Sci Fi idea

Godfuckingdamnit. I had the entire setup typed out. So here's the abbreviated version...

Setting - Sci Fi, interplanetary government though many planets have monarchies etc of their own and some dominate other planets. Beauracracy is rife, nothing makes sense and nothing gets done. Think Douglas Adams' hitchhikers guide to the galaxy.

http://bama.ua.edu/~casey006/216/hitch.html

Plot - The government is after a character called Ragini, but no one knows who Ragini is. Various characters, willing or unwilling, will get caught up in the search. Clues left along the way.

Character bios...


Name:
Age:
Race:
Gender (if applicable):
Occupation/vocation/etc:
Special skills or abilities:
Rough history:
General appearance:
Alignment (good, bad, indifferent, and why):


My character -

Name: Mac O'Reegan
Age: Late 40s
Race: He's from the planet of Neriptus, however he mysteriously doesn't look like the people there... his parents divorced over that one.
Gender (if applicable): Probably male, nobody's gotten close enough to check.
Occupation/vocation/etc: Interstellar courier and general waste of space.
Special skills or abilities: Can pilot just about anything, though the term 'pilot' does not neccessarily mean 'pilot well', some basic engineering skills, and extremely dexterous toes, good at dodging management and in fact any kind of danger with a turn of speed and the ability to hide almost anywhere, including places that shouldn't be physically possible. He looks enough like a toad at times that he may have special prowess in water.
Rough history: Born, grew up, got a job, never been much use to anybody. His employers would fire him if they could find him.
General appearance: Blue skin, rotund, fluourescent green eyes.
Alignment (good, bad, indifferent, and why): Probably good, more interested in his delusions of grandour and his next meal than ideals.
Personality: Lazy, convinced he's a stud, easily scared, just as easily fooled. Loves to eat, loves to drink, loves to sing and dance, and when you get past the smell, he's actually reasonably good company and can tell a decent story, even if you know none of it's true.


To give some examples of the world, I'll paste in some posts from a previous incarnation of this rp...


Grunt.

Beep.

Snort.

Beep.

Grunt.

Beep.

Snort.

Beep.

Mac was asleep, his three nostrils whistling in time to the onboard console's navigation monitor and his pot belly rising and falling like steam from a moltari volcano (not something one would enjoy falling into, the moltari never had to bother with cooking). His hands were folded behind his head and every so often the space courier would make a strange whining sound and scratch himself with one flexible toe.

Yes, Mac did like his sleep.

Had Mac not enjoyed sleep quite so much as he did, he might have been awake. And had he been awake and not busy filing his beautiful toe nails, he might have noticed the strange dot that the scanners were unable to identify. He might also have noticed that the continuous beeps had changed from nice soft lulling notes to shrill screams as the console fought desperately to wake him from his slumbers.

But of course, Mac did like his sleep. So it wasn't until a large chunk of spaceship collided with the hull that he did in fact, awake.

The courier left out of his seat, looking wildly around as the floor heaved, tossing him upwards to splat into the roof with a sound not far from one a fish makes when it lands on the floor of your boat. Several minutes of violent lurches followed, sending Mac to become aquaintated with every hard surface in the cockpit.

Then, there was darkness. Mac groaned and picked him up off the roof - or the wall, he couldn't quite tell, and made his way to the console. Thankfully his eyes could rotate upside down thanks to his mother's... erm.... open mindedness when it came to whom she reproduced with. He scanned the damage report, stroking the faintly whirring console lovingly. That was another thing Mac loved, his ship. She was old, but she ran as good as any rust bucket the fleet had.

"There there baby, we'll fix you up good as recycled and make everything better" he crooned, inwardly cringing at the damage report. Flicking to the barely functioning navigation controls, he noted that he was not far from a planet. He could charge the repairs (and some liquor) to the company accout and then get back on the go.

With a sigh, he seated himself in his chair, perfectly worn to the shape of his ample rear, and steered his vessel towards the planet Nullshor.




Name: Griningger Sherwillyker
Occupation: Local insurance agent (Level 2 damage reports)
Height: 5' 10''
Age: Not entirely certain. Apparantly hes his own farther, or theres been a HUGE mess up at the local fertility clinic. And what the hell ARE these things growing outa his head
Race: ............... Human? well.... he has a certificate to prove it too.... so..... GO AWAY
Weight: two stacks of level three insurance papers (hey, they dont have scales K?)
Eyes: Piercing blue
Hair: Black, long, tends to whip around sorta like it has a mind of its own. Grin doesn't comb it.... somewhere inside theres still a Jahova's Witness
Skin: Fleshy.... color
Marital Status: Singel, "by underwear"

* * * * *

"Daaaaamn it" he said, nudging the controls delicatly "just a little more, just a slip to the.... NO". The resounding explotion was then replaced with the words "GAME OVER"

Grin thumped his fist down and left the retro classix space invaders game alone. They had made changes over the last few years, mainly the aliens where now estate agencys, and the ship now fired money at them. It lacked an original something though, he wasn't sure what.

The lighting overhead flashed red and his ships display shot up in front of him, the face of his current "commander in chief", a young spotty teenager with a voice like a sixth grader, was angry. He could tell because the spots had gone from a healthy red, to an odd white.
"Yes chief" he shouted, the hand rising in a salute, swirling in an intricate pattern that clicked his wrist and made him swear "what can I, bloody salutes, do for you?"
"WHAT WAS THAT BOY" screamed the child on screen. Gri kept his face VERY still. He managed to maintain his job in the field through sheer luck. The company had recently taken over several schools, and an agressive training program was now in place to train only the most revolting, abusive of bosses. Seems new blood was needed, the old bosses were starting to mutate rather unervingly with the current gene pool.
"I said 'what can I do for you?'" Gri repeated slowly "there something wrong commander?"
"Only a damn crash in seven G. We need you to access damage, and possibly loot supplies" he said, at a slightly lower tone.
"Got you sir, recieving co-ordinates now"

Planet Nullshor huh?

Planet fall on a less-than-top-condition vessel is never a fun thing. A thousand gravitational forces tear at the insides and external turbulence rattles and shakes at the bones. The ship itself does not fare too badly provided that its heat dispensors and impact sheilds are functioning. In this case however, they weren't.

The heat of Nullshor's atmosphere is known through the sector as being rather rough on ships. And Mac's vessel was no different.

Mac himself was strapped into his chair with his eyes squeezed shut. He used his big toe to lock in the flight course. He was bound for the north continental port, where he could have his ship repaired. No doubt there'd be a brothel within his price range...



Name: Randie Thisby
Occupation: fuel injection assistant/general odbod
Height:5"
Age: 30 (has been for a good few years)
Race:Ferel imp/ human substitute
Eyes: Green
Hair: greesy grey
Skin: dull
Marital Status: Widowed (possibly by choice)

Randie leant her hip against the engine's grease ridden surface and wiped her hands wistfully on a cloth. She had been using this cloth for the last three years; it was sodden with dirt, among countless other inscrupulous items that she clearly wouldn't like to mention in front of the customers.

She clicked her teeth thoughfully, and gave the well known slant of the head, that would go on to mean either a) I can't do anything about this broken down heap unless you pay me a large amount of money or b) This is perfectly fixable, but you'll have to pay me a large amount of money anyway.

"I'm sorry my dear, but thats the way it goes."

Ah, another one of her favourite phrases used. This day was getting better and better, and already two customers dealt with. She sighed galliantly, and shut the crafts engine with a pat. She returned the owners departing glare with a broad smile, and shuffled back into the recessed of her 'design cupboard' also know as the vent.

This was the 'Space corp. inc.' (the double 'corporate' was needed for legal reasons apparently, although, no-one knows why), also known as 'space carp' ((the whole place smells of fish, something to do with the whole mutation of animal-life in the rivers)) and even 'space crud' ((for obvious reasons)). The managers often left Randie in charge, mainly out of fear for their safety, but also for fact that they had a highly developed set of alarm systems, which played the tune 'jingle bells' if anything went terribly wrong.

You may not think that this was a very good idea, but try playing 'jingle bells' at a phonominal pitch in your neighbourhood and see how many people will ignore it.

Randie inhaled deeply, until the smell of oil inflamed her lungs causing a coughing fit of putrid sounds. She wandered outside, ignoring the looks of discust and pure horror from passers by and looked up into the deadened sky.

Nothing new. Or so she thought.

In actual fact, Nullshor's atmosphere was at that moment being pierced by a bulk just visible from 'Space corp. inc'. She was just looking in the wrong direction.


Obviously the plotline then was different, but you get the idea...