In the Westmost tip of the Milky Way galaxy sits a little planet by the name of Promethia. It's right out on the tip, last system you'll end up hitting if you're heading out in to the abyss. A hundred years ago, this little ball of dust and lightning was discovered when the first military convoy headed out that way experienced first hand why no one ever travels to Promethia; the planet and its entire solar system are wracked with ion storms harsh enough to shred the electronics in the hardiest vessels, preventing safe travel to or around the system. This first vessel, the Dauntiless, came to rest on a plateau in the middle of the equator, which turned out to be both the safest and the most viable place to live for a bunch of crashed military men and women.
The Dauntiless was wrecked beyond repair, and beyond salvaging the comms relay and some of the robots they held in the hold, they had to start fresh. They discovered that the planet was not as hostile as the violent storms that raged around it, with plants and animals native to the world being a reasonable source of food and protection in some cases. They took to calling their little settlement "Shipwreck", and the name stuck. When word got back to the expanding Galactic Federation, they had the perfect use for the planet. Sure, some people wanted to settle a planet way out in the boonies, but the real draw for the Fed was how inescapable the system was. That was the start of the "Great Prison Exodus", as it was called by the locals, massive fleets of ships barely running and filled to the brim with the scum of an expanding galactic court with more non-humans than it could shake a stick at. Some of them were the worst people possible, others were just folk who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
You're a new arrival to Promethia, fresh from the ion storm and you even survived the landing with most of your parts. Maybe you're a settler here to carve out life on a hostile planet. Maybe you're some psycho that wants to burn the world. Or maybe you just won the bad luck lottery and had your warp drive send you rocketing to the worst system in the galaxy. Who knows? There's just one problem with ending up on Promethia. Lots of people set foot on Promethia... but getting off of it, that's a whole 'nother story.
__________________________________________________ ________________________
Shipwrech
12:45PM
Doc Zod's Clinic
But before you get let in to Shipwrech, it's a law to have to go through customs at Doc Zod's clinic, and so there you came either conscious or not. Of course she took good care of you, fixed up everything that needed to be fixed up and did the job right, et cetera. And as you're coming to in the clinic, or getting annoyed at how long you're having to wait in the clinic, you can hear a robotic voice humming a tune over the droning of an old and laboring air conditioner. The building is made out of junk, but it's sturdy enough, well made and properly arranged like a proper medical facility. There were two rows of five tables each along the walls, with the sensitive junk in the back through a door only barely large enough for the doc herself. The doc, of course, was a large box shaped machine with faded blue paint and a single blue photoreceptor that spun around her upper body like some sort of trippy belt. Tiny arms extended occasionally from little flaps in her body, and she roved about the room on a single tire with remarkable balance.
"I'd say that's a clean bill of health for the lot of you. If you'll come by and collect your papers, you'll be set to enter the town of Shipwrech! You have to understand, of course; not everyone can just come and go around here. Too dangerous these days, since the Exodus. Please let me know if I've attached something to you that isn't yours or if I've left an ear out of place in my repairs, I'm not quite familiar with all of you. Chop chop, please, I have patients that need my care urgently if you don't!" The robot said, its voice garbled a bit from generations of repair. In its primary manipulator arms it held a number of small metal sheets, each the size of an old credit card and each with a name and serial number carved in by a very precise laser scalpel.
"Well then, who's first?"
Bookmarks