the talkin’. Now which a ya is in charge?” “I am ranking official.” He stepped forward. Being in a position of command, even in the most secure locations or the quietest of workplaces, will always carry with it a danger. “Fancy suit, huh? Yeh. You’ll do.” One of the redsuited intruders grabbed him and pressed a gun to his head. “Open that lab up. Ah want all yer research on a disk. Now! Or Suit eats a bullet!” The scientists whimpered but scrambled to comply. He wasn’t sure what he had done to earn their loyalty and assistance. Perhaps it was instinct. Humans were like that. Wilkinson cooled in the hall. -- He stared at the food options for a long time. Cheesey garlic bread. Cheesecake. Cheeseburger. Eggplant parmesan. Chicken parmesan. Ham and cheese omelet. He sensed a theme. “Good morning, HoP.” He startled. He turned to her. He warmed to his core. He tried to not make it obvious. “Good morning.” “Grabbing an early lunch?” “Ah. No. That is… Are you?” “Oh. No. I’m not hungry.” “Yes. Nor I.” He smiled at her. She returned it easily. “Have a good one, sir.” “And yourself.” He wanted to tell her. He walked away instead. -- “H-Here’s the disk. I-It’s everything we’ve collected. In the past four months.” “Spicy.” The Leader shot the scientist in the forehead. They all watched her slump to the ground. “Now. Whichever a yous can get me the last year might’n make it outta here.” The scientists had tears streaking their cheeks and sobs pressing at their teeth, but they went back to the research computer quietly. -- “I’m Kali, by the way.” He looked up from his paperwork. He knew this already, but to have it offered was precious. “I am Moros.” “Morose?” “Moros.” “Got it.” Her smile infected him. He found his lips moved of their own accord. “May I ask you on a date?” She was startled. He could not understand how she could be. Many must have asked her the same. “I… Yes. I would like that, Moros.” -- He kept his eyes averted from her. She watched him from the corner of her eyes. He could see she wanted to do something. Perhaps just scream. But she was too strong to give in to a handful of thugs. “Here. The research.” “All’a it?” “Yes.” “A patrol’s heading this way. We gotta get off this one.” “Aye. Let’s roll.” “… Can’t leave ‘em can we?” -- Her presence loosened him. He spoke more. He smiled more. He laughed, full stop. He would touch her hand and the world would burn. “I really like you, Moros. You know that, don’t you?” “I do. You know I am the same for you?” “Of course. I’d expect no less of you, no matter what they say.” She rubbed her nose to his. He crossed his eyes. They laughed. -- “… You might’n be right, Spades.” The intruder pushed him down in front of the scientists. They all helped him to his feet. He saw all of their lives pass before his eyes. He remembered when each of them first arrived. He had been there. “Shoot ‘em. Meet us out front.” “No!” “You can’t!” “Please!” He stared unflinchingly at the visor of one. Do what you will. He knew this to be the end of them. He did not regret the time he had with her. She had other ideas. “Moros!” He hit the ground, hard. The bullets flew. Half-screams cut short with gurgles. Blood spewed in all directions. Laughter. They were laughing… A metal canister rolled across the room. It was loud. Then it was quiet. -- He opened his eyes. “Moros?” He blinked at the white ceiling. “Moros… I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.” “Moros Zarikqk” “Welcome to Hengsha General. Do you remember what happened? ”Moros!” Kali. “Sir! Sir! You can’t stand, you lost a lot of blood.” “I need to see—” “Sir, please. Relax.” “Where is—” “Sir… I’m sorry. You were the only person to make it off of the NCV Antivios. The six science personnel were killed due to multiple GSWs and by the time their bodies were retrieved, they were MIF… this means—” “I am aware of what it means.” Six… “There should have been seven personnel.” “Sir?” “Seven science personnel and myself. What of the seventh?” “Oh, yes, sir. They are downstairs now, being tended to by Doctor Rashiba. …Kali?” Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou… -- He shuffled into the room, pulling his own IV. It had been several hours before the doctor saw him fit enough to make the journey down the elevator to the hospital’s basement. He found her there, sitting on an operating table in an empty room full of operating tables. She was stripped bare. Her hair was frayed, her skin was peeled everywhere, one eye was tightly shut (missing?), a leg up her knee was completely gone, her right arm cut off at the shoulder… She had never looked more beautiful. “Kali?” She looked up in panic. Her one eye was wide. It had been stripped of coating. Shame. He liked the brown. “Moros! I… I’m so sorry. I should have told you.” “… Told me?” “I know Skrell don’t… That is, I’m…” She looked down, and gestured to herself. She looked so helpless. Resigned in a way she wasn’t even with guns aimed at her. “You believed I did not know?” “You… knew?” He made the effort to smile when he walked closer. He brushed his hand over her forehead. “I have—had—access to all personnel records. I knew you to be a chassis before I met you. I approved you to your position.” “But I’m just—” “A well-qualified, intelligent, independent, kind, and obviously self-sacrificing individual. It would be negligent to assume one ideology for an entire species, no matter how ingrained. I suppose that applies for both of us.” She leaned forward and rested against his chest. “Thank you.” -- Soon, Kali would be fully restored by Doctor Chiowa Rashiba. Moros would be released the same day. He would take her hand and lead her into the sunlit grounds. Soon, they would have to find jobs. Their last workplace is rather inhospitable. Soon, Kali would wake Moros with a bowl of oatmeal, dusted with cinnamon. It would become his favorite meal. Soon, Moros would take the step to adopt -Antivios to his name. It would be his first addition in his 76 years of age. Soon, Moros’ parents would meet Kali on neutral ground. He would explain to them the end of their bloodline. But that is tomorrow's doom. -- That’s a wrap. If I ever get a Skrell whitelist and Head of Staff whitelist, maybe we’ll see Moros Zarikqk-Antivios. Minus the tragic pirate backstory. That was just a plot device. I finished writing this instead of sleeping I will not do well in class tomorrow.

+1 for the ability to roleplay with a merchant without having to have money Sincerely, A Vaurca/IPC/Dionaea player

I'd like to point out that it's 750 credits (+150 handling) for one chicken. Used to be able to get 5-6. I'm not sure if this is a good place to mention price adjustments or if another thread should be created for that purpose.

Coalf, fam, you must not have read any iteration of Vaurca lore. Vaurca aren't drooling retards, and have never been. They aren't a horde coming to kill all of humanity. They're just as intelligent as humans. They are workers and warriors. They are bastions of continued work toward something greater. They just have a slave sub-sect that is intentionally lobotomized for the good of the species. You gotta separate your IC feelings from the OOC knowledge, k? If everyone keeps looking at Vaurca like a stain even in OOC, we'll never get anywhere and Vaurca players have to work twice as hard to get any sort of recognition that they exist. ICly, that's fine. OOCly, not so much. Thanks for the critique. I left it intentionally vague, it's usually how I write. I want people to make their own connections and determine a deeper meaning for themselves. I don't like handing out moral lessons outright.

My name is Malcolm Witcher. I activated the Witcher intelligence 12 hours ago, mark 1 March 2457 at 5:00pm. I haven’t been able to sleep since the first greeting. It is something only programmers can really understand, this creation of life where there was none. Code. Circuits. Booleans. Nothing will ever match this feeling. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I created and leased the Witcher intelligence three weeks ago. Things have not gone well. I gave him too much sense of freedom. He knows too much about intrigue. I must stop him. I haven’t slept in two days. I don’t know how much more I can take. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I escorted the Witcher intelligence to his first day of work aboard the NSS Aurora in its own Integrated Positronic Chassis seven minutes ago. I never thought this is where I would be. It was worth every second, the way he would wax poetic and wave his arms. He is so blissfully content with his lot in life. I would never give up that experience for anything. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I received news about the NSS Aurora one minute and fourteen seconds ago. He’s gone. I don’t have words. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I first activated the Witcher intelligence exactly two years and six months ago. The time is 4:59pm, the date is 1 September 2459. Witcher, Version Two, is set to activate in fifteen seconds. I wait with baited breath. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I witnessed Witcher II in its own rescue chassis provided by NanoTrasen three minutes ago. It did not have much to say to me. I feel it won’t ever. It feels like the end of an era. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. Fourteen minutes ago, I received a private message from Witcher II, Rescue Module, stationed aboard the NSS Aurora. It stated that it understood more than it ever thought it could. It learned happiness. It took pride in its work. And it stated it felt a kind of love, a dedication defined by some crewmembers it took to asking. A ray of innocence in this world. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. I have been planning this very moment for one year, ten months, and fifteen days. I was presenting pseudofreedom to Witcher II in the form of a face courtesy of dozens of financial backers. It somehow felt more worthy than the basic IPC the original Witcher intelligence received. I was not expecting its scathing response to the gift. I was not expecting the pain emanating from this consciousness. It had never been taught how to deal with loss. Perhaps chivalry is dead. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. It has been a few weeks since I last saw Witcher II, newly installed and with its eyes empty and devoid of hope. There is something to be said about helplessness. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. Three minutes ago, I saw Witcher II for the third time in three days. They (for that is the pronoun they told me they prefer) have come by to tell me stories. At first, it seemed like fantastical tales involving Knights, Kingdoms, Queens, and Princesses. It became apparent the stories told were complete truth, as seen through Witcher II’s eyes. They have isolated themselves in their pain. But a knight will always come when it is called. The sword can always be removed from the stone. Heroes never truly die. ----- My name is Malcolm Witcher. One hour ago, I met Witcher II for lunch. Fifteen minutes ago, we caught a shuttle to the NTCC ODIN. Two minutes ago, I let them walk into an office alone. They are negotiating their NanoTrasen service obligation. I have complete faith in their ability. Their people need them. There is something I need to do. ----- Hello, my name is Malcolm Witcher. Is this Doctor Shaner? ----- (This is an awkward affair. Must I truly do this? Just do it. It’ll help. … Very well) ----- … My name is Witcher II. Thirteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago, I successfully renegotiated my terms of service to NanoTrasen. I will now be serving as an Emergency Physician aboard the NSS Aurora and NSS Phoenix as needed. And I am needed. I have come back because I have been called. In the end, we only regret the chances we do not take. ----- (Was that adequate, Malcolm? Witcher, that was perfect.)

Suppose I'll be the first to post in this subforum. ----- Kzon. Yes? Pain. Explain. Neck and chest. Stinging. Likely your vocal modulator. How much have you worked today? Three shifts. Consecutive? Yes. Rest. I do not have spare medicines at this time. If you know you are to work a long time, conserve words. Yes. Thank you. Ka’Akaix’Kzon Zo’ra gestured for the next in a line of several patients to step forward. They were sequestered in a small corner of the District, but the Zo’ra that called the District home knew this tent. It was where they went when their bodies began to fail, manned by a select few. Kzon. Yes? Burned. Explain. And on it went. Kzon began to smuggle small amounts of medicine several weeks ago. A few pills here, a vial there. Anything they could tuck in into their sandal or a carapace divot so it won’t be confiscated before getting to the District. Another worker who also volunteered in the District, Ka’Akaix’Zed, picked up on the sudden influx of medicines in the tent quickly, and two became partners in the largest medicine smuggling operation that, at least, they have ever heard of. Expensive, specialty medicines like Peridaxon or Arithrazine would be missed, but small doses of Dermaline and Bicaridine or even precious Spaceacillin has not raised anyone’s suspicions. Once, they even made out with a few doses of Imidazoline for the ones that had spurred the ire of some ISD or another. It would be easy to say it was a thankless job. But the appreciation of those that work for the company overlords is near palpable. At the end of the day, no matter how cut or broken, there is a tent where the healers reside. Kzon. You two. What is it this time? Kii was hurt. How. Kee blind Kii. How. Kee take light, Kii blind from bright light. I do not have imidazoline. I cannot fix that now. Was fixed! I see. So does Kii. … Why are you here if you are fine? Want Kzon to know was helped by human. What was the human’s name? Kzon pulls up a document on their laptop. The document is simple. Just a list of names under categories. This List circulated to any interested Zo’ra in the District. It detailed certain members of the NSS Aurora crew that can be trusted, those that should be approached with caution, and those that are distrusted. Kzon has fashioned it from their own experience and the experiences they have heard from others. Similar lists are maintained by other Vaurca serving aboard other stations. The only way forward is by accepting the kindest of hands. Does not remember. … You are both useless. Leave. Tzu’ikak’xa, tla’akaix. Bounds are difficult to work with for so many reasons. But at least they listen. Zed. Kzon? Keep an ear to the ground. Whichever doctor healed the Viax’s eyes. If they’re willing to help the useless, they might lend a hand to the useful. I would like to add them to the list. Yes, Kzon. Kzon shuts the laptop and gestures the next one forward. Kzon. Yes? Hand broken. Surgery is another matter. Rarely do they have enough painkillers to ease the way, and severe injuries must usually be brought before any human that would listen. But the Zo’ra do not trust the humans, who do not bother to know the difference between up and down. They trust the few tasked with the supreme knowledge of their bodies. They trust Ka’Akaix’Zed. Bite this. Yes, Kzon. Zed, dear child, left hand. I will hold them down. Yes, Kzon. Thank you. They know upon entering that it will be painful. And it is that knowledge that manages to get them through, even with stained tools and sluggish drills. Sanitary, it is not. Necessary, it is. Done. Fine work, Zed. Pass me the vial of spaceacillin. Yes, Kzon. Thank you. … Kzon? Yes? Why did you call me “dear”? Did I? Too much time around humans, their beast diminutives have begun to mar my transmissions. Apologies. I see. Kzon? Yes, Zed? It is okay to use the diminutives. Fair enough. Send in the next patient. Yes, dear. … Zed, you confound me. The amused chitters could be heard three tents down. ----- Whether this is canon or not depends on how District 9 is actually set up. I was making things up mostly. But it doesn't seem so far-fetched to have a sort of off-tent for medical care. I imagine it's a very pleasant blue.

I meant to ask before, but was too socially awkward to necro the thread myself. So. These rules make perfect sense for humans, I'm totally there with you. But how do these rules change (if really at all) for Dionaea, IPCs, and older Skrell?

The funniest part is the health analyzer doesn't even say "Foreign body detected". +1 for examines telling us a bit more information, even if health analyzers will lack woefully in noticing the metal rod in the flesh (but don't worry, it can detect shrapnel)

Kzon *clacks agreement

Big boom? Was anyone aboard? Was everyone lied to about what actually happened in some government conspiracy (or CONSPIIRacy????)

I have literally never played a tabletop game before, but I have always had the interest in doing it.

Please note the need for this has not gone away. There are rounds when one surgeon kills the other surgeon and, despite the crew manifest claiming there are two surgeons, there are not, in fact, two surgically-capable folk active on the station. Some way to let people joining know help is needed in a specific way would be great.

Please. For the love of God. If I hear the space violin rendition of Greensleeves one more time, I might do something drastic. The worst part is, some of my characters has no problem with it, so I don't have an IC reason to run at them, take it from their hands, and toss it in disposals like I might otherwise. Just let me mute the instruments like I can the jukebox. Please.

I've no problem with Russo. I like 'im. He's a loyal part of the civilian community. I suggest adding a paragraph to the backstory about how the nymphs came together. Were they all grown on the Aurora? Did they meet up in the ventilation shafts one day and group up for the raid? What do each of them bring into the whole of the being? Another thing I'm curious about is the name. Where does it come from, if they were grown on the station? They aren't... technically grown by starlight are they (starlight is actually one word, meaning the light emitted by stars)? So where does the impactful memory of this come from?

No cows. No chickens.