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So I've rejuvenated my creative mojo...
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Derek Brand
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Joined: 04 Jun 2007
Posts: 377

 Post Posted: Fri, July 10th 2009 12:46am    Post subject: So I've rejuvenated my creative mojo...
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Yeah, for the past few months I've had the beginnings of a Battlestar Galactica story sitting in my laptop. I showed it to my English teacher and she loved it (Who'd've thought?) but until a few days ago I couldn't really get the motivation to sit down and work on it for a length of time. This takes place during the mid-late years of the First Cylon War.

So, yeah. Enjoy.

Quote:
Prologue

“Warning. Launch tube malfunction. Please transmit ordnance disarm code immediately.”

Foreman Mike Harold gasped in pain as he tried to move his right arm out from the fallen piece of rock that was pinning him to the floor. All around him, other miners were either dead or injured from the blasts and the rubble. The habitat’s lights were operating on auxiliary power, casting a reddish glow over the patchwork command center. Mike saw that, to his dismay, nearly all of the control boards were smashed beyond repair or had gone dark due to power loss. Or more sabotage, he thought furiously. If I ever get my hands on that frakking ensign, I’ll-

“Warning. Launch tube malfunction. Please transmit ordnance disarm code immediately.”

Oh. Right.


Mike managed to free his arm, although he doubted he’d be able to use it for anything other than a pain-filled cushion without some morpha and a cast. He crawled over to the nearest DRADIS monitor, his spirits lifted by what he saw.

Galactica had been completely destroyed. The only indication it had ever existed was irradiated cloud of gas and a few dazed Vipers. He watched in satisfaction as the Cylon Raiders swarmed the Colonials, wiping them out in seconds. That satisfaction turned to confusion as the Raiders returned to the baseship, which promptly began spinning up its FTL. They’re leaving us here to die!

“No!” Mike slammed his left hand down on the console-and was smacked on the knee as the panel underneath the DRADIS popped off. “What the-?”
He picked up the panel, noticing with a growing feeling of dread that the screws had been stripped and pulled out, then jammed back in. As if someone had removed the panel, then replaced it to avoid drawing attention.

“No…” Mike looked underneath the console. A suspicious-looking device had been spliced into the cables leading from the Cylon targeting computer and the DRADIS. He lifted it up to get a better look at it.
The Colonial military symbol stared back at him.

Son of a-
“Warning. Launch tube malfunction. Please transmit ordnance disarm code immediately. Nuclear detonation in T-minus five…four…”


Mike’s unbroken hand began trembling. “No…” He looked back up at the DRADIS and saw that the ‘baseship’ was moving away via sublight as fast as it could. “No…” Suddenly it disappeared, its FTL drive fully charged. Mike ripped the device free of the console and threw it across the room. “NO!”

“Two…one.”

* * *


Chapter One – 20 Hours Ago

Derek sidestepped around Lieutenant Hallis and slammed the pyramid ball into the hoop that was hanging on the wall of the storage room. It ricocheted off of the backboard and back into play, where Ensign Oros snagged it and began moving his way over to the basket. Corporal Jaggers tripped Oros and picked up the ball, but when he tried to lob it in Derek intercepted it out of the air and hurled it into the opposite basket, winning the game for Oros and him.

The four of them prepared for another round, but just as Derek shouted “Go!” a marine opened the hatch and stuck his head inside. “Commander? CiC has Admiral Corman on the line for you.”

Derek wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Thank you, private.” He took a deep breath, trying to slow his breathing before picking up the phone from a nearby hook. “Brand here.” He listened for a few moments, then nodded. “Yes sir. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, sir.” He listened for another moment. “Ten minutes. Yes sir.” He hung up the phone and grabbed his towel from a ration shelf. “Don’t wait for me, ensign.”

“Yes sir.”

He stepped past Private Adams and returned his salute, then started jogging through Galactica’s expansive corridors. Most of the crew was in their quarters by now; the ship’s shift was approaching what would be 2300 hours on the colonial homeworld of Caprica.

He only passed two crewmen on his way to his quarters, and ten minutes after his phone call he was in his uniform and seated aboard a Raptor as it lifted off from Galactica’s port hangar. The small ship gently maneuvered out of the bay with docking thrusters, then when it was a safe distance from the battlestar the pilot activated its main engines.

Derek sat in the passenger compartment of the tiny craft and looked over the pilot’s shoulder as he brought the ship in towards the blue-green planet Picon. The copilot made adjustments as the Raptor entered the atmosphere, and corrected a minor course error that smoothed the reentry considerably.

The Raptor finally finished reentry and the pilot slowed their descent, curving around to burn off excess speed for his landing at Fleet Headquarters. Most of the building was underground, but two expansive hangars on the surface flanked a main entry building. One of the hangar’s rooftops began retracting, and once they had opened the pilot set the ship down inside. Derek stood and opened the pressurized hatch, stepping down onto the deck just as the doors sealed.

Three men stood awaiting him. Two marines in full combat gear, looking ready for a fight, and an older man with little hair left and more than his fair share of wrinkles, but without any sort of slouch or slump. His uniform was neatly pressed and his medals shown on the left side of his jacket.

Derek saluted. “Admiral, sir.”

Corman didn’t respond right away. Instead, he waited a few moments, looking Derek up and down, obviously searching for anything wrong with the young commander. Finally, he raised his right hand in a return salute. “At ease.” The two of them walked past the marines and off of the hangar deck.

Once out of earshot of the marines, Corman growled, “You’re overdue. I asked you to be here twenty minutes ago.”

“Sorry, sir. You caught me in the middle of a game.”

Corman shot him a look. “Colonial officers are supposed to be on call whenever they may be needed, Commander. Especially officers in command of a battlestar. Have I made myself clear?”

Derek inhaled slowly. “Yes sir.”

He noticed that rather than take the lift up to the Admiral’s office, they were taking the stairs to the next sublevel, where the secondary briefing rooms were located. Interesting.

They got off at the second level down and began walking down a dark hallway. Corman stopped at one of the doors and opened it. “Inside.” Derek walked in and sat down at one of the only two chairs in the room. As he heard Corman close the door behind him he noticed a figure standing at the end of the briefing table, away from the second chair. Corman sat across from both of them and crossed his arms. So this isn’t his show, Derek surmised.

The figure stepped forward into the light from the window. His blue uniform marked him as a Colonial officer, but the red trim identified him as an intelligence officer. He wore his blonde hair in a short military cut, and his dark brown eyes made him seem bland. Derek guessed that he was anything but.

“Commander Brand.” A statement, not a question. The officer picked up a file from a tray next to him and slid it over to Derek. He looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and opened it, scanning the contents.

It was the transcript of a civilian distress call, somewhere near the outer edges of Colonial space. The message read: From Foreman Mike Harold, Tauron Mining Industrial. Am under siege by Cylon forces. Defensive garrison is under heavy attack and will not last long. Requesting reinforcements from Colonial forces ASAP. Estimated forty to fifty Cylon fighters in the immediate area and possible reinforcements inbound. Then it repeated.

Derek looked up. “How do we know this isn’t a trick?”

Corman cleared his throat.

“How do we know this isn’t a trick, sir?”

“It contained all of the proper codes, but they’re civilian encryption, not military. Wouldn’t take much to crack through them.” Corman steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the table. “That’s why I’m sending Galactica. She should have plenty of firepower to deal with this, or to hold her own against whatever kind of trap the Cylons may have planned.”

The intelligence officer nodded. “You may take the file with you, commander. It has more information on the mining facility. You can read all the details if you’d like, but it’s just a standard tylium extractor and refinery. Last year the Colonial Defense Administration allotted a few squadrons of Vipers and some basic defenses to guard against Cylon attacks, but it’s not a very tempting target otherwise.”

Derek tapped the file against his other hand. “Except as a foothold.”

“Yes. The asteroid is on the outer edges of the Tauron system, and if the Cylons can establish a sizeable enough presence there they can do some serious harm to the main processing plants on the planet itself. Maybe even cause widespread fuel shortages, if they’re determined enough.” The man pulled a data stick from his breast pocket and tossed it to Derek. “Personnel records, the CSVs of the pilots and soldiers, and a layout of the facility itself.”

Derek caught the stick and pocketed it. Realizing that the meeting was done, his closed the file and stood. “If that’s all then, sirs, I’ll get Galactica underway.” He saluted to both Corman and the officer, then left through the same door he’d entered from.

* * *


“He seems like a good man,” Rear Admiral Jacob Kiles said as he sat in the chair Brand had vacated. “A little loose, but what I’ve seen in his records show that he’s highly competent, if not…unorthodox.”

Corman snorted. He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a small flask. After taking a sip he offered it to Jacob, who refused. “Two dropped charges of insubordination before even reaching lieutenant, another for disobeying a direct order at the Battle of Sagitaron-”

“Wasn’t it after that battle he was given command of Galactica?”

Corman waved the comment away. “He’s too undisciplined. He isn’t cut out for command, he’s just lucky enough to hang onto his post. Mark my words, he’ll be back in the cockpit by the end of the year.”

Jacob smiled. “Well, Mark-” he reached over and picked the flask up and took a swig from it. “-I think he’ll surprise you.”

Chapter Two

Derek stepped through the door into Galactica’s brightly-lit CiC, saluting his executive officer as he took his place below the DRADIS monitors on the ceiling. After checking the last operation details on his datapad, he looked around the CiC. All around him, crewmen and officers were busy double-checking their stations and preparing to jump.

“Sir,” Colonel Marks said, “All hands are ready for the jump on your order.”

Derek nodded and looked over at Lieutenant Hallis at the helm board near the wall. He nodded at Hallis and the young man looked down at his board, typing in a set of numbers. “Locking coordinates for the jump to Tauren, sir.” The computer beeped once and he glanced back at the commander. “Board is green.”

Derek reached down and picked up the phone hanging on the hook. “All hands,” he said, his voice echoing in every corridor on the ship, “Prepare for jump.”

Hallis retrieved a fluorescent blue key from a compartment by his station and slotted it into the computer. “Jump in ten…nine…eight…”

Derek lowered the phone back to its hook and grabbed a handle on the side of the planning table. Everyone in CiC was securing themselves to something; their chair, their computer, a door. Hallis finished his countdown. “Two…one…Jump!” He twisted the key in its slot, and for a brief moment Derek felt the familiar upside-down feeling that accompanied FTL travel. One moment, Galactica was in orbit above Picon, the next a flash of light ran up and down the length of the ship and she was gone.

The DRADIS board, shut off for the jump, was rebooted as the battlestar reappeared in the Tauron system a split second later. Everyone relaxed and began tending their stations. The DRADIS board lit up and began scanning the surrounding area with its trademark whirr. A moment later several contacts appeared on screen. Ensign Oros began to call them out. “DRADIS contact. I have a colonial transponder–correction, I have eight. One mining colony, seven Vipers.” The DRADIS beeped for attention and Oros looked back at his screen. “Sir, I have multiple bogies swarming the Vipers. No IDC, no transponder codes. They have to be Cylons, sir.”

Derek nodded without taking his eyes off the screen. “Launch the Vipers.”
Marks picked up the phone from its hook. “All wings launch. Repeat, all wings launch.”

* * *


The magnetic catapult released, and Lieutenant William “Husker” Adama’s Viper rocketed forward like a bullet, accelerating faster and faster out of the launch tube until his engines flared and the clamps released. As soon as he cleared Galactica’s hull he pulled back on the stick to get a good view on the furball ahead of him. To the left and the right of him, the other Vipers in Galactica’s air group formed up in their respective units. Adama glanced at his DRADIS and located his squad leader, Captain Logan, and he eased his bird over into formation with his group.

Ahead of them was a large asteroid with crisscrossing pipelines and several airlocks dotting its surface. Around it about half a dozen Vipers painted with blue stripes were dancing among a swarm of Cylon Raiders. The disk-shaped craft were overwhelming the outgunned, outnumbered, and outmaneuvered Vipers, boxing them in and cutting off their escape routes. Logan called in over the wireless in Adama’s helmet. “All right, boys and girls. You’ve heard the music; now it’s time to dance. Blue Squadron, you’ve got the left flank, Red has the right, Green with me down the middle. Go frak up some toasters!” Adama couldn’t help but grin at Logan’s colorful speech. The 52-year-old captain was a veteran of the war after only a few years, and despite his age he was still the sharpest pilot in the air group.

The Cylons were almost within range now, and just before Adama’s finger began to tighten on the trigger about half of them peeled off and soared straight at the Colonials. Instead of flinching, Adama smoothly settled his crosshairs on the closest Raider and squeezed the trigger. Yellow tracers stitched across his target and tore it in half, both ends lazily flipping end over end.

And then they were in the thick of it.

Blue energy bolts from the Raiders’ cannons mixed with the yellow bullets of the Viper’s weapons as the ships fought it out. Both formations were intertwined, with pilots concentrating just as much on avoiding collisions as they were on scoring kills. Adama jinked to the left to slip underneath a Raider that was coming at him cannons flashing before lining another shot on an enemy who was chasing after Spitball. His tracers opened up the cockpit and the robotic figures were propelled out of the broken glass and into space.

Dozens of kilometers away, Galactica opened fire.

* * *



Galactica’s twin cannons rumbled in the void of space, launching explosive projectiles at the group of Raiders that were making a beeline for the battlestar. The massive ship began to rotate, turning to bring more of its point-defense batteries to bear. These smaller weapons began laying down a cloud of flak off the ship’s port side while the main guns concentrated on hammering the rapidly approaching Raiders.

Inside Galactica’s CiC, Derek was busy shouting orders into the wireless.

“Request denied, specialist! I will not recall the Vipers from the engagement zone. Your gunners will have to make do on their own.” He listened to the gunnery officer’s protests for another moment, then bellowed “That was not a suggestion, crewman! Carry out your orders!” He slapped the phone back into its slot and took another look at the DRADIS monitor. So far the main guns were doing a modest job of whittling down the Raiders, but there were still almost two dozen signatures approaching.

Something wasn’t right about this group. In two years of fighting Derek had never seen Raiders piloted so recklessly. They weren’t even attempting evasive maneuvers; they were using everything they had to reach Galactica. Their weapons didn’t have the power to do much harm to his ship, and they weren’t armed with any missiles. So what was their plan?

The air wing was still busy shooting up the Cylons around the asteroid base, and Derek wasn’t about to call them back. That would only present dozens of fleeing targets for the Cylons at the asteroid.

The Raiders hit the edge of the flak zone. Several indicators disappeared as they shouldered through it, but many more still managed to stay on course. “Tighten the defensive grid,” Derek said. “Switch the main guns to defensive fire.” The point defense batteries went silent for a moment as the crews shortened the fuses, then roared to life again, taking out four more Raiders. Now they switched to individual targets instead of blanketing the entire group. More Raiders went down, leaving six. The huge main batteries on Galactica’s dorsal side also added their firepower and blasting five more Cylons. The last Raider was within a kilometer when a warning alarm went off. Before Ensign Oros could speak up, two words appeared at the bottom of the DRADIS monitor.

RADIOLOGICAL ALARM.

Suddenly it made sense.

Derek’s eyes widened and he glanced at Colonel Marks. His XO mirrored his expression. Marks reached down and grabbed the wireless from its hook. “All hands, brace for impa–”

A massive blast shook the ship, knocking Derek off his feet. His head slammed into the planning table and he fell into a black pit.

* * *


As the single remaining Cylon Raider closed with Galactica, a series of commands were transmitted to the Centurion piloting the ship. It acknowledged the command codes and reached down to tap a switch on its instrument board. Underneath the ship, two small bumps began to glow a vibrant red. On the Centurion’s board a small message appeared.

Nuclear warheads armed.

The Centurion noted this with satisfaction and pointed the ship’s nose at a point between the battlestar’s port flight pod and its dorsal hull. It had no thought of deviating from its mission. It was not afraid of dying.

The Raider dove through Galactica’s last line of defense and plowed into her amidships. A sun blossomed against her hull, ripping away point-defense turrets, antennae, and gouging a great hole in the mighty ship’s side. Air began to hiss out of the breached corridors, whisking out containers, papers–and people.

The gun batteries fell silent, for there was nothing left to shoot at. Galactica had worse problems on her hands now.

* * *



A bright yellow flash pulled Adama’s eyes from his opponent’s tail. He looked straight up to see Galactica list heavily to port as a nuclear blast ripped into her side. He was so stunned by the sight of his mothership in such trouble that he almost didn’t see his prey fire retro-thrusters and flip over to face him.

“Frak!” he cursed. Adama goosed his engines and pushed down on the stick, diving beneath the Raider. Blue bolts missed his Viper by meters, and he traced them back to their source. A quick tap on the thrusters brought his nose up so that he was flying belly-first, and his guns sang. Rat-at-at-at-at. The rounds punched into the Raider’s middle and carved a hole in it like a bagel. He flipped his bird over and streamed back into the battle.

Another Viper pulled up alongside him. “Need a wingman, flyboy?”

Adama glanced out the cockpit to see a woman smiling back at him. She gave him a thumbs up, and he grinned. “That’s Lieutenant Flyboy to you. And sure, I seem to have misplaced mine.” Hotshot was holed up in sickbay, so Adama was flying solo.

“Gina Smith, sir. Callsign Halo.”

“Bill Adama. Husker.” Three Raiders scythed through the engagement zone, which was now spread out over several kilometers. There weren’t nearly as many Raiders anymore, but several Vipers were missing as well. Adama pointed his Viper at a point underneath the incoming ships and wagged his wings. “Let’s get’m, Halo.”

“Right behind you, sir.”

They soared in, spinning to present the smallest target and laying down streams of fire to split the Cylons up. One of them separated to avoid becoming a cloud of wreckage and Halo went after it, sticking to its tail like a magnet. Adama was about to trail behind her when one of the Raiders slipped in before he could. “Halo, watch your six! Bogie in your killzone!”

“Get him for me, Husker! I can get this guy!”

“Negative, Halo, break right! Right!”

Halo fired off one last burst at the Raider before flipping over and complying. The tracers severed the Cylon’s wing and sent it into a flat spin, but when it faced her again it fired. A line of bolts walked up into Halo’s fuselage, puncturing it. Escaping gases sent her craft into a wild tumble. She grunted over the wireless. “Got…no control…can’t…reach…stick–!”

“Incoming!” Adama watched in horror as the Raider who had been tailing Halo collided with her, cutting both ships in half. “Halo!”

She was gone.

He stared at the spot where she had been, not quite comprehending how a person could exist one minute and be gone the next. Blue flashes of light dragged him back to reality, reminding him that there was still a Cylon behind him.

He checked his DRADIS. Three Cylons.

Adama gritted his teeth and began spiraling into an evasive pattern. “You want me?” he growled in the voice that made his friends give him the moniker “Husker”. “Come and get me.”

The Raiders were arrayed in a half-circle behind him, trying to fire on him from three different angles to box him in. Adama continued dodging their shots, waiting for the right opportunity. He had to act soon, or he would end up like Halo–but if he acted too soon that might happen anyway.

The Raiders were totally fixated on him, their courses a straight line with him as the intersection. He waited until they were a dozen meters away before kicking his Viper around on its horizontal axis, his finger tightened on the trigger. The little fighter spun like a top with a string of yellow lines streaming from its guns. One by one, they lanced through the trio of Cylons behind him. One, two, three.

Gone.

Adama realized that he was breathing hard and his flight suit stank. He laughed shakily, not quite sure how he’d pulled off that feat. At least the gun cam got it. As the thought passed through his mind, he glanced at his port wing where the gun-mounted camera was supposed to be.

Instead, he saw several wires trailing sparks emerging from the recess in his wing.

Typical.

An alarm on his instrument board brought his attention back to the cockpit. A small readout of his ship began flashing red near the port wing. At first he thought it was reporting the loss of the gun cam–better late than never–but then he saw that it was reporting hydraulic failures in his port engine. Almost as if waiting for him to read the notice, that particular engine chose that moment to fail, sending the Viper into a spin as the other two engines pushed from the right.

Adama was thrown against the right side of his cockpit as inertia caught up with him. He tried to reach out with his left hand for the cutoff switch, but it felt like trying to swim through molasses. Finally, he managed to touch a gloved finger to the red button and the engines shut down. It took a little more effort to get the retrothrusters to begin to slow his spin into something less out of control. As Adama worked, he opened the wireless to the S&R channel.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Husker in Viper YT1138. I’ve lost power to one engine and have had to execute a manual shutdown to the others. I am currently drifting on heading…” he was listing off his heading and estimated speed when something caught his eye. He looked outside, and what he saw chilled his bones.

His Viper was on a collision course with a small asteroid.

Adama stared at it, his eyes widening as it grew inevitably bigger and bigger in his viewport.

TO BE CONTINUED…



Comments? Criticism? Cookies?
_________________
Grand Admiral Derek Brand
Commander of Krytocracy Naval Forces


*Stabs Wedge repeatedly* :P Now everybody's happy. - Lazer

In Soviet Russia, Force uses you! :P - Kypjargon

Sarin, you ***** *** pansy, you screw with me, you screw with my GIANT LASER GUN. - Xaph, imitating Commander Shepard


Last edited by Derek Brand on Fri, July 10th 2009 12:46am; edited 1 time in total
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Velora Antana
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 Post Posted: Sat, July 11th 2009 11:08am    Post subject:
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Derek, eh? :P

Good stuff, keep up at this old writing game.
_________________

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everytime i talk to alexus, i love him a little more

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Derek Brand
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Joined: 04 Jun 2007
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 Post Posted: Sat, July 11th 2009 02:12pm    Post subject:
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He's a recurring character of mine, like Ams is to Moff.
_________________
Grand Admiral Derek Brand
Commander of Krytocracy Naval Forces


*Stabs Wedge repeatedly* :P Now everybody's happy. - Lazer

In Soviet Russia, Force uses you! :P - Kypjargon

Sarin, you ***** *** pansy, you screw with me, you screw with my GIANT LASER GUN. - Xaph, imitating Commander Shepard
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Kilvec Ordo
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 Post Posted: Sun, July 12th 2009 01:47pm    Post subject:
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Cookies. I'll read all of it when I have time, but the first sentence was dandy. :P
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Kilvec Ordo

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Kilvec Ordo
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 Post Posted: Tue, July 14th 2009 09:17pm    Post subject:
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Awesome. Just read the whole thing, never read Galactica, but awesome job. :)
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Kilvec Ordo

Chief Commander of the Citadel Krytocracy

"You just broke physics."-Peyr Baelish

"Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of Kilvec's nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Gustaf Koehler." -Alexus
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Derek Brand
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 Post Posted: Tue, July 14th 2009 11:42pm    Post subject:
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I worked on it a bit more afterwards, but right now I'm trying to finish my D&D campaign for this Friday. It's my first time DMing a meeting, wish me luck! :)
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Grand Admiral Derek Brand
Commander of Krytocracy Naval Forces


*Stabs Wedge repeatedly* :P Now everybody's happy. - Lazer

In Soviet Russia, Force uses you! :P - Kypjargon

Sarin, you ***** *** pansy, you screw with me, you screw with my GIANT LASER GUN. - Xaph, imitating Commander Shepard
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