#the orbit

[flaeshprintpilotm-0826]

{...Black Box Scribe extension active. Translating feed data for dialogue...}

{Morgan steps out onto the platform of Port 05, noting the Mourning Cloaks idling nearby.}

{A pair of pilots wearing House of Glass colors pass to and fro, talking between them; the only ones, it seems, while her House's vessel remains arrested.}

{Morgan chews a rubbery chunk of scarred lip in contemplation, before reaching towards the chitinous hem of her skull.}

{With an irritated scraping of plates, her helmet reluctantly releases its seal; lifting away to reveal a river of stained hair.}

{She reaches to her waist, pulling away a carbon-black spike the length of her ring finger. Rolling her head to the side, she slowly eased it into place of her neural port.}

///...Soft reboot initialized.\\\

///Good evening, Morgan.

--Are we having fun?\\\

<Hey, Marigold; can you fish for a map on any unprotected devices nearby?>

///Searching...\\\

///Downloading local topography renders... Unencrypted communications from service staff nearby suggest protest groups collecting port side.\\\

<Maybe then. Maybe I can convince 'em...>

<Wish me luck.>

///Go get them, Tiger.\\\

{After unplugging Marigold and returning her SSD to its pocket, Morgan takes several deep breaths and begins "casually" approaching the Fulgurites.}

"...H-Hello, my name's Thorn, Morgan; I'm a pilot for the House of Wind. While y'all are searchin' our ship, I was hoping to get some manna exchanged for credit and good times; that alright?"

{Of the two pilots searching their ship, the unarmored technician seems to be doing the most work; while the other remains fully suited, silver hiding every trace of humanity beneath.}

{Shifting towards her like a large statue, the closest Fulgurite begins speaking.}

"Shouldn't be a problem, so long as we can contact you or someone else on this ship about any questions we have."

"Uh sure, here's my contact... Our captain Stille's, too.

He'll prob'ly know more 'bout our system specs, but I'm still required to act as House Representative if you need.

Mind my asking, but who could I talk to for frame transport permission?"

"What kind of frame transport? You just need a sponsor for mining exos, but if you're a merc type you need an active contract with one of the arc families and approval from the Genet."

"Oh, well... Truth is, I just- I need my chassis to... Sleep. Which ain't often, thankfully; so discreet and secure is all that matters.

If I needa contract, could I petition your boss? My House'll be happy to lease my services for as long as we're here."

"But the Genet... Where would I bridge with them? Marigold and I are happy to ask ourselves."

"If it's just for sleeping you might be able to negotiate an accommodation if you keep it confined to your living quarters, but if you're looking for a contract the local nobility is probably a better choice. Adjutant-Commandant Montague has... a heavy reliance on her existing forces, but the mining arc houses might be looking for someone after all this recent ruckus."

"As for the Genet, bridging would be a security risk—"

{The preoccupied technician suddenly interrupts, stopping amid his stride.}

"And it might be more intense than you're bargaining for—"

"But they answer calls to the station infrastructure."

"Thank you kindly, both'you. Any idea who's hiring here in Luminous, someone who'll exchange my manna while I'm at it?"

"There's manna exchange terminals at the edge of the port. As for hiring, Lord Memphis may be, what with all the unrest lately, and I hear the sponsor houses are usually accepting security applications for the mining crews."

"Mm.. Sounds about right."

{Morgan nods towards the technician, his hands busy with inputs and adjusting software access.}

"What started all this, anyway? Holding ships at port... Can't imagine it was somethin' small."

{The technician merely shrugs. The armored one, however, shifts their substantial weight forward.}

"Classified investigation; sorry, I'm not at liberty to say."

{Morgan sighs softly in resignation.}

"Appreciate your honesty.

To tell you the truth, our House is in a bit of a rough patch.

That's why we're out here, tryin'a sell whatever we got to stay afloat... Sometimes salvaged GMS frames, but mostly SSC gear."

{She gently motions towards her own hardsuit.}

"This here's modded to be as soft as possible on neural links, to keep us operating even longer.

All our stuff is optimized for that, merch included. If there's anything y'all may need, don't hesitate to call."

"We'll keep it in mind."

{Their tone felt flat, as though each word was said with deliberate apathy.}

"If I'm gonna be honest I don't think you should be worried. Most of what we're looking for is stuff that should've been already here. We're just trying to make sure you aren't peddling stuff affiliated with insurgent groups."

{Morgan raises a brow in mock-skepticism.}

"Makes sense, but I can't imagine anyone tryin'a insert themselves out here.

Y'all are pretty self-sufficient, right? That alone makes it a bad idea."

{Using a palm, she turns her chin until a pop comes from her neck, before releasing with a covered yawn.}

"Sorry, I'm still gettin' used to bein' at a good weight again."

"Do either of you smoke?"

{She lifts a small hardcase from her collar, opening it to reveal a torn package of pre-rolled plant matter. In the light, their tips sparkle like shattered glass.}

"Yeah, something like that. Nobles are scared of HA angling in, though. Territory claims and all."

{The armored Fulgurite merely shakes their head in refusal.}

"Sorry, can't smoke, strict orders."

{The technician leans over and takes one between two fingers, a grateful smile plastering an otherwise comely face.}

"Thank you, I'll take one."

{Morgan smiles politely in return, pulling one for herself before stowing them away. Holding up a piezoelectric lighter, she offers to light his first, before starting her own.}

"Since you smoke, mind telling me where I can buy more? I'm almost out."

{He looks over her thoughtfully, dark synthetic eyes soaking in seemingly every feature in sight.}

{A gentle nod.}

"Yeah, here. It's an address. Tell them Digger found you, and don't ask why they look the way they do."

"What?"

"Yeah, they're pretty self-conscious about it. Just think of any critical-repair station, and apply that to a medical exosuit. If they weren't selling, I'd never understand how they could afford it."

[dr-whoopsie-daisy]

Tuesdays are off days, so me and friend study for Boards™ together and peer pressure each other to get stuff done. Spent 1 hour on Spanish project, 1 hour on Albinism project, and 3 hours drawing skulls for anatomy section of Boards ™. (I don't like the diagrams in the KMK book, or the lack there of, honestly.)

Here are my skull and orbit sketches along with the Sphenoid bone.

(I hadn't made this blog before my first year, so all of you missed my initial screams of anatomy the first go through.)

[chorchori]

The Orbit Witch 

Little sketch I’ve done yesterday before go to sleep

[flaeshprintpilotm-0826]

{...Black Box Scribe extension active. Translating feed data for dialogue...}

{Operation hour: 36.25(r)}

{Activity: navigating the more densely populated bureaucratic buildings of the Mining arc, Morgan approaches a somewhat neglected structure labeled 'HOUSE MEMPHIS OFFICE of AFFILIATION and CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATION'.}

{Although sections of wall are transparent to allow for external light, a thin film makes it nearly impossible to distinguish anything within.

It's uncertain if this coating is intentional, but blotches of discolored filth and flecks of debris remain trapped beneath.}

<A time capsule, almost; of everything this place has seen...>

{A 'help wanted' sign glimmers brightly despite the dinge, which she accepts as invitation inside.}

{Morgan's eyes readjust to the sudden depth of space around her, sweeping to and fro across the entry hall. More than 9 meters wide, it was nearly the width of the building's exterior; which bode poorly for their neighbors' floor space.}

<Holy fuck... Was this a transport tunnel?>

{Seemingly made from recycled polymers, the interior is burnished with bright staccato designs throughout. Faux-organic panels resembling tree bark aligned the walls and doors behind their reception desk. A pair of elegantly dressed subalterns stand idle there, ready for inquiry.}

{To her right, she notes a small group of men arguing in increasingly-less hushed tones, their robes ruffling like muted tailfeathers with House of Dust colors.}

"I don't care if they're busy, I WILL be seen! My credibility is worth something, and it'll be spent protecting my assets!"

"Hush, you fool! The master of the House isn't here; and even if they were, you'd just be ignored like everyone else! Now either go up there and sign your name, or be quiet."

{The razor-thin man leans towards his shorter compatriot, snarling in frustration; crossing his arms, the small jewels sewn into his seams clink together like wind chimes.}

{Morgan slowly, quietly steps towards the left receptionist unit.}

{Stiff, inefficient features spoke of its age quite readily; a retrofitted combat subaltern, at least 5 generations old.}

{Spots of polished steel exposed by old, chipped paint suggested a loving maintainer; its sensors managing to speak very clearly upon approach.}

"Hello, P-P-Potential Applicant! P-P-Please state the na-"

"Uh, query: Militarized Asset Lease, House of Wind subcontract period minimum 336 hours, relative."

"Input Accepted! P-P-Please p-p-present your dominant hand for dermal sample collection and contract-term acceptance!"

"Wha-? No, not yet! I didn't say-"

"P-P-Please do not worry, any samples collected are used solely for identification p-p-purposes! We do not distribute or recreate your genetic p-p-patterns, to p-p-protect any copyrights therein!"

{A deep sigh escapes her, exhaustion setting in sooner than anticipated.}

"Stand by, mending query. Attach visual scan of this-"

{Morgan lifts a pair of thin steel plates from a necklace around her collar, patterned with House-Standard encryption.

A simple-yet-effective method of communicating a pilot's quality, and subsequent worth.}

"-And deny intermediate assessment. Respond."

"Input Received! Assessment Completed! You have been designated _EXT.ASSET NO. 1023_ ! P-P-Please follow me!"

{Turning 180°, the subaltern walks towards the nearest service door, sections of reception beginning to fold itself inward to allow Morgan through.}

{Behind her, she hears the enraged flapping of a spindly bureaucrat stampeding across the floor, while the subaltern gingerly turns a door handle. She follows behind, seeing the man strangled by the other receptionist as she turned left.}

{As they continue down a long corridor Morgan notes the lack of decor, everything made from the same recycled polymers as they pass a seemingly endless amount of closed doors and abandoned furniture.

Eventually, the subaltern slows to a stop in front of another door, this one markedly more worn than the others. It opens it, motioning Morgan inside.}

{There was wood, -genuine wood!-, paneling the floor and ceiling. A large desk made of blackened wood dominated the center of the room, with a broad-limbed fan twirling lazily above it. A Holo-bulb of soft warm light fluttered in the air, casting long shadows beneath an old man wearing a stained uniform.}

"Come in, please."

{Morgan steps quietly in before the door closes behind her. A hand resting on her hip, she breathes deeply, and sits down.}

"... You can use the chair."

{Her eyes fall to the chair in front of his desk, and swears.}

"...Okay?"

"I'm Solomon. I'm your Auditor."

{Morgan swallows before speaking.}

"M-Morgan, Callsign-"

"I know. That's not why you're here."

"Why do you want this?"

"Um, what? I mean, I-"

"Why do you want our contract? We don't offer any praise. Our work is simple. There's very little pay. And we won't need you for very long, or often."

"So. Why do you want to be here?"

"Oh. Well, uh... Because, I need to sleep. And I can't get my frame through Orbit transport without your sponsorship. Hilarious, right?"

{The man says nothing for a time, staring through Morgan as though she were glass. Finally he leans back into his chair, sighing heavily as his hand combs graying hair.}

"Nope. I get it. Some things are the only comforts we can afford. Here."

{He presents Morgan with a House Official ID, engraved with her asset number and listed role: Security.}

"Get out, and welcome. Your first job is in 96 hours. Details to follow."

[flaeshprintpilotm-0826]

{Black Box Scribe extension active, Translating feed data for dialogue...}

{Morgan walks slowly from her cabin to the main wing, her body heavy from increased local gravity.

Since docking in the mining arc Luminous, the Orbit's Marquess Nera-Montague has put an arrest on their vessel, demanding to search every unit of hard data storage.}

{Morgan's grateful for the time to adapt, however; spending Relative months in partial to full zero-G has left her organics feeling fragile, unused to practical weight.

So she steps carefully, letting the weight of each foot carry her forward until finally arriving at an elevator, which leads to a small loading deck outside.}

<Zephyr, engage.>

{The chitinous shell of her hardsuit begins shifting colors rapidly, chromatophores adapting to mimic their surroundings.}

{As the doors open, a short man in baggy workman's garb shuffles towards them, a mask of confusion muddying his strong features.}

{With a wide yawn, he lifts a pair of anti-photon visors from his shaggy head, placing them onto his face while scratching a cheek. A plethora of scars adorn his blackened skin, signs of a life lived hard.}

{As he slips back towards his corner of the wall, he presses a button on the control panel. Morgan steps inside silently.}

<Mission goals: 1.) Find a credit union, exchange some manna; 2.) find a Valadore to buy some moongrass, and 3.) find somewhere for us to sleep that's not on this damn boat.>

<Captain Stille mentioned leaving for another arc once the search was over; what did he call it, Unwieldy? But it'll be awhile, and we gotta restock on raw materials...>

"A friendly word of advice: if you're gonna try sneaking past Les Fulgurites posted out front, don't use anything except your wit. They're easy to lie to."

<... Yep, I just almost shit myself.>

<Does he actually know I'm here, was I too loud?>

"I know you're in here, whoever you are; I also know you're trying to leave."

"Fine, don't talk, just listen: only someone well-paid and well-trained can hide in plain sight, so I'm guessing you're a pilot, too. But they'll still be able to see you."

{The man taps the side of his visors knowingly, a small grin revealing shockingly white teeth.}

"You still have an infrared signature, albeit small. Their sensors won't hesitate to lock down and erase you."

"Just tell them you need to do something important, or tell them the truth; either way, you're more likely to survive."

"..."

"Thank you."

"No problem. See you around, partner."

{The elevator doors open, and a distortion of air quickly exits as they begin to shut close.}

<...Why didn't I think of that?>

[dislar1144]

Julian (Jupiter) and Pam (Pluto) / Julián (Júpiter) y Pam (Plutón)

I redesinged Julian, now he's Argentinian and he's a rolinga (urban tribu created in Argentina based on the Rolling Stones) and Pam is a Tweemo (a combination of Twee and Emo) they are childhood friends, time later (in the The orbit series) they started dating but broke up bc they really didn't feel anything for each other and stayed as friends/Rediseñé a Julián, ahora es Argentino y es rolinga (una tribu urbana creada en Argentina basada en los Rolling Stones) y Pam es una Tweemo (una combinación entre Twee y Emo) son amigos de la infancia, tiempo después (En la serie The orbit) empezaron a salir pero terminaron pq no sentían nada el uno por el otro y quedaron como amigos