"Up she goes there she goes..."

diabolicalxdamsel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **diabolicalxdamsel** on Sat Oct 18, 2008 8:07 pm

((OOC: This is a steampunk rp. Look it up if you don't know what it is. If you look it up and still can't get a good picture in your head, Think League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or Wild Wild West. I still have a few openings for anyone who is interested. You may find them here:
anyone-interested-group-steampunk-t12135.html

If anyone likes to be a bad guy or a crazy scientist for a short time, check out the page and hit me up!

Some parts are bigger, some parts are smaller. It all depends on how involved you are with other rps and the kind of posting you do. Readers are welcome to enjoy the story as it unravels.)))

The wind whipped about her dark hair as she stood before her pride and joy, The Scalawag. The vessel was the love child of her and her late father's engineer,Ignatius Rearden. It wasn't a particularly large airship, but that was the beauty of it. It was fast, but it was also strong. The body was carefully crafted by welding layers of various metals and shaping them against reinforced rods. The helium balloon was built just large enough to lift and lower the vessel. Two giant propellers protruded from either side for whenever there was a lack of wind, and billowing white sails were all over. A net of ropes led up to the crow's nest which perched beneath the balloon. The deck was made of rough metal grooves to keep from slipping and a lightning rod trailed from behind. Honestly, it wasn't the prettiest machine out there. Neither she nor her partner cared for looks, however she KNEW they built the greatest ship for the job.

She walked on deck, her dark eyes taking in over ten months of hard labor. Her small hand were well calloused and she lost quite a bit of weight during her madness. She promised not to go into the lower quarters until Iggy (the name she said only SHE could call her parter. He hated the nickname anyway, but she didn't care) arrived. He wanted to show her what he had created. She gladly left the mechanics to him with saying that the only extras she wanted was a way to tansport various items and communicate throughout the ship. She leaned againt the main mast and itled her head up towards the billowing white sails that seemed to embrace the breeze like an old lover. I made it for you, daddy. She thought. Even the name painted on both sides in gold held a part of his spirit. The Scalawag was a long earned title he gained from both colleagues and rivals do to his highly quirky and often improper behavior. It had been a year since his murder and the fires of rage still burned within her. She had spent the year building the ship and gathering help. She finally had it all. Everyone was to meet here to discuss departure, bunking, needed items, and to tour the ship.

She sighed. Sure the vessel was sturdy and could endure the angriest weather, but it was too small to hold all the needed cargo nor did it have a mighty enough defense system to keep the crew safe. She knew of only one vessel she deemed worthy to travel along: The Friday. However there was a problem. She truly loathed the Captain Ezra Blake, the owner and her biggest rival. "That [i]trouduc/i]." she muttered. A good handful of her hatred stemmed from her highly competitive spirit. They raced each other for about four years. She would win some and he would win some. Currently he was the topmost pilot in the states. Being in second place would often put her in a foul mood.

She pulled a fat cigar and a box of matches from her back pocket. She put the cigar to her lips and struck the stick against the box. She held the flame against the tobacco and did a few short inhales until the end was glowing red. All she wanted to do was to take off. She belonged no where else but up in the air. She by far was not the kind of woman meant for the ground. She clearly didn't fit into the women of the ground. She found dresses and corsets inhibiting and a hassle and nearly always wore men's clothing she tailored herself to fit her form. She found rich gentlemen to be "weak" and "scrawny" and normally told the ones that tried to flirt with her that the handkerchiefs they carried in their pockets "were for sniveling little boys"

She gazed down at the city from the rooftop. She hated how the thick black smoke from the surrounding factories clouded the beautiful blue sky that awaited her. She climbed the edge of the starboard and balanced along one foot in front of the other cigar ashes carrying away in the wind to meet with ashes from furnaces of iron factories to meet with smoke from heaters that kept laboring children warm in the cotton mills and so on.

reticulated99 · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **reticulated99** on Sat Oct 18, 2008 11:28 pm

Belowdecks, Ignatius breathed out hard to pump a little more power into his helmet's Stirling engine and twisted the zoom control, taking a closer look at one of the shaft linkages in the rudder mechanism. Something sounded wrong when he had fiddled with the controls experimentally, and he wanted a closer look.

"All right, you metallic monstrosity, how have you chosen to ruin my day this time?"

He inspected each linkage carefully, then pulled a small pressure gauge from one of the innumerable pockets on his vest and started checking the hydraulic cylinders. Pressure was fine on the right main, but the left...the left was below optimal.

"So where are you leaking, hmm? Let's have a look at the shaft..."

Sure enough, hidden under the gasket that covered where the shaft went into the cylinder, was the inescapable fact that the manufacturer had made the cylinder a quarter-inch too wide, and the shaft was shifting back and forth within the cylinder as it moved in and out. Needless to say, this was hardly a pleasing thing for Ignatius to find.

"Oh, lovely, just LOVELY! The only thing I've found worse than this was the cylinder head in the right engine that was made out of iron-plated bronze instead of steel--and the only reason that was worse was because I had to fix it while the thing was still RUNNING! I told her I could handle all the casting, I did, but what did she say? 'I don't want to overwork you, Iggy,' that's what! Bah! I've done more work fixing that contractor's buggery than I would have making the parts myself! And it's a good thing I hooked up the engine exhaust to drive a furnace, because if we had to buy all our parts, even I couldn't make this thing fly! Now then...I don't have time to replace it--and the crane we put the rudder assembly in with is long gone anyway. I can't even swing the rudder all the way over to the other side and pull the shaft out of the cylinder, because it doesn't swing that far. So I have to fix it in situ somehow, or at least find a workaround. Hmm."

Ignatius pulled a set of calipers from his belt and checked the dimensions of the shaft, the cylinder, and the gap in between. He knew every correct measurement on The Scalawag by heart, but the first step to solving any engineering problem is gathering data, and if he neglected to do it now, it would come back to bite him later.

"Outside diameter 8.2521, inside diameter 7.5005, both within tolerance--but .650 larger than specification. Shaft diameter 6.8503, perfectly on spec--which, of course, is because I made it myself. Ho hum, just another day at the office. So. Couple of long rubber pieces to fill the gap, cut a washer in half and weld it on to hold them in. Ought to work. Have to drain off some of the h-fluid 'cause there won't be as much room for it--above-optimal pressure with same amount. Let's go see what we've got lying around in the way of spare gaskets. And where's the acetylene bottle got to?"

Fortunately, production of the parts was simple once Ignatius found a rubber hose with fortuitously desirable dimensions; all he had to do was cut it in half with his knife. A search of the parts strewn around his workbench yielded an 8.25 inch washer; they were common, as that diameter was standard for a lot of the larger mechanisms. Having a single scale for an entire design project made things a lot simpler to maintain. As he slid the rubber pieces into the cylinder and welded his makeshift endcap into place, he remembered The Scalawag's namesake.

"Now, there was a genius! I met him at HMU, although, of course, they'd already ostracized him by that time and he wasn't a professor anymore. He used to wander into the machine shops. Most of the students just thought he was some bum, but after he helped me figure out why my bifurcated reciprocating crankshaft mechanism was throwing metal shavings so hard that they stuck in the door, I asked him who he was. I couldn't believe it! Carlotta's got her own reasons for going out--he was her father, after all--but I want to know what happened too. I had so much left to learn from him! There, that ought to do it. Now, to drain off some of the h-fluid... As for her, all I have to say is, if she ever tries to buy a part that I could have made again, I'm going to drain all her blood out and use it as lubricant. NOBODY's ever going to abuse you like that nitwit Mowen did by putting these parts in you. You hear me? NOBODY."

Ignatius slid over to the end of the cylinder, opened the adjustment valve, and drained out some of the fluid into a puddle on the deck, then shut the valve and went to the secondary control set, hooked onto the cables that ran down from the captain's wheel up above. He turned them from side to side gingerly at first, then with greater force, swinging the great rudder from side to side.

"Come on, Scalawag, wag your tail for me... Excellent. Yeah. I'm good. So are you. Good girl, smooth as silk. Carlotta's gonna love you. ...Oh, crap!"

He smacked himself on the forehead and swore again when he bruised his hand on his helmet. Tearing the device off and tossing it onto his workbench, Ignatius tore up the stairs to the deck, head swiveling as he looked for Carlotta--an hour and a quarter after she was supposed to arrive.

diabolicalxdamsel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **diabolicalxdamsel** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 1:03 am

((OOC: LMAO! He's fabulous! I love him!))

Meanwhile, Carla was relaxing on the starboard, her cigar a little nub. She spent sometime making sure her quarters had everything ready. The desk was securely nailed to the floor. Every drawer had a hook and a nail to keep them from opening during unsteady flights. Maps were properly organized on shelves covered by little wire doors. She kept three sets of trousers and buttoned white shirts just like what she wore. She also had boots with rubber bottoms which were for wearing on stormy evenings. Everyone on her ship was given a pair along with a rubber fisherman's jacket and hat. Unfortunately, she also felt the need to pack two dresses just in case she had to run across the suspects at sort of social affair.

She wrinkled her nose at the thought and prayed that she would be able to avoid that option. Her bed was as simple and uncomfortable as the rest of the crew's. She never thought herself above anyone else however, since she did design and help build her ship, she wanted her own room. She pretty much threw a bed and a built in trunk inside of an office. Iggy also had a room to himself and she created a small room for the detective. Everyone else had to bunk together. However, she designed to the bunks impressively Across from each bed was a latched door they could pull down there was shelving and containers for everyone's belongings (the nurse's bunk was especially designed to hold all her tools). The beds could be folded up against the wall during the day and little walls that could be folded up to keep the crew from falling out during turbulent flying.

Indeed she was proud of the design. Everything was built to keep from moving during flight. Even cargo containers were nailed to the floor. This made the loading of goods more of a hassle, but it would pay off in the end whenever the sails get caught in bug gust of wind and barrels aren't rolling and smashing against the wall.

She flicked the remainder of her cigar overboard just when she heard heavy, hurried footsteps. They were undeniable and sure enough she saw the sweaty, narrow face of her companion and partner. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. His tardiness was more than expected. She knew the man since she was a teenager. She recalled sometimes being literally chased or thrown out of his workroom a few times a week. Her boundless curiosity would drive him insane until one day she showed him some of her blueprints of an airship she planned to build and drew in the mechanics for her. Then there was a nuteral respect towards one another. After her father's death and afer she presented him her plans for The Scalawag, their madness fueled each other's madness. They were two colleagues who ate, drank, and dreamed their work. When most people found his antics something disgraceful, she found them kind of precious like watching a frustrated little boy.

"Just in time as usual, friend!" She greeted. She saw by the look on his face, she was in for an earful so she doubted her sass would dig her a deeper hole than he was about to put her in. She smiled brightly whipping out another cigar and holding it out in front of him as a sort of peace offering.

reticulated99 · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **reticulated99** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 11:28 am

Ignatius pulled up and glared at her, clearly winding up for a diatribe. He respected Carla immensely, but sometimes he just wanted to hit her with a spanner--he'd done it before, too, even if it was only a small one. Stealing and taking apart his only half-inch trundle bearing had been a great indication of engineering promise, but it had set him back three weeks while he made another. She might be in charge now, but when it came to his mechanisms, nobody was going to gainsay him.

"Sorry I'm late. But one of the rudder control cylinders that somebody said it would be easier to order from the foundry was the wrong size! Enough cycles, and the entire thing would have come apart, probably wrecked the entire steering system. With our luck, would've been in the middle of a storm, too! The next time you settle for subpar materials when I could have made better myself, I'll, I'll--I don't know what I do, but you can bet it'll be unpleasant. If it weren't for the cigar--give me that--I'd have half a mind to do it right now! But the important thing is that it's fixed, I suppose. So--light, please?--where are the rest of this so-called crew?"

Chronepsis · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Chronepsis** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 12:27 pm

Alexandre checked his pocket watch and looked up at the farrago of a vessel before him. Nodding, he clicked the clasp gently and replaced the watch in his vest pocket. Has it really only been three months since I spoke with the captain? He looked about slightly apprehensively at the shadowed alleys, only further darkened by the smog that drifted overhead, and for not the first time, shook off the feeling of eyes watching him. He was certainly a sight to behold in this dingy street, even here somehow maintaining an almost sterile appearance in his pristine white suit, even his rucksack was of a brilliant white leather hide, and not the least uncomfortable as many of similar standing would be in these squalid surroundings. Sniffing disdainfully, Alex pushes his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and begins striding purposefully, if a bit gingerly towards the Scalawag.

As he reaches the edge of the street, about to step out to the docks, Alex feels himself being jerked backwards and stumbles blindly into an alley behind him. A hand grabs his shoulder from behind and he can feel a slight pressure against the small of his back as a low voice rasps in his ear. "Gimme all ya got. Money, jewelry, anything worth anything. Hell, just anything. And don't forget that damn bag."

Reaching up, Alex gently but firmly removes the hand from his shoulder and begins brushing off his coat, not turning to face the attempted mugger. "Why are you doing this? The strain in your voice denotes that you are trying to conceal your identity, not an unwise decision, yet the way you stumbled over the vernacular says you are unused to such coarse language. Unless I miss my guess, and I never do, you are of the upper class. I would also go so far as to say you have recently fallen on hard times, and have resorted to theft as a means of supporting yourself." Alex hears a soft sobbing behind him as the pressure in his back decreases. He turns to face the man and smiles wryly at the man. "And you're crying because you have a family that depends on you." The man nods, tears creating rivulets in his grimy face.

Alex sighs and looks about, making sure there are no other men about to see or overhear what he is about to say. He reaches into his coat's inner pocket and retrieves his wallet, a simple thing that looks as though a child might have made it, and pulls out a couple of bills. Handing them to the man, he gives him instructions while writing on a small scrap of paper that the man was too astonished to notice. "This man is a friend of mine. He is in constant need of good men to help him in his store. Tell him Alex sent you. It is not the best pay, but it's enough that you don't need to mug people on the streets to keep your family alive." Alex hands the man the paper, which has a name and address written on it, and places his hand on the man's shoulder. "This sort of thing is dangerous. If I had had a mind to..." Alex spins a knife into his other hand, seemingly from nowhere, then slides it back as soon as he's sure the man saw it. "I could have ended your life in this alley, thus ending any chance your family had to scratch out a living for itself without your children themselves turning to crime. You just happened to try to mug the right man." He smiles warmly and the man begins thanking Alex profusely. "Don't thank me, just get that job for your family's sake. Oh, and say hello to Bruce for me."

Alex chuckles to himself as the man sprints back up the alley, checking and rechecking the paper as if to make sure it won't vanish from one moment to the next, then turns himself back towards the docks. Seeing Miss Depaul on the deck of the medley ship, Alex sighs and walks up the gangplank. I was afraid this was the right one... Upon reaching the deck, however, he notices another man, seemingly fuming at the captain. One look told Alex this was the ship's engineer, and he leaned against the railing smiling as he waited out of earshot for the captain to finish her business with her crew.

Paprika · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Paprika** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 3:52 pm

To many of the more aesthetically-interested in the business of airships, the Scalawag seemed nothing more than a thrown-together, mechanical monstrosity, capable of flight only through some awful coincidence of Physics. To those with a trained eye, however, it could be seen that the ship was fantastically designed, an absolute marvel of engineering. Delia looked upon the ship with a somewhat affectionate gaze, eyes wandering slowly over its hulking form. It was not the biggest of vehicles, but it was a sizeable thing indeed.

Pacing towards it steadily - lugging a number of bags and cases with her, most of them filled with various pieces of medical equipment - Delia somehow managed to scale the long, and somewhat unstable ramp that led up to the deck. This process took a good ten minutes considering the weight she carried, and the frailty of her figure. As she moved, the aching of her shoulders increasing with each dragged step, voices aboard the ship already could be heard, carried to her ear upon the soft caress of the wind.

"...--give me that--I'd have half a mind to do it right now! But the important thing is that it's fixed, I suppose. So--light, please?--where are the rest of this so-called crew?"

Delia stepped aboard the deck as this voice finished. She proceeded to quietly pile her things to one side of the ship, keeping it all in a tidy collection there until she had somewhere to place it all. Glancing around, she could see the Captain, and Ignatius, clearly chattering about matters concerning them. She also noticed another presence; a sandy-haired male, with a slender build, stood against the railing a short distance away.

Approaching him quietly - attempting to hide the exhausted heave of her chest, her messy hair now billowing in the light wind - she cast him a smile.

"I take it you're waiting for them to finish, too, sir?"

Chronepsis · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Chronepsis** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 5:38 pm

Alex had been so intent in studiously examining the upper deck of the Scalawag that he hadn't noticed the newest arrival until she had spoken to him. Seeming to jump in surprise, he grins sheepishly and adjusts his glasses. "That I am. I find it quite rude to interrupt others' discussions, and business exchanges even more so." He looks over Delia and a slight quirk turns his grin into a knowing smile as his eyes hover on her hands a moment or so more than the rest of her, even her milky white, mechanical eye. "My name is Alexandre Josiah Keline III, though I would quite prefer it if you would call me Alex. And you, I presume, are the medical expert for our little sojourn. Very pleased to meet you." Enhancing this with a bow and a slight flourish, Alex straightens and eyes her luggage. "I do apologize, I would have offered help if I hadn't been otherwise, though not excusably, occupied."

Irish Wolf · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Irish Wolf** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 5:43 pm

On the opposite end of the Scalawag's deck, a large man stood staring out over the city, the shirt sleeves of his plain white shirt were rolled up, exposing the many black markings on his tan skin. Entire sections along the the man's thick arms were pure back, the tattoos having been drilled into his flesh by a boar's tusk, that had been dripped ink and pounded on his body with a hammer. In the middle of his forehead was something that was not seen on the native of Fiji, a five pointed star, placed there in sake of his name.

Turning to face the gangplank, Starbuck Roxbury noticed a well dressed fellow that he didn't know. A small and well used pipe was pulled from his pocket, coupled with a pouch of loose tobacco leaves. He thumbed a pinch of the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe, has he walked towards the pair. About half way across the deck, he put the pouch away and drew a match from his pocket. Striking it on the smooth sperm whale tooth that formed the pipe, he placed the pipe between his teeth and placed the burning head of the match into the bowl. With a deep intake of breath, the tobacco leaves started to burn.

"Excuse me" said Starbuck, walking up behind the stranger, "But what is your business aboard the Scalawag?"

Paprika · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Paprika** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 6:31 pm

The male adjusted his glasses with a slight raise of his expression.

"That I am. I find it quite rude to interrupt others' discussions, and business exchanges even more so. My name is Alexandre Josiah Keline III, though I would quite prefer it if you would call me Alex. And you, I presume, are the medical expert for our little sojourn. Very pleased to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you," Delia smiled in a response to his own, offering her short bow in return. "Yes, I am, my name is Delia Allegra. Don't bother with calling me doctor, or anything like that. I personally don't care for the title. I find it quite intimidating when others refer to themselves with a distinguished title, so I do not do it myself."

"I do apologize, I would have offered help if I hadn't been otherwise, though not excusably, occupied."

A grin escaped her as she looked back at the pile of things, scratching her name slightly as she did so. It was kind of him to mention this - it was considerate that he was showing his concern. The man seemed quite the gentleman so far, in both his speech, mannerisms, and tone. A distinguished male, it seemed.

"Oh, don't worry about that," she insisted. "What matters is that it's all on board now. The next challenge is getting it to my room, and having it all set up!"

Hearing a third voice, Delia turned slightly, unsure as to just who it had been directed to. She did not reply, however, showed acknowledgement as to not appear rude, gazing upon the man with interested eyes, and a positive expression. Tidying up her appearance briefly, she managed to drag her locks into a loose ponytail for the time being. She looked - and felt - a mess, what with her less-than-feminine attire. The difficult load she was to carry left her deciding that comfortable, loose clothing would be most suitable, so, a single-coloured smock it was.

Chronepsis · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Chronepsis** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 9:09 pm

"Well I would be more than happy to assist in the relocation of your belongings. All I have to stow is right here." Alex shrugs his right shoulder, indicating the rucksack on his back and hears the voice behind him. Turning to face the Boatswain, for once he seems taken aback. "You certainly must have had quite the adventures. Your accent places you from The northern US, I'd say Massachusetts, but those tattoos, Southern seas?"

Alex offers the man his left hand in a gesture of friendship. "I am Alexandre Josiah Kelsine III. I have already spoken with your captain and gained passage on this vessel. I assume you are the Boatswain, are you not?"

diabolicalxdamsel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **diabolicalxdamsel** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 9:34 pm

*Her laugh was deep and smooth. She lit another match match and held it to his smoke. "I am only making sure you don't work yourself into a stupor. How could I possibly drive you mad if you were catatonic?" She grinned cheekily. During construction, she actually thought about making him first mate...for less than a second. She couldn't decide who would be driven to madness first, he or the poor crew. It would be most unfair to both parties. She envisioned a raging Iggy throwing who knows what tools at a cowering crew. "And I have a whole bottle of your favorite gin locked away in my desk, darling" She ruffled his hair and made a face at the amount of sweat she got on her hand.

"They should be here anytime" she said wiping her hand against her trousers. "Ah! Here they are now! Oh dear...looks like Starbuck got to them first. Let's get over there before he frightens the poor things off-board." She was thrilled whenever she came across Starbuck and she knew she couldn't have hired a better boatswain. He was a hard worker and already his loyalty was set. He was a very kind man, but very intimidating to most at first. She recalled the day she met him. He was rather surprised to have such a petite woman just stride right up to him. He learned right off the bat however, that her persona was anything but.

"Miss Allegra, Mr. Kelsine! Welcome aboard!" She called flashing a smile. "I am pleased to see you to again" Once again, she couldn't have hired better. She held out her previously sweat ridden hand out halfway as if to shake their hands then reconsidered waving it across her vessel" Wonderful isn't it?" She beamed with pride. They hadn't changed a bit since she saw them last. She found Miss Allegra to be a charming girl with splendid talents. She made a mental note not to nose about too much down into the workings of the ship unless she was prepared to dodge wrenches and fists. Mr. Kelsine looked as clean as her sails. He was a peculiar man and in that she found him to be trustworthy. He was also one of the most keen detectives she ever came across. He knew exactly what she wanted him to do as soon as she walked in the door. He also knew that she was a pilot and had a croissant for breakfast. The both of them were a little too introverted and proper than she preferred, but she was sure four months or more together on an airship would change that.

"Allow me to introduce you to my friend and boatswain, Starbuck Roxbury." She indicated to her large friend. "And to my dear friend and partner in crime, Ignatius Rearden. He is the onboard engineer of this outfit and the only reason this mess can fly" She lighly elbowed him in the arm as a quiet reminder to try and be welcoming. She knew how he could be with strangers around his machines."

"Well whenever everyone is ready, I suppose we can take a tour and I will show you to your bunks! Afterwards we can discuss what needs to be done before we takeoff and have a toast."

reticulated99 · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **reticulated99** on Sun Oct 19, 2008 10:34 pm

Ignatius scrutinized the pair as he took a draw of the cigar. The man wouldn't be a problem--he was probably too fussy about keeping those gloves white to ever bother Ignatius belowdecks. The only thing he really noticed about the girl was her obviously artificial eye, which look absolutely fascinating. If that was her own work, they might have something worth discussing. If not, well, as long as she stayed out of his workshop, he wouldn't hit her with a wrench. Roxbury, of course, already knew better, so from Ignatius' point of view, everything that mattered was already taken care of. Things like what the others did, what the sleeping arrangements were, or even where they were going were unimportant compared to his privacy and freedom to tinker with Scalawag. Carla's elbow reminded of their careful coaching about not throwing things until it was too late for them to get off, so he deliberately but unobtrusively kept his hands away from his toolbelt.

Paprika · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Paprika** on Mon Oct 20, 2008 5:00 pm

"Well I would be more than happy to assist in the relocation of your belongings. All I have to stow is right here."

The offer made by the male took Delia somewhat by surprise. Very appreciative, her face beamed with a sincere smile, a nod of her head being given as a soft response.

"Thank you," her response came, "that would be very helpful, sir." Alex then moved on to speak to the heavy-set male, however, was interrupted by the chipper voice of the Captain. Delia showed her full attention, shifting her pose so that she faced the woman head-on. Attentive, she absorbed every word as she welcomed them, introducing both the larger, more solidly built man - who was to be known as Starbuck - and the rather stoic-looking engineer she had been chatting with, Ignatius. She gave little time for them to reply to her various cheerful remarks, but, Delia did not mind. The woman spoke with such passion for her work that she found it difficult to even notice her blurting.

"Well whenever everyone is ready, I suppose we can take a tour and I will show you to your bunks! Afterwards we can discuss what needs to be done before we takeoff and have a toast."

A softened look came about Delia's face. Bowing again, with respect, she held out a hand to the Captain.

"It's good to see you once more, Captain," she beamed, before giving a similar look of affection to the engineer himself, adding, "and it's wonderful to meet you, too. You must be skilled to keep a ship such as this going. I trust we will be in your safe hands."

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Mon Oct 20, 2008 5:26 pm

At first, Ezra thought it was the harsh sunlight filtering through the reinforced glass panes of the windows of his cabin that woke him. Or the creaking of the ropes that anchored the gondola of The Friday to pier 12 of Manhattan Dock. He groaned into his pillow, fisting his hands into the sheets, as his hangover emerged from the recesses of sleep and his head began to feel as if it was being split down the middle.

"Capt'n? CAPT'N!" bellowed Czeslaw, the first mate, from outside, pumelling the door so loudly it was like a lightning storm had erupted somewhere behind Ezra's eyes. Panicking, he tried to get up and promptly stumbled out of bed and straight into the floorboards. "CAPT'N! They're saying Vanderburg's men are on their way!"

Ezra swore loudly and somehow managed to find a shirt in the clothes strewn about at the bottom of his bed. He pulled it on, together with his trousers and fumbled with the laces on his boots.

"Cap-!"

"All right! All right..." he managed, going over to the door of his cabin and opening it, blinking in the sunlight from the deck. "Who told you that, Czes?" he said to the huge man who was waiting frantically in the doorway.

"That little weasel on dock security was just down here. Vanderburg's sent someone to get you, Capt'n, The Friday and her crew too. I don't think he's happy that we couldn't pay for that shipment. Really, really unhappy..."

Ezra swore for a second time and went up onto fo'c'sle of the deck. Most of the crew were on deck, eyeing him with varying degrees of anxiety and, for a few, relish of a good fight ahead. The Polish first mate, distinctive with his heavy-set features, dark wiry beard and piggy grey eyes, stood with his arms crossed at the bottom of the steps.

"Right, Vanderburg's on our tail, lads," shouted Ezra, his voice cracking a little with the effort as every word pounded in his skull. "And whilst I would willingly offer myself to him to save you lot," he continued, to a spattering of laughter, "he's not going to be happy with just me. He wants The Friday as well. So unless you want to try and walk home on broken legs, get to your positions and start hoisting the sails for launch. Now!"

The deck erupted into a flurry of movement that, under its facade of disorganisation and haphazard energy, was actually a routine that had been hammered into the heads of every man present by years of flying experience. Ezra himself had started as a deckhand when he was just twelve, before, of course, his abilities as a pilot and navigator had been unearthed. He'd been aboard The Friday for the last ten years. Consequently, he knew its every rope, pulley and propeller better than anyone.

As he began turning on the bank of dials and buttons that occupied one wall of the control cabin on the upper deck, he glanced through the grubby windows towards the pier. The heavy-class racing business had largely dried up a year or two or so and, although this income had been suplemented by the winnings Ezra himself often took from racing the tiny still-popular one-man ships, they had been forced to increasingly rely on money for shipping runs to keep The Friday flying. It was a shame, though. He missed the adrenaline of racing. He missed the roar of the crowd, almost inaudible from so high up, and the mechanical whine of the aeroengines as he over-took another ship on a corner. He also missed the rivalry of the fiercely competitive but rather attractive Carlotta Depaul and he remembered how much he had enjoyed winding her up over a hidden frequency on the ship's radio (as rules stated that no communication was allowed between racers during a race) as they pulled up to the starting line. He'd heard the news about her old man last year and hadn't seen or heard from her since. Occasionally, he wondered what had happened to her.

He suspected that it might have been because of some kind of need for adventure, instilled by his love of racing, that he had accepted an offer from Vanderburg in the first place. The wealthy Dutch businessman had offered Ezra enough money to keep The Friday fuelled for a year in exchange for the shipment of snell lenses to Tokyo. These finely-crafted pieces of curved glass were used in the latest optical technologies and Vanderburg wanted them imported into Tokyo via 'alternative channels' so his company would not have to pay import tax to have their new telescreens manufactured. To Ezra it had seemed too good to be true. A bit of smuggling and he could spend the rest of the year racing. It hadn't been his fault that the Chinese Republican Air Police had intercepted them and they'd had to jetison the entire cargo somewhere in the Gobi desert to avoid suspicion.

When they'd landed in Tokyo afterwards, Vanderburg had not been happy and Ezra had the broken nose to prove it. After promising to transfer him money they didn't have, The Friday left Japan illegally and flew non-stop for two weeks across the Pacific and North America. They'd landed in Manhattan under a false name and, to celebrate their lucky escape, Ezra had spent most of his night in the Latitude Bar with Czeslaw, Airedale, Sam and the others.

But, it seemed, their escape had not been an escape at all because Vanderburg had once again caught up with them...

diabolicalxdamsel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **diabolicalxdamsel** on Tue Oct 21, 2008 11:26 pm

((OOC: if the chronepsis doesn't post by tomorrow night, I'll post))

diabolicalxdamsel · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **diabolicalxdamsel** on Wed Oct 22, 2008 11:24 pm

Her jaw clenched just a tad when Delia spoke to Iggy The hell does she mean a ship like THIS?!? she thought applying a firmer handshake than necessary. She tried to convince herself the lass didn't mean it as an insult. She was a genuine girl and perhaps didn't realize how her words came out. "It's good to see you again too" she responded lowering her hand.

"Well off we go now" She explained the communication system which was done by pulling a lever that directed the speaker's voice to the right room. The person speaking then would talk through a coppery pipe that had a funnel like fixture at the end. Another slightly larger fixture hung above the person's head where they would hear the other from. Transportation of smaller items such as food from the hold to the bunkers and such was created through a steam powered pulley system. Each room had a contraption very similar to a dumbwaiter except the containers could also move side to side as well as upside down. Each room had it's own number one being the upperdecks, 2 being her quarters, and so on. One would simply just put whatever item into the container, shut the door, press the number on the pad next to it, and pull the lever on the other side. She toured the hold advising that if anyone wanted to take a few luxury items or special foods, they should do it quickly. She showed them the engine room meaning they stood inside it briefly to see the mechanics of the machine and went out quickly before Iggy got nervous. She showed them their bunks and how to keep their belongings secure during rough winds.

"Well, I suppose that's the important stuff. If ou have any questions feel free to ask" She led them into her quarters and opened one of the cabinents. The glasses and bottle of wine were all secured by thier own little belts. She took them down and poured them all a half a glass of deep red cabernet sauvignon. She lifted her glass

"May our journey be a safe one...well not so safe that it's boring, but enough that we make it home relatively unharmed. And may we find the culprit of my father's murder and may his legacy live on. Let us never EVER be anyone other than who we are no matter how much of a crackpot society thinks you are. Society changes but integrity is forever. Cheers!" She gulped her wine to hide her blush. She was never good at speeches. Even when she won a race she always felt awkward and hoped she never forgot to mention anyone.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Fri Oct 24, 2008 8:59 am

Ezra was just adjusting the envelope buoyancy in preparation for take-off when a shout arose from the deck.

"We've got company, Capt'n!" called Csezlaw.

Ezra span around, hand on his pistol but, as he cautiously exited the control cabin, was suprised to find, not a dozen bulky men armed to the teeth, but a solitary figure who looked more like an accountant than a hitman. He was dressed smartly, in a neat grey suit and his shoes were so polished that one could almost see the reflection of his balding head in them. He held a leather suitcase in one hand.

Csez was pointing a gun at his chest.

"Says he's from Vanderburg," muttered the first mate, as Ezra approached. The thin, besuited man rolled his eyes.

"If your associate wouldn't mind lowering his weapon..." he said, in a crisp American accent that clipped the end off each constanant and strung each vowel between them. "You are Mr Ezra Blake, correct? This is The Friday."

"Captain Blake, actually," said Ezra, not bothering to lie. He gestured to Czes to lower the gun. Reluctantly, the other man did as he was told. "Who the hell are you?"

"That doesn't really matter, Mr Blake," said the newcomer. The rest of the crew were watching, muttering in low voices. What was Vanderburg doing? "As you know," the man went on, "I work for Mr Vanderburg. He was disappointed to hear of your abrupt departure from Tokyo, especially when you had not compensated him for the cargo you lost before you left."

Ezra said nothing. Vanderburg hadn't sent this man simply to express his 'disappointment'.

"As he is a reasonable man, he has decided to give you more time to pay. Until the end of this year, Mr Blake. But you must pay the full price for the lenses; they are extremely valuble to electronical manufacturers, you know. He expects the payment of seven thousand dollars, or five thousand pounds, if you prefer to pay in your native currency, by January the first."

Ezra stared at him. "What?" he burst out. "Reasonable? His men did this!" He gestured at his broken nose, taking a step towards him. "And where am I supposed to get that amount of money from? That's more than I'd make in three years and you want me to get it in three months? I told him that it wasn't our fault, the Chinese-"

"Mr Vanderburg regrets the enthusiasm of his employees, Mr Blake. But he is confident you can obtain the money in time and, if not, he has insurance in the form of your ship, of course," said the man, with a cool smile that made Ezra want to punch his stupid spectacles into his face.

"Yeah, you just try and take the Friday..." he growled, prodding the man's chest with his finger.

"Worse things could happen to you than the removal of your ship, Mr Blake."

"Is that a theat?" said Czeslaw in a low voice, raising his gun back up to the man's head and spitting over the side. "We don't take kindly to having our Capt'n threatened..." Behind him, the other members of the crew were shifting closer.

Vanderburg's man's eyes slid over to the view past Ezra's shoulder.

"You now know where you stand, Mr Blake," he said, looking back at Ezra. His icily grey eyes met Ezra's moss-green ones and there was a hint of vindictive enjoyment behind his cool business-like manner. "Oh, and Mr Vanderburg's condition is that your ship must remained docked in Manhattan. He would not want it to go missing whilst you are away. Good-day." He stepped away and walked calmly back across the gangplank, suitcase swinging a little in his hand.

Ezra could feel everyone's eyes on him and he attempted to bury some of the dread that was creeping out of the depths of his mind. There was no way he could find that sort of money in three months. The Friday was as good as gone and if not, he was as good as dead. And what were the crew supposed to do? Most of them didn't have any other life apart from what was aboard this ship, himself included.

"Czes?" he said.

"Yes, Capt'n?"

"Continue to prepare for launch. But for God's sake don't let anyone catch you doing it. Leave tonight when it's dark. You decide where to go. Just make sure you repaint and rebuild The Friday's so not even I can tell which ship it is. Understood?"

Czes looked hesitant. "Well, yes, but what about-?"

"I'll get the money. Probably. I just don't want him to take The Friday and kick you out if I don't. Meet me at Hyde Park Docks in London on the 2nd of January."

"Capt'n..."

"Just do it. Please? You're in charge until I get back." Ezra ran his hands through his hair and ducked inside the cabin to retrieve his battered leather aviator's jacket. He started towards the gangplank.

"But where are you going?" The big man looked as lost as Ezra had ever seen him. He'd come round though. The Pole would make a good pilot for The Friday, or whatever it would come to be called.

"The bar," said Ezra darkly.

As he walked down the pier, he could hear deckhands and dock officials muttering. Word would spread fast...

Paprika · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **Paprika** on Fri Oct 24, 2008 5:05 pm

Delia winced slightly at the forcefulness of the Captain's handshake, but thought nothing more of it. She was quite delicate, and understood that it was not others' fault if they seemed rough with her.

The Captain then went on to give them the grand tour of the ship. Thinking it would be best to leave her things on the deck for now, Delia followed obediently, taking notice of each thing that the woman showed her crew. The systems for speaking, and sending little items were simply fascinating. Delia marveled at their simplistic efficiency as the Captain explained them in turn. She'd be using those often, she thought to herself, walking down the corridor to the engine room. Peering through the door was like looking into a small treasure chest. Eyes darting around the place, from the long, twisting pipes, to the interesting little pulleys, levers, and control systems, Delia found herself quite mesmerised while watching the way that it all interacted and worked. It was simply astounding.

"Well, I suppose that's the important stuff. If ou have any questions feel free to ask."

The captain went on to her own quarters, kindly pouring out half a glass of wine for each of her crew members before beginning a short speech. Not one for drinking, Delia simply held it up as the woman spoke.

"May our journey be a safe one...well not so safe that it's boring, but enough that we make it home relatively unharmed. And may we find the culprit of my father's murder and may his legacy move on. Let us never EVER be anyone other than who we are no matter how much of a crackpot society thinks you are. Society changes but integrity is forever. Cheers!"

"Cheers," Delia smiled, taking a small sip of the wine. It was not that she did not like to drink - it was simply that the girl couldn't hold alcohol well. It went straight through her system. Sadly, it was known that she took very little to get entirely drunk out of her mind - often, half a glass was enough!

She had to admit, she admired the courageous nature of her captain. She was a brave woman to seek out her father's murderer in such a manner. Delia prayed they'd find the culprit and bring them to justice - it seemed simply unfair that a lady of her calibre would lose her father in such a way.

"I have a question," she asked quietly, "should I just set up all my equipment in my quarters and work from there?"

Delia hoped so. In a previous job on an airship, she had to work in one room, and sleep in another. She preferred not to do this - it made working at all hours difficult. At least, if she was in her own room all the time, she'd be available with all necessary equipment at hand - all hours of the day and night.

reticulated99 · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **reticulated99** on Fri Oct 24, 2008 7:43 pm

Ignatius refrained from falling asleep during the tour, but only just; after all, he knew Scalawag inside and out already, having built over half of what Carla was describing. As she attempted to speechify, he kept a smile from his lips. Her humility was kind of...what was the word? Cute. Wait...cute? "Irrelevant," he mouthed to himself soundlessly. Especially when there was wine. He raised his voice to an audible level along with his glass. "Cheers." Ignatius much preferred reds; they reminded him of hydraulic fluid, except better tasting.

NorthernSoul · **Tips:** 0.00 INK by **NorthernSoul** on Sun Oct 26, 2008 5:49 am

Twenty minutes later, Ezra found himself in Latitude Bar; a small timber-framed building near the entrance to Manhattan Airdocks. It was dim inside, as the afternoon sun slipped down towards the horizon behind the little diamond-paned windows, casting long shadows over the hundreds of maps that were plastered over the walls like wallpaper. He sat at the brass-topped bar, drawing circles in the moisture from his glass with the tip of his finger.

The bartender eyed Ezra as he ran a grubby cloth around the rim of a pint glass. He recognised the aviator from the previous night, when he'd turned up with the rest of his crew and proceeded to drink the place dry. Someone had told him the young man was a world-class pilot of some sort. He didn't know; he didn't go in for this new-fangled high-speed stuff. He longed for the days of the Columbus Rally when racers flew from Liverpool to New York in the shortest time possible, or the Rocky Mountain Challenge where pilots had to collect flags from ten consequtive peaks, no matter the weather, in order to win. These days, races were called off if there was the slightest head-wind and pilots frequently still managed to kill themselves by crashing into the side of canyons at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Well, whatever he did for a living, at the moment he looked as if he thought he shouldn't have bothered.

"It's not the end of the world, son," he said, setting the glass down.

Ezra gave him a look. "Thanks," he said, sarcastically after downing the contents of his shot glass. "Maybe not for you."

"Now then, a strapping young pilot like yourself, what could possibly-" he began.

"Do you know how to get seven thousand dollars by the end of the year?" The bartender fell silent. "No? Yeah, me neither..."

The bartender sighed and went back to cleaning glasses whilst Ezra continued to stare at the reflection of the rest of the room in the mirror behind the bar.

"Up she goes there she goes..."

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