Brave Galaxy is set in a world loosely based on Hiro Mashima’s Fairy Tail and Eden’s Zero. It is a PG-13 or so rated space fantasy RP, and uses a combination of character statistics, which can be acquired via roleplaying and events, and creative freedom to help direct players’ characters. While there is a main storyline, which can be found in the events section, characters are free to interact with others and their environment however they see fit.
Explore the galaxy. Overcome the obstacles in your path. Shape the future of humanity.
When the air was filled with the scent of a hundred different dishes and a thousand ingredients, when the tang of rich chicken broth and green onions was close enough to taste, there wasn't much a hungry man could do except seek it out.
Especially after a twelve-hour day that wasn't over yet.
Dan wasn't one to draw attention to himself, and with the cowl of his hoodie drawn up to cover watchful eyes, lightly faded jeans and beat-up athletic trainers, he looked just like any other man returning home amid the evening crowd. He slipped in through the throngs of commuters, gastronomes and tourists with the practiced route of someone who knew the way like the back of his calloused hand.
The last couple hours of the day had gone bad. He wasn't in the mood to talk about that.
There was no official name for this part of Little Euterpe, where three streets fed into one curved plaza surrounded on all sides by the glittering glass and grey steel of high-rises and skyscrapers. They crowded so close and so high that, from the ground looking upwards, it seemed as though the darkening hazy city-sky flowed through the looming silhouettes of buildings like a river. No name, because it had only really sprung up in the last ten years since pollution regulations had pedestrianized the area. Commerce collected like crystals on the paths that trade travelled, and now trade travelled through on foot.
Authentic. A word that lay in the article titles in the Good Food Guide, and on the lips of the tourists that wanted to travel a mile to visit another world. And though there was no doubt that the vendors and food-stalls that pressed tightly into whatever space they could find here were fascinating to watch, displaying culinary skills from all over the breadth of the system performed with skill and speed serving mostly excellent food – 'Authentic' was not the word Dan would use.
Not the word that most local residents of the area would use. Convenient, cheap, varied – all good words. But, nowhere like this would be found anywhere in the south; not with such an eclectic mix of cuisines, cooked only with the ingredients available in Chorus, from recipes adapted to suit the palates of people from all over the world. No; this was a typical kind of Elyakemian place, just like everywhere in the city; just focused through a different lens.
He liked it the way it really was, rather than the way that most people seemed to see it.
“Hey.” He threw up his hand as he approached the grizzled, taciturn figure slicing fillet beef with quick and deliberate strokes of a long knife with a lightly-curved blade. Quinn Conscientia, local fixture, emigré from the Union, a chef trained in both the Southern Alliance and Chorus, and an ardent C-Pop fan. Everyone in the area knew him, and Dan wasn't an exception.
“The special good today?”
He asked the same question every time he stopped here, and never in Fioran; Quinn exchanged the courtesy of honesty with Dan's discretion in keeping it from being understood by everyone who heard it. “Eh.” Quinn shrugged, replying in kind with a hoarse voice. “Was going to be pulled-pork on ribbon noodles. Couldn't get the pork. There's brisket instead. Spicy. You'll like it.” The old man huffed through his nose slightly. “You'd have liked the pork better.”
“Perfect.” Dan felt a rush of relief as he dropped onto the middle of three empty stools, taking the weight off his feet; sighing with genuine pleasure as he shrugged back the hood of his jacket to reveal dark hair that was starting to get a bit too long, and a face that had become far too haggard and unshaven to be handsome anymore.
Nonetheless, the smile still looked good on him. “Gimme the beef, if it's that good.” Back to Fioran; good advertising was always appreciated. “Some water, Quinn, if you've the time.”
He could feel some of the burdens of the day slipping from his shoulders, at last; a burden that only ever grew, and grew, chewing on pain and spitting out weakness. It was good to let a little go – he needed to let a little go.
Post by Reya Starlyght on Apr 12, 2019 2:20:07 GMT
Chorus, he could recall with haze a time it had not existed, nothing more than the collective hopes and dreams of the few. An escape from the duplicity of the galaxy, the world that made it so hard to simply live. Ironic now, considering the choke hold various corporations had on the nation, their buildings towering over the streets of the capital Elyakim. The same, over and over, monotonous except for the slight differences in fluorescent signs and logos, variations that passed blindly over his eyes. Some changed, some remained the same; all that mattered was their stifling influence, clogging the markets with consumerism and apathy. In result, more conglomerates were formed, yet inevitably choices became more restricted.
Oh well, such was the reality of things. Did it bring a foul taste to his mouth? Certainly. Were there escapes from it? Yes, and IMG, despite technically being a corporation itself, was one of them. In particular the branch located on Chorus, surprisingly, was one of the least restrictive, it of course also being the 'unofficial' Thieves' Branch, although anyone who stuck with IMG for long enough knew that such term was more of a workaround with the law. Also fitting for the planet, since many of their laws functioned on the whims of business rather than for the common good. Regardless of such, he was done with work for the day, and had been tasked by Eris to find them some food before she got home. Well, it was more like before she returned to their ship, and she'd probably be back after him no matter what Leo did. And so he walked down the crowded streets, ducking and weaving between the hoards of people surrounding various vendors, many with no real intent to purchase items. It was the norm for big cities though, and soon enough he found himself in an area of the so called Little Euterpe filled to the brim with food stands of various sorts and sizes.
Hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket and wearing equally casual gray jeans and sneakers to go along with it, he cut neither an impressive nor interesting figure, though perhaps an observant fellow might have noticed the ever slight bulges in a few places that indicated he was armed. In fact, it was almost mere coincidence that Leo stumbled upon the stand, listening to the conversations - most of them in Fioran though a few other languages were scattered about. One in particular featured a man speaking Pergrandian, and although Leo could understand the conversation in such tongue just fine it caught his interest when the customer switched over to Fioran, for no particular reason he could think of either. In any case, the aromas wafting from the booth seemed decent enough, and plus spicy food was a favorite of his, no matter how much Eris disliked it. He’d find something else for her, eventually.
Yes, he did indeed pull out a stool and sat upon it, to the right of the man that had been speaking although only because Leo had just two options. ”The special, please,” he stated in Fioran when the chef came around, perhaps indicative that he had overheard and understood their conversation, but they were on Chorus so knowing such a language as Pergrandian wasn’t all that uncommon. At least, that was what Leo recalled, but he didn't really care even if such was not the case.
The grizzled old chef slid a glass of water over to the figure at the edge of the counter, and took note of the newcomer's order without scarcely batting an eye. Chorus was a multicultural place after all, and especially in Little Euterpe, conversations in Caelumese, Fioran, Boscan, and Pergrandian abounded. Having polyglots around was old hat, foreigners even more so in recent years. But they'd all mostly stuck to Beaufort Heights, the Spires, never somewhere located deep within this ethnic enclave of the Elyakim Underhive where unsavory types tended to gather.
But then again, who was he to judge when there was the clink of a credit to be made. And so far as dealing with an unruly customer went, a gun and a smile worked wonders. He could only hope that today wouldn't be one of those days.
"This one's yours, Dan."
"Thanks."
A piping hot bowl of beef and noodles lay before Danylo, and without wasting a single second did he sup quickly, performing the same old ritual he had always done. The hand-pulled noodles were the first to go. Then were the pieces of beef that he had fished out with the efficiency of a shark: Cuts of spiced brisket and tendon stewed for hours and garnished with pickled mustard. Lastly was that savory, unctuous, immensely satisfying broth, which he guzzled with great vigor. As delicious as always.
But something else lay within the deepest vestiges of his mind, an issue far more important than what kind of toppings went with a beef broth, or which instant noodle performed better for the price.
Normally he would have left after finishing his bowl of noodles, and that'd be the end. But this time was different.
A massive throng of people meandered through narrow streets and sidewalks, while from atop the balcony of a building hung bundles of sausage, waiting to dry. The telltale wail of a corporate patrol car could scarcely be heard in the distance, over muddled dialects and tongues. All this did he perceive from his perch upon a plastic stool, before perusing through case files and information upon a diminutive display.
Homicide. Corporate Espionage. Human Trafficking. More Homicide. There existed numerous things that happened underneath the surface of this multi-layered city that made Dandelion look like a pushover, the Outer Frontier, easy work. It was one thing to deal with small-time syndicates and roving bands of pirates; when the corporate police forces could be bribed and were out for each others' throats, that only made the work of the Chorusean Defense Force and the ISC that much harder.
"This one's for you."
Another bowl did Quinn place on a worn wooden counter, for the newcomer to partake in.
Post by Reya Starlyght on Apr 12, 2019 21:08:09 GMT
His fingers rapped on the counter softly, in a repetitive order that was nothing more than a passive motion, the nail of his pointer down to his pinkie, over and over. It beat no tune as it sometimes did, his mind too tired to even have some song stuck in it. Leo hadn't even really realized it until he sunk into the chair, the caffeine practically draining from his body, or so he felt. His right hand propped up his head, eyelids flickering as his yellowed sight passed over the grains of the wooden countertop, worn with age.
Leo was at that point in the day where he could empathize with an inanimate object, but paid little to no attention to the sirens wailing in the distance nor the rabble out of his sight although certainly not out of earshot. He just, honest to whatever deity that in all probability was nonexistent, didn't care. Hey, the table never did anything wrong. It couldn't do anything wrong, because it had no sense of morality, no conscience at all. Of course, that was common sense, and logically he should have taken as a signal to get some sleep, but at the thought Leo almost cringed visibly, and certainly did on the inside. It was a problem, of course, but an unavoidable one, or at least he considered it so. Before his train of thought became runaway again, though, the chef set a bowl of food on the surface, in which Leo offered a muddled, "Thank you." It was twofold, in a way, although certainly the man would never recognize such.
He consumed the dish slowly, deliberately, certainly in no rush nor with voracity. He didn't express disinterest, per se, it was more so he had time to spare, plenty of it as a matter of fact. It was quite good, he had to admit, especially considering the neighborhood. There was a kick to it, but not so overbearing that no flavor remained. As Leo was someone who had a bad habit of drowning food in hot sauce, well, it was a welcome change. Out of habit, however, he spared a glance at the man sitting beside him's device, not an obvious or truly telling one. The only thing he was able to discern was that his screen displayed a plethora of reports about criminal activity, chiefly because Leo was more than familiar with such data. It was a bit strange, really, considering the man didn't appear to be any sort of ISC officer or even a member of a lesser police force. His visage was too ragged, dress far too casual. Undercover was always a possibility, but why openly scroll through telling information, then?
Maybe he laid within one of the less satisfactory camps, and had simply acquired the data by equally dirty means. Whatever the case, from any passive or active observer of Leo it would seem that nothing had changed in his mentality or posture from a few moments before, and indeed that was for the most part true, although the slight flicker of intrigue had captured him.
There was a reason why he had continued to stay in that establishment, amid the harsh lighting of neon and the acrid yet aromatic smell of a thousand different things at once. A pitcher of water clattered as its contents were poured into a glass, and the unkempt-looking man ruffled unruly tufts of hair in slight frustration, coupled by the occasional sip of his drink. She was late for the arranged meeting. Fashionably so.
Makoto Mitsurugi was a career woman. A customer support representative for a micro-technologies company, she had turned to whistleblowing on the company's practices on Chorus, using B-Cube to stream virtual logs. A silly thing to do in Elyakim: the companies here acted like micro-nations in their own right, and extra-territoriality had practically become the new joke among many a Chorusean citizen. But for one reason or another, she had submitted a request to the ISC branch in Elyakim, a request for protection in exchange for critical information. Which only begged the question: what had she gotten herself into?
In this realm of actinic light and sweaty masses, far from the Spires or the barbed wires and gates of the ISC garrison, they were to rendezvous. Tired, bloodshot eyes scrutinized the individuals situated at the stand; the grizzled but welcome face of Quinn, the spare-framed, pallid but angular visage of a foreigner, and a petite individual garbed in loose clothing, stalked carefully by a group of hooded individuals. Mitsurugi...and if his intuition was correct, trouble.
Never before had Danylo felt more aware of the cold length of steel in his pocket. With luck, he’d never have to use it, but in the depths of Lower Elyakim, where all the grime and muck of this city of lies reared its head, who knew just what would happen.
"Miss Mitsurugi," the man waved toward the approaching figure, before bidding her sit by the counter next to him.
"The name's Hollis, by the way. Were you followed?"
A moment's hesitation, followed by a nod. He could see the fear, the paranoia in those wide brown eyes, and––hurriedly transferring over a couple of credits to Quinn did Dan throw the cowl of his jacket over his head, in a hurry to depart from the stall.
He wasn't fast enough.
One. Two. Three. A lithe man with the build of a boxer, dressed in a tank top and ripped jeans, alongside a heavyset individual and a humanoid automaton.
"There you are!" Tank-top heaved a dramatic sigh and took long strides toward Mitsurugi.
"I've been looking all over for you honey...I'm so sorry I scared you back there."
A sheepish laugh emanated from Tank-top's mouth, but there was no mistaking the look in his beady, blue eyes.
Post by Reya Starlyght on Apr 17, 2019 1:11:04 GMT
He didn't have to turn to know there was trouble afoot. A wary voice, the quivering of a person just barely in view, and then the tell-tale words of a predator, high on his thoughts of dominion. Leo's motions were soft, regretful, as with one hand he finished the bowl of sustenance, the other dropping down closer to his person, flirting with the handle of a diminutive blade. A woman, flanked by a supposed escort of individuals easily pegged in his mind as thugs, the automaton further supporting his theory.
So much for a peaceful night, then. "Take it somewhere else, will you?" he said casually, sifting through through a pocket and procuring a few credits to pay the chef. It was mildly provocative, though the types of men who had showed their face tended to never overlook bystanders, in any case. Report them to the police? What a ridiculous notion, considering Leo's past. Still, he slid off the stool, only to be greeted by a meaty hand to his shoulder, just as he had predicted.
"And where do you think you're going?" the man gruffed, in which Leo's gaze shifted up toward him, neither impressed nor perturbed. He twisted away from the goon's grip, jutting his hand upward. Stopping just short of the man's trachea, although with his thick, contorted trunk it would be hard for the inexperienced to tell exactly where that was, an onyx edge hovered at his skin, pressing against it as he attempted to move. The faintest trickle of blood dripped down the man's already damp husk, nothing more than a result of his impatient movements, or so Leo rationalized.
What a dilemma. In most cases, he wouldn't have hesitated to plunge the steel further into his flesh, but unfortunately given the turn of events it was likely this Dan Hollis, as he had surmised, was law enforcement of some sort. Sent to retrieve a damsel in distress, perhaps a person who retained important knowledge in her mind, or, more likely, a victim of abuse of some sort. A combination, as well, was possible, though less common. In any case, the man he held quite literally at knife point was starting to squirm, in something more than a reactionary measure as the hand that had previous gripped him was moving toward a weapon, a firearm as a matter of fact. "Don't," Leo stated, apathetic. "My hand just might slip." He gave a side eye to the Hollis fellow, who was similarly facing down another aggressor, however it was the machine that was the true concern in his thought process, for as much as he tried to deny Leo had never been great at determining what exactly devices could do. Robots, well, they were in another league altogether. Hopefully it wouldn't attack him with one of its presumed masters pinned down, but nevertheless he was wary, and to a degree wishing a more permanent action could be taken.
Far in the corner, the foreigner had entered an altercation with the hoodlum's friend, and almost immediately as they had begun their melee did Danylo make his move.
"Stay back."
A quick flick of the wrist, and a cold length of steel and rubber slammed straight into the knee of the man in the tank-top, before following into the face. It was a short, fluid motion from the bosom of Dan's jacket, and no sooner had the baton connected with the leader of the group did he tumble back, surprised and battered, but not beaten. A moment of shock manifested on his visage as he got back up. Shock that dissipated in a wave of red-hot rage.
"Bitch!"the man exclaimed, as he pointed an accusatory finger toward the Pergrandian. A misshapen lump in his black track pants indicated that he possessed a weapon of some kind, and as the thought of a potential shootout entered Danylo's mind did a cold chill creep up the back of his spine. He could already see it on the local news: ISC officer and foreign man shot during bold crime in progress. Naturally, there would be nothing as to the how and why: anything had a price on Chorus, and that included making people like Mitsurugi disappear. The man and his cronies would doubtless be pinned as scapegoats after everything was said and done, while somebody in a high-rise office overlooking the rest of the city below would profit. One needn't be too acute to the unspoken laws–or lack thereof–of Chorus to know that somebody was pulling the strings behind these individuals.
Even the automaton they'd brought along seemed like a corporate security model repurposed for combat, though black paint obscured its identifying marks in an attempt to make it less traceable. A heavy automatic rifle lay cradled in its arms, and as the leader of the group of miscreants pointed toward Danylo did it aim that cold barrel straight into his abdomen. And in the span of a single moment did the baton that Dan had wielded like an extension of his arm feel like a child's toy; what could it do against a machine with a gun? Even his sidearm seemed a peashooter in comparison to that thing.
"Droid, waste that fucker."
"That's enough."
Quinn slammed his free hand on the front of the counter, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Intricate swirls and tattooed runes formed a tapestry on his arm, and no sooner had he done so did he brandish his piece: A heavy revolver also inscribed with countless runes unfamiliar to the Fioran script. To Danylo and the Foreigner perhaps, the inscription on his gun, the tattoos on his sleeve, might have alluded to whom he was. And to the hoodlum and his cronies, those tattooed runes formed a symbol that every small-time gang in Lower Elyakim knew by heart.
Almaziviyi Dushi. Diamond Souls. One of the few syndicates in Elyakim that remained independent of corporate influence; thriving in the darkness and shadow of Elyakim's numerous lower level slums, supposedly led by a former Pergrandian naval commander and structured more like a well-organized mercenary company than a proper group. They were many things to the people of Little Euterpe: running protection rackets, offering hired gun services, all while staying clear of more sinful but lucrative means of making money. And if there was anything about the Diamond Souls that anyone worth their stuff in this cesspool of a slum knew, it was that they had a reputation for being as immovable in a fight as they were disciplined.
"If a murder happens in my stall, it'll be bad for business. So take this somewhere else."
"A-a-ahhh damn."
Tank-top stammered and began to backpedal away slowly, arms outstretched. Every ounce of fight in him had been sapped in the span of a single moment, and reluctantly did he beckon for his other, more heavy-set partner to leave. But just as they had begun to walk away did he glance back toward the scraggly-haired man in his zip-up hoodie, the foreign, platinum-haired man, alongside the petite woman whom they had attempted to target.
"You're done for. Both of you, and that cunt over there."
Post by Reya Starlyght on Apr 19, 2019 0:23:55 GMT
Out of all things, the machine produced an automatic rifle, its owner clearly not dissuaded by the fact that his apparent henchman was endangered by such an action. Truly, his diction told far more than he had probably intended to give away, with both his lack of refinement and aggressive tone. The woman was important to him, important enough that he would sacrifice a crony to get to her. Then again, that wasn't an uncommon trait in the underworld, in fact the opposite was usually more rare.
Leo was unfazed, however, perhaps wrongly but nonetheless that was the case. Most people would, after all, have at least expressed some concern with any sort of firearm pointed in their general vicinity, not to mention one that was generally reserved for military operations. Hollis certainly had such an expression plastered on his visage, though not nearly as extreme as the woman he was guarding. Unfortunate that she had fallen in with the wrong crowd, but that was just how the world operated. Wrong place, wrong time, and pieces fell like dominoes. The innocent were simply lucky, nothing more, nothing less.
Any bloodbath for the moment though was put off by an unlikely yet not unpleasant individual though, the rather displeased owner of the food stand. Turning his head back as the man he had previously been watching was also distracted by the chef, Leo saw the markings on his arm and immediately recognized them as those of a crime syndicate, although his knowledge failed him on any specifics. On the gun as well, that was a bit stranger, but perhaps was useful in the event that he didn't have the time to reveal his tattoos. Of course, Leo's first thought on the latter had been that it was a magical item of sorts, but given Chorus's more industrious background it was unlikely. A thread of familiarity was what his mind was pushing him toward, and he quickly brushed it aside.
Whatever organization the owner was a part of struck fear in the hearts of the assailants, and thus they retreated, Leo shoving the larger man back some, though not much, with his forearm and elbow, drawing his blade back at the same time to avoid any true injury. Once they had sulked off, the apparent leader offering some what was supposed to be snide comment, he flicked the drop of blood off the knife and stowed it away, retrieving a communications device in the process. "So, I take it you two are in some kind of trouble?" Leo questioned the man that still remained, also offering brief eye contact with the woman. "Must be in pretty deep, to warrant that kind of a threat." He was, of course, referring to the armament the droid had possessed, something expensive and not so readily available even on the black market. Or, at least, something that two lone thugs wouldn't have happened to come into possession of.
Waiting for Hollis to respond, he separated the two pieces of the device and a screen revealed itself, lit with a display. A standard mobile phone, something he had once considered a ridiculous concept, then something overly complicated, and now just a tool for various purposes. He found the first contact on his list, tapped it, and started typing, slow but not terribly so, probably only hinting at that he wasn't the most adept at doing such, rather than incapable of understanding it entirely. Might be back later, ran into some trouble. She responded within a few seconds. Okay, need help? No I'm fine, love you. Love you too. Leo collapsed the device, sliding it back into his pocket. His gaze returned to those present at the stand, and he nodded a gesture of gratitude toward the owner, belated but at least he did so. It was never good to get on the bad side of the underworld, no matter one's connections, and Chorus was indeed a place he was rather unfamiliar with, both due to its relatively recent inception and the branch of IMG located on it being the one himself and Eris visited least often.
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