â€œOh goddamn! Does nobody dry the washing in this shit'eap?!â€<br/><br/>The<span style="font-style: italic">shit'eap</span>in question was formally (and possibly more commonly) known as E. Nova Pulpa, TB13. Despite looking like an unlucky mistake on the scrabble tray, East Novus Pulpa (New Flesh) Time Band 13 (unlucky for some) was a small outpost on one of the more Eastern spirals of the Magellanic Cloud.<br/>In all fairness most of the boys couldn't locate it on a map either. At least the ones who hadn't taken a four year masters course on Milky way Navigation. Instead they kept a photograph of 'The Neighbourhood' on the fridge for reference for the unlearned, unscientific and common scum aboard. It was a beautiful picture.<br/>Really.<br/>Big curls of choral colours, like glowing peach blood in black water, bloomed across the page, peaking and intensifying at the edges like inverse fireworks. Grey smoke intercepted the blushing shades and stars screamed out their existence<span style="font-style: italic">even through the paper</span>like someone had punctured it with a pin a hundred or so times then hung it across a headlamp, some were brighter than others, sitting like yellow fingerprints whilst old white dwarfs sunk as specs of dust into the background. Sure someone had scrawled a biro arrow into the middle of it with '<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Jasper got fingerd by alians here</span> no i  didnt marlowe needsto get a life!' and it was</span>hanged along side the likes of shopping lists and post it note doodles as if the majesty of the universe really compared to 'Weetabix, Dried Apricot, Size 10 Boots..' and 'eye patch cat eating cake' et cetera, et cetera.<br/>But there it was; A memoir of everything that went into and went on around their home, a little bit of brilliance in a 2D square hiding amongst the kitchen clutter, just so space watched you whilst you made your sandwiches, in case you forgot why you were here. It was typical military propaganda bullshit, but beautiful military propaganda bullshit nonetheless.<br/><br/>Novus Pulpa was once a big, metal Goliath of a ship that traveled upstream the Magellanic cloud, like a spiny titanium space salmon, about two hundred  years ago when far out exploration reached the peak of it's popularity and funding. Once upon a time it had been a grand majestic steed for rich boys who wanted to find a star to name after themselves (or their cocks), but four years after it's golden launch the whole ships systems conked, magnetic deflector shields, flex-i-grav and all, leaving the lads stranded, caught in orbit until it collected an islands worth of debris and washed up, caught on the battling gravitational tides between two stars. A hundred years later the military discovered it's husky shell, strung it up with wires, washed it out with electricity and very good air conditioning and made her a base.<br/><br/>Most beautiful place Marlowe had ever seen, but that didn't mean they stayed on top of the washing any more then usual.<br/><br/>â€œDryer yain't here for decoration!â€ he hollered loud enough for his own voice to echo past his cigarette, through the hallway and back again. No one replied, but one of the lights flickered a little. He liked to think the ship heard him in her own way.<br/>No one had bothered to give her a real update in years, she (a term used for ships alone, tradition or something) was rickety and full of jimmy-rig, half arsed fixtures, tended to quake whenever the smaller ships passed on their way outwards.<br/>There were days Marlowe could relate. Novus Pulpa was an early post, a first stop for many young generations of soldier, but that was all. They came, they learned what they needed to and they left, no time to stop and admire, just jetting through their lives with dizzying speeds, rattling him down to the bones with each passing kid off to the meat grinder (war). Everyone was off somewhere except Marlowe and Novus, two old hippies made for all the wrong reasons, hanging in the muggy still, echoing with blurry inner noise, scarred to hell and back be it ink or tissue, springing leaks and patching themselves up with haphazard materials.<br/>For a working man, Marlowe's thirty-six years were beyond ripe and on the turn.<br/><br/>He crossed the room, avoiding the washing baskets and stepping barefoot on the stray socks, pulling on his damp shirt, it's oppressive cold threatening his skin and making him skittish ergo dance a little quicker across the tiles, continuing regardless of who was or wasn't listening, â€œSeriously kiddies, t'hell with the schedule-- you see damp clothes you bung 'em in the dryer! Common sense, aye?!â€<br/><br/>He made his way through the twists of corridors, hopped a few ladders (installed for use during 9m/s2  grav) and landed in central control with a metallic thud. The lights and beepers played up suddenly aware of company and begging playfully for attention, colouring his tan skin, ink and all an off shade of science-fiction green. Ignoring most of the old school monitors and dials, he padded  over to the main computer. Being the only constant company Marlowe had, she was his one and only, his true love.<br/><br/>â€œEvening Baby,â€ he mumbled habitually smoke curling from his nose and dancing in the light He flicked the switch and gave the casing a good thump to get her warmed up. She wasn't the fancy kind that spoke back with a smooth autonomous, but loving voice, she was old and could only communicate through whirrs and off-balance-fan rattles. Marlowe knew her noises off by heart. He set the heating back down, tweaked with the gravity levels, juiced the planes in the bay and started to undim the windows.<br/>Bish bash bosh.<br/>That was the only problem with being a ship Island caught between two suns... there was no night, maybe a dim twilight zone when the angles were right, but never a full natural evening. It was something one had to simulate...<br/>â€œDa...dadadada...â€ he'd run his chewed fingertips down the dips and and switches until they found the correct ones and, â€œbam!â€ flipped them on their heads, â€œI'm fackin' magic!â€ Little 'on' glows catching in his baby blues and the shine on his teeth. This was his Shangri-la, the jungle of fat snake-like cables his hanging garden of Babylon.<br/><br/>On came the music.<br/><br/>Thick beats and joyous tribal shrieks that he took no pleasure (he assured them) piping through the intercom at full blast as an alarm to the rest of the boys. Even accompanied it with a few morning sweet-for-nothings,<br/><br/>â€œHeave ho, pie filling!â€,<br/><br/>...because that's all they were. Sod fighting the good fight, they were military grunts, meat for the grinder, pie filler and dog food fluffers, that was all,<br/><br/>â€œSomething's terribly wrong...Terribly,<span style="font-style: italic">terribly</span>wrong...â€<br/><br/>Pause for effect,<br/><br/>â€œI don't smell breakfast cooking! C'mon kiddies! 'M sure your drill sarge would weep like a babe if he knew you were slackin'! God forbid, some pathetic bastard with nowt better t'do might send him a heads up if ya'll carry on!â€<br/><br/>On Novus Pulpa, same as any other ship of theirs across the galaxies, there were no hello's; only the eternal search for good insults.<br/>Insults and challenges.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Heartfelt</span>insults and challenges.<br/><br/>One of the 'kiddies' caught him on the way out with a firm clip upside the ear, â€œQuit the racket! It's nine PM!â€<br/><br/>Nine PM was late in time band thirteen. Late late. Early hours of the morning late. So late it was early late.<br/><br/>â€œSo the hell chyoo doin' up?â€ Marlowe grinned like a cat and ducked another grouchy swipe.<br/><br/>The kid ignored him point blank and stormed into the control room. After a moment of playing button cluedo both lighting and music hummed back down. The boy turned on his heel, he was a baby thing, barely passed the age test if you asked Marlowe, full of intricate tattoo work. Pain meant power in the grand scheme of things and this kid was under no illusions about who'm was the more fighting fit between them... He locked eyes groggily with the old boy, "Me and the rest of the universe are tired. Keep it down!" then swept past, back to the dark of the dorms where he'd be welcomed like a hero.<br/><br/>Well then! Marlowe raised an eyebrow and propped himself against the wall, arms folded asides when they were busy fidgeting with his loose smoke (dirty, dirty habit. Yeah, yeah one day with a lot of gum and when it didn't make him look quite as cool...). He shook his head, "Shit me, Baby," his lips pinched at the side as his gaze followed the second rate B-movie glow back into the room, "Even the kids're boss o' me...."<br/><br/><a class="postlink" href="https://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/297696_10150330358729620_573794619_8278427_512426189_n.jpg">[ img ]</a><br/><br/><br/>((OOC: Wasn't sure where to taker her, so your turn! :P I'll follow your lead! ^^))