Post by Ensign Mandy Bergin on Apr 27, 2015 5:20:26 GMT -8
She was at least...eighty percent sure that whoever was currently in charge of interspecies relations wouldn't approve of her being here.
Well, at least seventy. It wasn't like she was, you know...going to...have sex with any of these people.
She was just going to get her butt handed to her in a race. And probably die. And have her individual atoms and bits scattered out across half the quadrant, thanks to the handy transportive power of a starstream that, judging by the feeds that were scrolling across the top half of the room, was a lot more chaotic than most of the ones they took the Talon through.
A challenge. She was so down.
The room was filled with people, so many that Mandy had thought at first she was in the wrong place. This couldn't be that popular of an attraction, could it? She'd read the promo material, sure, and it had made it sound all glamorous and thrilling...but then she'd read the fine print, and while it had been...okay, she got it. Apparently the deep pilot impulse to go get smeared across a moon someplace wasn't species-specific.
People were milling about in front of the betting booths--a rough collection of metal containers, a person crammed into each, taking money as fast as they could and cataloging the bets into some archaic computer system with a script Mandy couldn't begin to fathom. Behind them still were a collection of seats that looked as if they'd been pulled out of completely different shuttlecraft--some were tall, so high off the ground that the people who sat on them had to dangle their feet, some were so short that they looked like kiddie chairs from a daycare, the people in them forced to hunch over their knees. At least they had a place to take a nap.
The other wall boasted a single door--the entrance to the docking bay, she was pretty sure, and from there a straight shot to the entrance for the 'stream. Around the door--sometimes projected over it--was a live feed of the current race, attached to some bot that was exceptionally better at navigating the 'stream than most of the pilots. Across the top of the wall, as on every other wall, scrolled a list of racers and their odds, along with the largest bets on them. Some of the people who hung out in this place were quite well endowed, it looked like: they'd sunk an entire fortune in this place. That, or they were just good at the casinos. Either way.
On the wall, a crash lit up red-hot and was sucked away into the vacuum. There was a chorus of defeated sighs mingled with victorious shouts, as the individual allegiances of various people around the room was displayed.
There was a strange feeling in the pit of Mandy's stomach, and she couldn't for the life of her decide if it was excitement or pure, unadulterated terror. She tucked her entry cred under her armpit, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, and ducked her head down. She wasn't going to watch the screen anymore. It would only psych her out.
She was going to die.
Tag: Any
Well, at least seventy. It wasn't like she was, you know...going to...have sex with any of these people.
She was just going to get her butt handed to her in a race. And probably die. And have her individual atoms and bits scattered out across half the quadrant, thanks to the handy transportive power of a starstream that, judging by the feeds that were scrolling across the top half of the room, was a lot more chaotic than most of the ones they took the Talon through.
A challenge. She was so down.
The room was filled with people, so many that Mandy had thought at first she was in the wrong place. This couldn't be that popular of an attraction, could it? She'd read the promo material, sure, and it had made it sound all glamorous and thrilling...but then she'd read the fine print, and while it had been...okay, she got it. Apparently the deep pilot impulse to go get smeared across a moon someplace wasn't species-specific.
People were milling about in front of the betting booths--a rough collection of metal containers, a person crammed into each, taking money as fast as they could and cataloging the bets into some archaic computer system with a script Mandy couldn't begin to fathom. Behind them still were a collection of seats that looked as if they'd been pulled out of completely different shuttlecraft--some were tall, so high off the ground that the people who sat on them had to dangle their feet, some were so short that they looked like kiddie chairs from a daycare, the people in them forced to hunch over their knees. At least they had a place to take a nap.
The other wall boasted a single door--the entrance to the docking bay, she was pretty sure, and from there a straight shot to the entrance for the 'stream. Around the door--sometimes projected over it--was a live feed of the current race, attached to some bot that was exceptionally better at navigating the 'stream than most of the pilots. Across the top of the wall, as on every other wall, scrolled a list of racers and their odds, along with the largest bets on them. Some of the people who hung out in this place were quite well endowed, it looked like: they'd sunk an entire fortune in this place. That, or they were just good at the casinos. Either way.
On the wall, a crash lit up red-hot and was sucked away into the vacuum. There was a chorus of defeated sighs mingled with victorious shouts, as the individual allegiances of various people around the room was displayed.
There was a strange feeling in the pit of Mandy's stomach, and she couldn't for the life of her decide if it was excitement or pure, unadulterated terror. She tucked her entry cred under her armpit, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, and ducked her head down. She wasn't going to watch the screen anymore. It would only psych her out.
She was going to die.
Tag: Any