Forums » Sci-Fi Roleplay » A Lonesome Moon (Open!) (Dead)

Riagan stood against the outer wall of a local convenience store, taking shelter he didn't need from the rain. He studied the letter in his hands, ruminating on how strange it was that someone might use paper to send such a message. In truth, he didn't care much about how it was sent, so much as why. The last of the moon's artificially generated sunlight disappeared behind black clouds as an army of lights blazed to accommodate for it. The freelancer put the letter away and watched as drops of rain brimmed against the overhang for the store.

He didn't have to worry about the letter any longer. The business it had called for was settled earlier that day, in Malbr*. Before that day the cyborg couldn't understand why his former companion was so insistent on befriending him; now, though, he understood. When he'd reached the location the funeral was to be held there was only one person there; a local cleric, there to ensure nothing in the ceremony went awry. The body was burned, its ashes granted to Riagan, and then it was done. He hadn't even bothered to make up an elegy. The cleric certainly didn't care.

Those ashes rested in the cockpit of his personal spacecraft, yet even as they cooled the cyborg couldn't bring himself to feel anything for it. Even when he realized that once his time was done, he'd probably end up the same way; or worse, without anyone to claim him. He looked down to his left and reached there to pluck a bag of drinks from the floor. At the same time his helmet came apart, peeling away in several small pieces to reveal his face.

The mercenary took the moment to drink from one of the bottles he'd bought, cradling the bag in his other hand. It was going to be a long night.

_

((*Malbr: A terraformed colony on a moon orbiting the planet Te'vose. The colony and its planet do not have the most developed industry or technology.

This is not meant to be something ambitious; simply a scene that's open enough for a fair bit of people to jump in and just... interact, however you see fit. I mean, its in a place people frequent and not much is happening so its pretty open.

Its purely optional but if you'd like to chat ooc about it I have one here in my group.))

Zyro paced out in the downpour, the chilly rainwater clinging to his sand-colored cloak. Hailing from a snow planet plagued in eternal blizzards and snowstorms, the lizard-man found comfort in the cold, but his current situation put him in no mood to stop and enjoy the frigid air. His starship had run out of fuel, and this moon was the closest celestial body that had a colony.

He just had to find someplace that sold ship fuel, which seemed easy enough. Zyro crept along edges of buildings, not to shelter from the rain, but from some habit of straying from open spaces. But even he had to admit that he was quite lost. He was unfamiliar with this star system. And wanting to get back to his mission for redemption as soon as possible, he didn't care who he asked.

Zyro chose the old trick of choosing-the-first-person-you-see to find someone to ask for directions, and his masked gaze flickered over to a cyborg taking refuge from the rain by some convenience store. Zyro casually slithered over to the stranger, continuing to creep along the wall instead of walking through the open streets.

((if i do something that doesn't make sense with this universe, don't be afraid to tell me))

Despite living in the Outer Crescent his whole life, he heard little of the Autonomous Sector of Malbr. Much like New Hispania, he heard much of its archaic technology and rudimentary infrastructure. Regardless, he found great enjoyment in killing any low-life sumbitch in the way of his paycheck. After settling down in a saloon not far off from the convenience store, he (as usual) began picking fights with whomever just for the damn kick of it. The reptilian mercenary and cyborg would hear such a ruckus not far from him. "Come on, bitch! Shoot me!" They would hear, which gunfire followed in response. Harlots screamed in shock as lead flew from out the windows and into the dingy streets. A stray bullet hit the streetlight just above the reptilian mercenary, showering him with broken glass.

"Jesse! Take yer things and get out!" A gruff voice shouted, before the perpetrator finally revealed himself. Stumbling out of the bat-wing doors, the reverend gunfighter walked around hazily, his t-visored Predator helmet fixed upon his head. Despite his hidden face, his staggering posture definitely enforced his drunken state. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his right hand, but lord knew he'd drop it if he didn't fight back the urge to let loose. He staggered more, until he found himself falling into the streetlight, back first. He slumped to the cold pavement. "Aaaah, Christ be praised..." He muttered to himself as he removed his helmet, revealing his Doc Holliday-esque visage. His usually tan-skinned was pigmented red, and he simply unbottled his Jack Daniels and took a massive swig of it, downing what little contents were left. He seemed to care little in the way of the heavy pelting of the rain (or better yet, he didn't realise it was raining).

In his intoxicated state, he began singing with a heavy slur. His voice was as soft as sand-paper. "Tell meeeee who dat ritin'? John de revelater. Tell me who dat ritin'? John de revelater. Tell me whoooo dat ritin'? John the revelater, wrote de book of de seven seals..." He laughed groggily, before turning his head to the two. His eyes squint as he tried to make out who's who. "Ah know ah'm drunk, but have ah seen ye from sumwhere...?" His eyes glided over Zyro, smiling goofily. He waved a hand dismissively. "Aaaaah, who cares?" Through his perspective, he could see double and assumed Riagan's doppelganger (which nearly took Zyro's entire body) was the real him.

Zyro flinched away in surprise as the streetlamp above him exploded into a thousand shards of glass that showered over him, luckily most of which harmlessly bounced off his mask. He instinctively staggered a step away from the cyborg, first assuming Riagan was the cause, but he just as quickly noticed the gunslinger.

"Våhepfy fyl baunkkø!" Zyro called in his native tongue- Yvarix, so it's called- as he often did when startled. He eyed Jesse back, his olive-colored snake eyes narrowed behind the tinted eyes of his mask. "And who," he inquired, his alien accent sounding like some odd mix between Norwegian and Russian. "are you?"

He was chugging down the last of his Jack Daniels when he asked that. His attempt to speak while downing the liquid caused him to cough up the alcohol and spilling on his poncho. Groaning, he tossed the bottle aside and looked back to Zyro (whom he still thought was Riagan).

He squinted again. "D-don't ye rememberrrr me, buddy? Don't ya remember de fun times we had together? God be praised! Hell... why are der four of you, and who's de reptile?" He enquired as he eyed 'Riagan' carefully, although strangely enough, he was phasing in and out of existence like some apparition.

Zyro gave the man a quizzical look. "No," he replied. "I don't know you." He hunched his shoulders forward and tilted his head back to look the stranger up and down. Drunk was his immediate conclusion. Just some unimportant drunkard with a gun.

"Who are you?" Zyro repeated, slowly lashing his prehensile tail to and fro, and leaning his body upright again. At this point, he was just wasting his time, and would be better off looking somewhere else for directions to the local fuel shops, or to whoever or whatever sells the local fuel.

The cyborg watched Zyro's initial approach quietly but soon found his attention also drawn towards the chaotic saloon. When Jesse emerged he seemed unmoved, taking another drink from his bottle. He glanced between them as the two began to interact and pushed himself from the wall as, undoubtedly, Abrams started trying to get his attention. Keeping some distance between him and the reptilian, Riagan walked closer to the drunken gunslinger and flatly informed him, "You're drunk."

He gave Zyro a sidelong glance and the many miniscule components of his helmet wrapped around his head once more, concealing his face from the rain. Then his voice came again, this time with a metallic twinge. "I remember." He couldn't exactly say it was fun that they'd experienced, though. "This is Jesse." He gestured at the drunkard, hoping that the alien would understand. "And you?"

Zyro gave a glance back over to Riagan as he "introduced" the human drunkard. "Zyro gziTyr," he replied with a formal dip of his head. Standing at 7'3", Zyro dwarfed the human and cyborg, a typical tallness his people inherited. With a sideways glance back to Jesse, he swayed his tail once more.

"I need starship fuel," he stated, getting straight to the subject he wanted. "How I can obtain it, I don't care. I just need fuel." Zyro fished a handful of small octahedron-shaped metal pieces out of a pocket. There was the issue of money, too, of course. He didn't have any universal money on him, except for currency from his motherland, but he doubted the outpost would accept alien currency like his.

The gunfighter chuckled heartily, throwing his head back and hitting it on the streetlight's post. He rubbed the back of his head and hissed in pain. "Damn right ah'm drunk! Heya, Riagan, how bout de next saloon downtown? Ah promise ah'll behave." He chuckled. "How bout it, Mr Lizard man? Ever wanted to drink with legendary Jesse Double A?"

He halted himself once Zyro introduced himself. He just assumed he was still drunk when he stated his surname (or whatever naming customs he was brought up with). He attempted to repeat said name with little success; it was like hearing someone speak with a mouthful of starburst. Zyro then spoke of his need for fuel and probably realised he was in a rush. "Uuuh... ah heard der's a shipwright not far from 'ere dat could give ya some juice. If ya lucky, dey're Coalition registered, so whatever money ya got could work. I dunno." He paused and looked to the broken bottle of Jack Daniels on the street. He looked back at Riagan. "Come on, baby, ah'll pay ya if ye can get me another bottle." He smiled goofily, his cheeks flushed red.

Zyro pondered the gunslinger's offer. He wasn't in a hurry; the universe wasn't going anywhere, and he was feeling rather thirsty once he thought about it. "The fuel won't be going anywhere," he concluded. "I can stick around for a drink or two, 'Jesse Double A'." He hissed the human's title on his tongue with intrigue. And 'legendary' seemed like a self-given title, but Zyro wasn't from around the area of space, so he wouldn't know.

"If you will accept my company, that is," he added, hunching his shoulders forward again, a subconscious sign of a relaxed state among his species.

The black lenses on the exterior of his helmet bored into Jesse as he chuckled and pleaded for another drink. Then they turned to the parcel in his hands as the cyborg thought on the matter. He didn't need to agree. He could just take his drinks and return to his ship, to peacefully drink and potentially get an hour or so of rest...

Somehow, he found himself leaning forward, offering the bottle of what he'd just bought to Abrams. "Sure." He didn't bother saying it, but Riagan preferred the idea of his gunslinger compatriot misbehaving; especially with the massive Zyro in tow.

The bottle he offered was half-full of cheap wine; the only thing he could find remotely palatable in the convenience store.

The cyborg waited for Jesse to accept or reject the offering (so he could stow the bottle in the bag again if the latter came to pass.) Then he offered his free hand again to help him up. He glanced at Zyro one more time, shrugged and (once Jesse's balance was somewhat restored) asked, "Feel like walking?"

"Aaay the more the merrier, amigo!" Jesse commented on his prospect of joining. Night-goers were found walking along the roads, eyeing the drunken gunfighter like a rattlesnake to a mouse. He knew nobody liked him, especially in these parts. It didn't bother him anymore; hating someone the likes of him should be second nature.

"You're a daisy, Riagan." He commented, once he offered the bottle of cheap wine to him. Uncorking the bottle, he began chugging down its contents with ease, further elevating his drunken stupor. He coughed as he continued to down the contents, making some of the wine spill onto his already wet poncho. "Aaaah, cheap shit." He commented, before allowing Riagan a chance to help him up, allowing him to grab his wrist as he held onto his helmet.

He stood dizzily before looking at the two of them at a bit more of a distance. He attempted to stand tall, but ended up nearly falling each time he tried. His back was hunched and he simply allowed the two gentlemen to start off their journey. "Ah'll go where ya'll go." He coughed again.

Zyro took a brief glance around the immediate area, letting his snake-like eyes take in every possible detail. Despite not knowing the area at all, his pride pulled him to "lead" the way, wherever it was they were going. "A walk it is," he crowed, making a raven-like croak deep in his throat (a sound only his species could make).

Zyro stepped back into the rain, humming a little chanty to himself in his own language as he slithered along the streets. He came to a sudden halt, and the Yvarza glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the two were following.

Riagan took a few steps toward the path that would lead them to the next saloon; an only half-completed sidewalk, rife with cracks and overgrowth. The gunfighter's earlier comments brought the cyborg to huff, distasteful of his conspicuously sweet compliments. The man thought of himself as anything but sweet, though he wasn't nearly drunk enough to debate it. That would be fixed soon.

He noticed Zyro's impulse to lead the group and stepped beside him, pointing him toward the path downtown so that he could continue to do so. "Its just down the way. Malbr is not a complicated place." Then he looked toward the strangers further away on the street, intentionally staring longer than acceptable while patting his hip (where one of his firearms resided.)

As the alien sung and Jesse fell in behind them Riagan habitually glanced back, ensuring that the drunkard didn't fall into the street or otherwise come to a halt.

Zyro accepted Riagan's directions, even if he didn't admit to it, and continued down the path the cyborg pointed out, continuing to hum to his foreign song. Considering the Yvarza stood a whole head taller than the average human, he stuck out in any and every crowd, like a snake in a swarm of mice.

He found his way to the saloon Riagan had directed him towards and hung his head down briefly as he entered, as to not hit his head on the door frame due to his extreme height. Zyro waited for his new comrades and took the pause to take in the scent of alcohol and sound of singing from the saloon. It reminded him of his motherland, of the frigid mountainsides and towns plagued with eternal winters, which was a welcoming nostalgic feeling.

The three travelled downtown until they were met with another saloon as dingy as the streets outside. Jesse was seen hobbling behind them, careful not to lose balance and give in. After catching sight of the saloon, he hobbled quicker, almost tripping as he attempted to push Zyro out of the way and through the batwing doors. Once he went in, all eyes were on him. Ship-hands, ranchers and whole assortment of other professions looked at the gunfighter with disgust. The gunfighter fell on his face right in front of the doors. Once Zyro made his way in, their attention were directed to him, before their eyes immediately averted once he started scanning the area. Clearly, they weren't fit to deal with someone the likes of him.

The saloon keeper stared at them, polishing a glass mug, his scrutinising gaze giving off an antagonising appearance. The saloon itself had the typical smell of spirits and fermented liquids. Some of the walls' paving were peeling off and the floorboards were rickety yet bare-minimally stable. It was a surprise Jesse didn't fall straight through the floorboards once he fell. Attempting to stand up, he dragged himself over to the bar, sitting on one of the stools.

"What do you want, Jesse?" The barkeep questioned briskly. The gunfighter didn't say anything and simply beckoned for his compadres to join him. Once they've taken their seats, he uncorked his bottle and swigged it down. "Gentlemen..." Jesse began. "Pick yer poison."

Zyro was unfamiliar with what kinds of alcoholic beverages were being sold, and he doubted they'd be selling anything originating from his motherland. And since his species was more resilient to alcohol than humans, he'd need something really strong to get tipsy.

"Give me a couple glasses of the most alcoholic drink you have," Zyro replied, fishing out a handful of octahedron-shaped gold-colored pieces and dropping them on the counter. Hopefully, the gold appearance of the foreign currency was enough for it to be accepted.

Zyro took a backward glance around the saloon after he ordered. He spotted quite a few aliens and robots amongst the mostly human patrons. His gaze jumped from an insectoid mantis-person, to an automaton adorn in knightly armor, to a 3-eyed fish-person, and stopped on someone of his own species who tucked themselves into the far corner of the saloon. Not many of his kind were this far out into space, and it eased some of the loneliness he felt so far from home.