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Outerworld Blues (Edgy Aurora underground RP)

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PM me if you want to join, so I can keep tabs on who's joining with what character.




A weather beaten behemoth loomed across the inky backdrop of space, silhouetted by the system's star that reigned of the sector. Small shuttles shot from the station, filled with grizzled workers hoping to make their fortunes upon the local asteroids, of which are now filled with man-made cavities. The structures large rings rotated independently of each other, generating the little gravity the station can provide for it's inhabitants. Within this worse for wear vessel was filled with life despite the less than desirable conditions. Vagrants littered the edges of the main halls, most of which spent their funds, equipment and tickets home on bad hands and unfortunate dice rolls. Some of the warehouses have been re-purposed, their large blast doors adorned with neon shaped in the form of women and the establishments name sake, while oil stained workers exchange their days wages for cheap alcohol and the working women that find themselves contracted to the establishments.

Within the central column of the station, a large bazaar could be found where merchants sold various goods, weapons and displaced people, ranging from heavily chained up Unathi to humans that look worse for wear. The Sol Alliance's power reaches just short of this behemoth, that is stained with the greed of people and gripped by those who exploit this greed. A place for the free, if they played their cards right.

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A raving short and overweight man, clad in cheap and grimey clothes typical of a miner. Paired with him is a group of similarly dressed humans, they surround him like a posse, clenching their fists and staring at an opposite group of Tajara. The Tajara are primarily black furred, with missing fingers, ears and eyes. A lone Tajara charges at one of the Humans and swings a pipe at his temple, followed by a soft, squishing sound.

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Watching from a near-by small room converted into a bar, an unathi dressed in brown leather clothing roughly stitched togather watches the pipe of the tajara strike the human's temple. Instinctively the unathi reaches for the lockbox under the bar's counter, his fingers slowly clicking the numbers into place.

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Sitting at the far end of the bar, a women with a mask like a thousand eyes lights a cigarette.

"Eight Credits says that the cats win this one."

Her goggled companion raises an eyebrow.

"I thought you weren't the gambling type."

"It's not a gamble if you know for sure who's going to win."

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An overweight man, dressed in a stained T-shirt and denim vest, wielding a fire axe charges towards the fight. He's screaming at the top of his voice, "LISTEN TO MY APACHE WAR CRY! YAAATATATATATATATATATATTATATATTATA!" He swings his axe like a maniac, and a flurry of limbs, heads arms and legs begin flying about, both human and Tajaran. His garbled war cry was drowned out by the screams of humans, and the yowls of Tajara. In a matter of seconds, all that is left are the mangled remains of what might have been a group of people, and fleeing cowards. The man pants, and leans on his axe as he begins chewing his nails to get what looks like... chunks of a brain?

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Upon seeing the man tear apart the crowd with a fire axe, the bar-tending unathi unlocks the lockbox underneath his counter. Upon opening it he reveals a sawn-off shotgun. But, upon breaking it apart, realizes that he had run out of ammo a week ago, puts it back into the lockbox.

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Upon the conclusion of the fight, a humanoid form quickly shambles over to the victorious human. The figure is a dilapidated human model IPC. his rubber skin is peeling away in patches on his face and his lack of lips leaves his pearl white painted teeth in a permanent smile. He blurts out talking while approaching with his hand extended, but his voice seems to speed up and slow down at random intervals. "FanTASTIC work, sir! You must be, PERSONNEL FILE NOT FOUND! The nAMe's Guy Mann and I'd-d-d-d liKE to talk to YOU abou-ou-out buying stock in AmTek! Here-re-re have my CArd." The sound of a small motor whirs from a small rectangular slot in his wrist, but no card is produced. He stares at the apparent cannibal with his cracked glass eyes and maintains his permanent smile.

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  • 3 weeks later...

The burly hillbilly simply pushes the IPC away, and begins scanning the crowd watching in horror. He opens his mouth, and with a boisterous belch, he shouts, "Seein' as yer ol' mayer, or law enfercemen' is, ahem..." The man reaches for something that appears to be hooked to his belt, and struggles to remove it. You quickly realize that in his hand is the dismembered head of the previous sheriff. The eyes appear to be gouged out, leaving only maggot-infested sockets. A large wound appears to have cut the head from the top right ear, to lower jaw. What were once beautiful golden locks of hair, remain a tattered, stringy and bloody mess. He lifts the head up, and chucks it towards a nearby gash bin, the crowd stares silently, a few nearby people have began to retch. The Hillbilly says, in a somewhat calm matter as if to grab the crowd's attention, "...'as beey'n caught in odd circumstances. Now'a folks, I'm'a cut'a straight'a t'a the 'oint a' all a' t'is. I'm'a yer new Sheriff! Sheyr-iff Rand-ay Macta-veesh, replacin' ol' Sheriff Mosby!" The room is silent, and you get the chance to truly size up what Randy Mactavish looks like. His body is flabby and soft, with a large gut tightening his tank top to the point of exposing his underbelly. His hair is balding, with long oily strands bunched up underneath an old straw hat. But what truly is the most striking feature, is the dilapidated state of his teeth. Broken, chipped and rotten, it looks as if he has spent his entire life eating dirt, and a brush has never even grazed those teeth. He smells of feces, urine and grape soda. Groups of orphans begin bunching up around the crowd, eager to get a bite of some Tajara meat. Hunger can make someone go into the most frightening of circumstances, and chopped up Tajara tastes far better than mice and roaches. Normally, most residents can go without eating an Unathi, Skrell or Tajara for at least a month. But, orphans live off of the remains of the common tussles, eager to rob the drunkards and the poor old ladies who go a'wandering. But even those as foolish as them know not to get close, normally by now they'd have picked the bodies down to the bone.

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The bartending unathi continues to stare at Randy, glaring at the fat human. "Another crazed man, for the ssssecond time thisss week." grunts the unathi as he pulls out a small sharpening stone and begins to sharpen the head of axe. "And, masssked lady, you owe me eight creditssss.".

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  • 2 weeks later...

A thousand LEDs blink briefly as the masked woman takes a long drag of her cigarette.

Enhaling slowly, she fishs into a pocket with her free hand, drawing out a small boxy device.

A few sharp keystrokes later, a data chit pops out onto the table with a light chinking.

"Now, who would like to make some real money?"

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