James Gandolfini has died.  I find it particularly disturbing that he was four years younger than I.  People shouldn't die that young in these days of modern medicine -- accidents, war and murder will always be with us, yes, but otherwise....
-----
Big Brother is watching you.  And damn, you are so bloody BORING.

Spun off from the timeline thread, where I started talking about Chinese supers and how I see them:-

My own personal design for a national-grade Chinese superhuman has always been a giant growth guy named Great Wall. I've said that. And I'd love to see a giant growth guy by that name be included, whether it's my interpretation or someone else's. Doesn't matter. But the NAME is amazing, you know?

I figured I'll talk more about how I see Chinese supers being characterised, though. And why I think that way. Both government types, and non-government rogues.

Great Wall:

My own take on the subject is a burly broad-shouldered, somewhat hirsute man. A big guy even before his powers fully manifested. Formerly a farmer, he discovered his powers saving people from flooding - this is pretty much just for the mental image of a giant man wading waist or thigh-deep through what are actually torrential waters. Following which, he'd have volunteered to join the PLA - which is just as well, since there would have been no way the government would let him go about his own business to begin with.

At least in my mind, the character's intended to be a decent and regular guy - basically an ordinary joe, a natural-born 'mutant' who's signed up on his own accord...because it's the right thing to do. But at heart, he's just a farm boy, you know? A guy who's not quite comfortable with fame, a guy who's idea of a good time is to relax and have a few beers. Thing is, he's ended up a big deal, a big celebrity - because that's how it rolls.

Chinese Government Supers: 

There's a massive range of possible characterisation for Chinese characters, though. My thinking is that deliberately-bred Chinese "programme supers" must be some sort of mix between how China tries to groom real-world Olympic athletes, and the very real social and economic class divisions between regular folks and the country's elite.

I figure that China's leaders must know they're walking a dangerous path by breeding increasingly powerful supers. Plus, with that large a population, there's any number of powerful supers who could spontaneously emerge. Thus things must be engineered so that people with powers must genuinely believe the best thing for them is to serve the government. You don't want angry oppressed supers deciding they're better off going rogue, or worse, defecting. 

So being a successful powerful super in China must come - to some degree - with wealth, celebrity, and inclusion in the Party's elite, the highest echelons of the military, and so on. There's obviously thousands of supers who aren't...impressive enough to make that cut. But they can dream, they can think, hey, that could be me. 

On Chinese Supers as Antagonists

There's always the possibility of playing a Chinese superteam - but I wager for most IST-setting games, Chinese supers are likely to be antagonists. Or awkward allies at best. 

It's a spectrum. There's some Chinese supers who'd be genuinely decent folks, they just happen to be working for Beijing. That's my Great Wall. These are ordinary men and women, many of whom wouldn't have been products of the government's efforts to deliberately breed and train superhumans. Again, a population that large is going to result in many many naturally-emerging superhumans. 

But, yes, there's also going to be...egotistical entitled sociopaths who revel in the fact they were bred for incredible power. Power is their birthright, power is China's destiny. That sort of logic. It's not hard to imagine - a quick Google search will find you tons of examples of horrendous abuse of power by senior Chinese officials, and the sons and daughters of party elites. Communism is nice in theory, but...

To be fair, the folks at the absolute top in Beijing probably take a very dim view of any excesses, both in the IST context and the real world - especially since they know it makes them look bad. But these are the realities. 

Also, to be clear, nationalism is a very real thing in our real-world China, and it's not all under the government's control at this point. A lot of folks think that China's leaders certainly have tried to encourage nationalism for their own purposes. Nobody really believes in Communism anymore, so nationalism's become the primary driver keeping support for the Party intact...the Party being characterised as the best people to defend China's interests. The trouble is, when you have people genuinely rioting in the streets because of perceived foreign meddling in Chinese affairs, it starts to severely limit your own decision-making options as a government.

So some Chinese supers are going to be real ultranationalists.

Then there's the pragmatists. They don't believe in Communism. They don't have any illusions about their government. They're disillusioned...but they don't care. They have a good deal, a better deal than their countrymen. Some of these people would certainly defect, but others may be happy to stay where they are. They're well-paid, after all. It's this last group that I see a lot of other superhero settings fail to address, for instance DC, Marvel, or other RPGs like Champions.

On Rogue Supers

The interesting thing about Chinese folklore is that it's overwhelmingly about outlaws and anti-authority figures. Sure, there are heroic generals and princes in folk tales, respected nobles and judges. But China's most famous heroes, from the Monkey God Sun Wukong to the 108 Stars of Destiny are...more akin to Robin Hood than King Arthur. They're criminals, they laugh in the face of authority...

Sometimes, legitimate authority isn't worth respecting.

Yes, the Chinese people are ultra-nationalistic. But at the same time, they also love the idea of a vigilante sticking it to the man.

If the USA can cheer on both Captain America and the Punisher - the same logic applies to China.

It's a relatively common thing for superhero settings to have a few 'rogue supers' who don't answer to the Chinese state, at large in China. It makes sense, when you have an authoritarian government. But what most writers don't realise is how deeply rooted this idea of a vigilante rogue is in Chinese literature and culture. 

And I'm not talking about a kind and fluffy Batman vigilante either, who doesn't, you know, actually killificate people.

My favourite Chinese folk hero is Wu Song. He's a true hero! You know he's a true hero, because he gets drunk and beats the hell out of innocent wildlife. Then his brother is killed by an adulterous wife, he goes ape, messily kills his sister-in-law (DISEMBOWLING FIST) and his sister-in-law's lover. Actually, according to some versions, he messes up and kills the wrong woman first, but it's okay, because he's a hero. Then he ends up in jail! Amusingly, for a crime he didn't commit, as opposed to the ones (see above) which he did. But it's okay, because he busts the hell out of jail, and then kills the corrupt policeman who sent him to jail! And the policeman's entire family. Then he gets drunk and...

Look, I'm just saying, China loves rebels. China really loves rebels. In the IST world, there's almost certainly a few independent Chinese supers out there who have ridiculous levels of popularity and notoriety...to the desperate and bitter chagrin of the authorities.

One of them may well call himself Wu Song. I like to think his power is getting drunk and punching through people.
-- Acyl

Literally, I just heard this. Tre Chipman, aka Ascendant, just passed away after being in the hospital for several weeks.
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com

"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."

So I threw this together to answer a question on handwavium over on SB, thought you guys might find it interesting/useful. Comment as you see fit.

• Solid handwavium is used in the manufacture of power systems and electronics. It's grey to dark grey in color, has a sort of plasticy texture and is heavier than it looks. You can dissolve it in water or alcohol to produce liquid handwavium.
  
• Liquid handwavium is a grey liquid with the viscosity of a good quality engine oil. This is the stuff used as a base for just about everything when waving an object.
  
• Biomod handwavium is a greenish-grey paste with the consistency of mayonnaise or a thick salsa. If you're not looking to modify yourself keep this stuff a good distance away at all times!
  

• Harpo: This liquid strain is used on combustion engines and rockets. It's a lighter grey than standard handwavium, almost a silver color. Great for flying cars or space-capable vehicles.
  
• TelTran-5: If you own any commercial pre-waved gear, then you've already got some. This solid strain is a low-quirk one used for computer power cells and chipsets.
  
• Mary Rose: A popular strain in Europe, used for cameras and projector work mostly. It has a distinct pinkish tone to it. Comes in solid and liquid forms.
  
• Golden Sunset: If you're waving in the Americas, this is the most reliable handwavium on the market. Golden Sunset is an all-purpose wave developed by TSAB.
  
• DragonCon Guacamole: This stuff is everywhere. The original biomod handwavium, it's available in raw form or in a variety of sub-breeds.
  

• Music preferences
  
• Changes in color during operation
  
• Animalistic sounds
  
• Flaming wheels (not as dangerous as it looks!)
  

When playing the Dabo mini-game in STO, I always use the numbers 1, 4, and 9. 

I'm trying to identify a comic book I saw years ago that I was just telling a coworker about -- but I can't remember the title, the publisher or more than the rough period it came out.
It was an independent, black and white comic, very large format, whose entire content was two superbeings duking it out in a city and demolishing it thereby.  It had, to the best of my recollection, no or almost no dialogue, just sound effects.  I think it came out in the late 80s or maybe the early 90s.
Does this ring a bell for anyone?
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.

In this thread I will post the PCs and NPCs (stand-by PGCs) for my imminent IST 2K Seoul game.

In case anyone is interested in creating other NPCs (stand-by PGCs), the character generation is:

Characters are 750 points with -75 points in disadvantages and -5 points in quirks. The campaign uses Multiplicative Modifiers (GURPS Powers, pg 102). Campaign limits for starting characters:Maximum dice of swing damage or innate attack damage:  30dMaximum levels of non-ablative DR:  100Minimum level of Injury Tolerance: Damage Reduction:  /3Maximum level of Injury Tolerance: Damage Reduction:  /10Maximum level of Super-ST:  9/70 (total Striking ST cannot exceed 80)     Note: I'm using the "Increased Damage with Superhuman Strength" rules from Pyramid 3-34 (pg 24), and I am keeping with the damage cap mitigation (+7 for Brawling, +14 for Karate) and those do count toward your maximum damage.  A Striking ST of 80 would give a Swing of 35d using those rules.  Thank you, David Pulver.  Also, I'm using the "Keeping Large Vehicles Alive" and “HP and Weight: An Alternate Apporach) rules from that Pyramid article (pg 24-25) as well, just FYI.
Everyone, also, has to buy the following package:

IST Package [68+ points]Language (Korean, Accented/Accented) [4](or English (Accented/Accented) [4] if they already speak Korean)Legal Enforcement Powers 2 [10]Military Rank 4+ [20+]Patron (UN; 9-; Equipment worth more than starting wealth, Minimum Intervention, wields great social/political power)  [38]Reputation +3 (IST Team Member, All the Time, Everyone, excepting a large class) [10]
Duty (IST, UN; Almost all the time, Extremely Hazardous) [-20]Reputation -3 (Criminals, et al; all the time, small class of people) [-5]Reputation -1 (Non-UN Member nations, all the time, Large class of people) [-2]Area Knowledge (Seoul) [1]Area Knowledge (South Korea) [1]Computer Operation/TL9 [1]Diplomacy [2]History (International, UN) [2]Karate or Judo (character’s choice) [4]Mind Block [2]Strategy (Super) [2]Tactics [2]
ETA:  I don't use Bang Skills--I dislike them.  I don't usually have to mention that, but, since you all don't play games with me, don't expect to see any on the characters.

The space station looked for the worlds as if an über-megalomaniac had given up almost immediately on a plan to build a ridiculously enormous android fortress in the most ridiculous way possible. The giant, boxy palm that lingered oddly in space sprouted a full set of splayed Fu Manchu digits. Garish multicolored light from an equally bizarre assortment of beacons littered across local space bathed the purposefully plasticized station skin in the luridly loving light of Spaghetti-Space.
Wandblume took in the zany exhibit with an expression that was a cocktail of amusement, chagrin and fondness as her fast-courier cum cargo-pod transport completed a Freudian mating ritual with the station’s docking assemblage.
“Of all the Geeks in Fen...!” There was surely more to the epithet, but her delivery gave the distinct sense that it had become a ritualized précis of the virescent vixen’s thoughts, a slight soliloquy into her beguilingly bonkers brain.  She shook her head, a slightly loopy grin reminiscent of her beau’s near perpetual-puss-posture curling the corners of her mouth.
Dies Irae, togged out in her Shegoth black & greens, crossed the insectile passage of the cargo umbilicus with a desultory sashay nearly rivaling Morticia Anjelica Huston Adams’ skill.
“Come again, boss?”
Wandblume laughed : “Just my way of saying ‘My Man makes me crazy!’,  Pen.”
“Madcap!” Wandblume had no idea where Penny’s English accent was from, but she did know that it wasn’t from anywhere near Comprende-ville.
‘Die kacke!’ Wandblume’s face was impassive as the profanity rocketed harsh consonants through her mind. ‘I’ll have to find someone to make her understand ‘crazy!’ !’
“Collect the squad, Pen : time to meet the Lord of the manor.”
***
The interior of the station, with the sole & notable exception of the throne dais--it was full-throated Stark-Space-Tyrant aesthetic--, was the stylish, cold, and uncomfortable black leather, backlit glass & brushed steel open-concept style that Wandblume called Terminator Chic.  Especially that frakking steel-framed sectional couch : it had been lovingly designed, she was certain, by a sadistic cabal of furniture makers determined to destroy spines. She gave this seated Charybdis a wide berth.
He, Van Loan, was on the dais--what a surprise!--playing Zarth Arn with all of the glee of Raúl Rafael Juliá’s Bison. A gauntleted hand resting on the spikiest steel throne ever designed--a throne of swords would be far more comfortable!-- he gazed through his injudiciously enormous cathedral window at his varicolored expanse of space. He addressed his company with a well-rehearsed cape-swirling pivot and an apropos villainous chortle.
It wasn’t difficult for Wandblume to return the laughter with an extra raucous dose of hilarity. Van Loan looked really silly in all of that shiny red and black leather : Disco Bondage Dracula was about to, ‘[make] a man with blond hair and a tan....”
His laughter picked up a minute silly infection of his partner’s before regaining its gonzo-imperiousness as he strode down the raised platform towards the arms akimbo Shego.
“Ah, your mission was successful, Lack...”
With a speed that belied her usual indolence, Wandblume yanked the cloak ; Van Loan sprawled indecorously onto his leather-clad backside.
“...Hey!” he managed, almost finishing the intended word.
She considered her splayed beau with a look best summarized as ‘affectionately piqued’. The Shegoth squad, arrayed adroitly behind their  kingpin, sniggered and rolled their heavily made up eyes at the dynamic melodramatics of the VanBlume relationship.
“What was that? You want to sleep on that couch?” She lazily swept an emerald fingernail in the direction of Charybdis.
A snippet of grin broke though Van Loan’s comically indignant expression ; quickly eroded the rest of it away with the much more Dr. D mien of a loopy banana grin.
“Missed you my beautiful, mercurial Goddess!”
Shego moued. “The cold, spine killing caress of Charybdis!” It really was that uncomfortable.
He ticked off items on his blueberry fingers : “Beautiful...” his sinister pinky waggled ; “...Labile...” the neighbouring ring finger wiggled ; “goddess...” the middle digit squirmed. “Two to go!" He inhaled dramatically, and shot his index finger skywards. “Enticing, and...” Up when the thumb in the age-old gesture of aplomb . “...hot as Hell!”
“You said sexy twice.”
“There are notable qualitative differences between my right hand and my right hand!”
It took a few seconds for Wandblume’s brain to decode her boyfriend’s double-squared entendre : “You really can make anything sound empirical!”
“Super power!” Now come here and let me display my other powers!”  
“Ewwww, go get a satellite!” Pitchy bolted, a lingering contrail of girlish squeal fading behind her fleeing, diminutive lacy figure.
***
“The throne is dead : long live the new thrones!” Van Loan brandished the ceremonial over-sized spanner over his head as the Shegoth solemnly sashayed the old throne towards the airlock. Two egg chairs, firmly bolted to the deck, now occupied the stagy soapbox space. Van Loan flourished the gleaming instrument scepter-like in the direction of wandblume : “Do you approve of your perch, my Empress?”
“Indeed! “ She spun the chair in a lazy full rotation.
***
Outside, in the gaudy desolation of trans-Neptunian cosmos, a castoff chair of totalitarian and trenchant attitude strayed steadily through space.

December 2023. While test-driving its latest accomplishment, the Nekomi Motor Club finds something unexpected

Quote:“Thousands of tons of armour and guns
Making it's way through the sand.”

Mackie was grinning. It was a savage, visceral grin, driven by the beat of the music blaring inside the turret, ringing off the steel walls and gun-breech. He sat in what had been the gunner’s chair - now surrounded by various viewscreens giving him detailed readouts of engine performance. Full-throttle, hard-charge, let’s see what this beast can do.

Both turbines screamed as the tank began to climb up the lip of a small crater.

“Our panzer battalion is back for revenge
Artillery sweeping the land”

The old T-72 pushed on, driving far harder than its Soviet builders had ever intended - pushing on through magnificent desolation no factory worker had ever expected it to see. He felt himself go light in the chair as the tank crested the lip before pitching nose down into the crated beyond

He pressed his eyes to the periscopes in time to see a bow-wave of grey lunar dust wash up over the bow of the battle tank, momentarily obscuring the headlight before splashing against the periscope glass. Hydro-pneumatic suspension creaked as it took the weight of near 55 tons of steel driving down into the crater floor.

“WOO-HOO!”

Leena - the driver - howled over the intercom, momentarily drowning out the best efforts of Sabaton. Mackie couldn’t help but laugh. This was why he’d been born.

“First strike is ours no mercy is shown
There's rivers of blood in our trail”

In the turret with him was Oezaki - team leader for the Motor-club. He was almost too tall for the Commander’s seat. He sat stooped over, helmetless except for a tight leather cap that did little good. A few strands of blond hair crept out from underneath.

“Turn left, turn left. We got a boulder ahead.”

The tank crashed into it. His skull cracked off the cupola lip.

“Fuckit Leena, you want to crack an axle out here? We just got this beast running again.”

“Sorry Oezaki. Thought you meant the other boulder.”

She was giggling. Mackie could hear it. Oezaki grimaced as he tenderly poked at a growing lump on his head. Mackie held up his hands in surrender, as if to say, ‘don’t blame me’. The tank wasn’t his idea - it was an accumulation of five year's worth final-year and graduate projects, mixed with some random fiddling by interested parties who had time to kill and an understanding professor. Using the powerplant from a Havoc maybe - he’d take the blame for that. But not the tank. Responsibility for Blownapart was shared by all.

"Breaking their lines of defence with our tanks
Infantry watching our back"

“Hey guys,” the radio crackled. Kone, back at Motor-club’s Kandor garage. He sounded bored as hell. “You having fun out there in Blownapart without us?”

Mackie paused the music. For a moment, the roar of the engines and the rattle of stones off the bottom of the armour was the only sound in the tank.

“Oh sure,” Oezaki answered. “Only Leena’s trying to kill us.”

“I am not! I’m just getting bad directions!”

The tanks frame shook as it pitched up once more. The pitch of the engines dropped as they strained against the mass of the machine, climbing back up the other side of the crater.

“Yeah, well, we need your performance data.”

Mackie flipped open his notepads, comparing his sketches with the instrument boards were telling him. It all looked good. It looked way-good.

“V-max, 162. V-av, 125. Fuel. 900 per hour. Transmission temps and suspension temps are green. Tell Dieork his dustguards are working. I think we’re good to push on to our turnpoint.”

He felt himself start shaking with excitement.

“Fuck it. Drive On,” Oezaki concurred, still massaging his tender forehead. A small seep of blood trickled from a shallow scratch.

“Aw man, I want a shot....”

“Too bad you suck at tankery!” Leena shot back. The crunch of another boulder crumbling under the inexorable tracks of the metal monstrosity added

“I didn’t park that car there!”

“Knock it off you two!” Oezaki cut in. “I don’t want to have to change crew. Not this close to the race”

“Sorry Daddy,” Leena groused.

“I’ll check in in an hour,” said Kone, flatly. “Out.”

The T-72 thundered on across the lunar surface, plowing its own furrow through virgin grey soil. Only the basic hull and turret structure had been kept from the original tank. Its engine had been replaced by a pair of fusion turbines, the life-support and cooling circuits had been overhauled to meet vacuum requirements and most of the seals had been replaced with ones that could tolerate moondust. Suspension was active-hydropneumatic, with reinforced bearings and torsion beams to take the extra speed. Someone had made an automatic CVT replacing the original manual, with an added control computer allowing for easy steering through a car-like wheel. The main gun still worked - if they had something to shoot through it, it'd fire at Lunar escape velocities.

It was, they club agreed, the perfect thing for the Armstrong Day classic this year, with a few buildup races in the preceding six months being enough to iron the last few bugs out. It wouldn't be the fastest over level ground - but was relentless in the rough stuff. It ate craters and boulders for breakfast, grinding along riding fountains of dust. Curls of moondust rolled around the exhausts, falling away from the engine dust-shields.

It was, Mackie felt, utterly unstoppable.

“Leena, Stop!”

The tracks dug into the dirt, pushing them all forwards in the seats. Oezaki’s skull met steel once more as Mackie struggled to keep his notes from tumbling across the turret floor.

“Okay, now that we can do an Emergency stop. Can we continue now?”

Oesaki pressed his face against the commander’s periscope “I thought I saw something metallic on my scope. Creep us ahead slow. Keep an eye out,”

“Nobody else is supposed to be out here,” said Mackie, checking with filed travel plans. Not that everyone made travel plans. He scanned through Kandors public records. “No crash records either, not within 50 kilometres.”

“I definitely saw it,” he said. “Let me try the searchlights.”

The transmission slammed back into gear, sending a shudder through the hull. The turbines whirred as the tank began to creep forwards. Spotlights swept out across the stark wasteland beyond, regolith glaring bright where the light passed over. Black shadows swung from every

Mackie stared forwards through the gunners periscopes. He saw nothing.

Nothing but moon and black space beyond.

“Holy crap! I see it!”

Leena’s voice in his ear made Mackie wince.

“Where?” Oezaki damanded. He might’ve tried

“30 degrees right,“ the driver answered. “Just ahead.”

“Gunsights,” said Mackie. He pressed one eye to the rubber guard around the eyepiece, taking hold of the turret controls with his free hand. Servomotors squealed as the turret slewed to the right. It seemed to make Oezaki dizzy for a moment...

Or maybe that was Leena’s driving and a concussion.

One of the searchlights reached out, tracking with the turret. He stared, watching the regolith pass through the reticle. Graded markings in cryllic told him where the shell would go if he squeezed the trigger.

Or if the tank’d been loaded with anything more than a few days worth of food and oxygen.

He caught a glimpse of it a moment, locking the reticle onto it a second later. He pressed a switch with his thumb to trigger the laser rangefinder.

“33 degrees right. Range. 50 metres,” he said.

“Stop us short, Leena. Guess well have to go out and take a look,” said Oezaki, already fumbling for his pressure mask and neck-seal.

It took time for them to prepare. They had basic bailout gear in case of an accident, or a hatch rupture - but it really wasn’t meant for long-term use. It was neither comfortable, nor stylish. But it did fit through the hatch.

It let them clamber up through onto the dust-coated hull, headlights casting a long bright pool. It was the only light they had. Both engines sat at idle, thin whisps of hot helium gas rising stirring dust around the exhaust outlets.

Leena clambered up out the the drivers compartment, using the barrel of the main gun to pull herself up. She was the shorted of the trio by far - and the only member of the Motor Club who’d actually fit in the driver’s seat.

Who wouldn’t back it up over an expensive resto-mod.

“It’s probably some asshole’s junk,” said Leena. She brushed the dust off her visor with the back of her glove, exhaling an angry sigh.

“Hopefully,” said Mackie. He bounded across the surface, boots kicking up whisps of dust. Above, a Gagarin passed overhead, boosting out from Korelvgrad. Earth was rising slowly over the horizon beyond.

“Still have to report it in if it’s not catalogued,” said Oezaki.

There were plenty of Fen who met their end silently. Many who disappeared without ever filing a flight plan, falling victim to mechanical mishap or space-junk impact. It might’ve been the gravesite of an unknown pilot.

All three of them felt that keenly. Even if they hoped otherwise.

It took about a minute for them to cross lunar surface. A few outlying pieces of wreckage had made it further, shards of grey metal shining as their torches passed over.

“Tin-foil?” asked Leena.

Mackie crouched down, take a sharp piece carefully in his glove. The edges had been twisted and folded back by the impact. It still buckled in his hand.

“It’s very flimsy,” he said, inspecting it closely. He held it in front of his faceplate. “Really not normal fen-stuff .”

He tossed it towards the rest of the wreckage. It landed in what was a shallow impact crater. So shallow in fact, that it scarcely deserved the description. It appeared as if the top layer of dust had been cleared away from the rock beneath, and that was it - leaving nothing but a ten-meter wide splatter of tin-foil, with various pieces of more solid junk strewn amongst it.

“It’s obviously a crash,” said Oezaki. “That looks like an engine bell.”

“I’ll get it,” said Leena. “There might be a serial number on it.”

Macie bounced around the wrecksite, scanning the debris. “Looks like it just sort of went splat, whatever it was..”

“No sign of a pilot, or anything that might’ve been a pilot,” said Oezaki. It was hard for him to hide the sound of relief in his voice. “Can’t find any sort of seat or....” he stopped dead.

“What is it?” asked Mackie. He felt his stomach curdle. He knew he didn’t technically have a stomach capable of curdling - but felt it nonetheless.

“A helmet,” said Oezaki. “Empty. Looks like parts of a spacesuit too.”

Yuk, thought Mackie. He crouched down, pickup up a piece of wreckage

“I’ve got control panel. Looks pretty old-school. All switches and stuff.”

He held it up. Tangles of wires hung from guarded toggle-switches. Markings on the panel had long since been baked off by sunlight.

“I’ve got the engine,” Leena called out. “Looks like a real old rocket motor. A small one.”

It was still much too bulky for one person to comfortably carry, despite having crumbled partially on impact.

“Guys,” Oezaki broke in. He held the helmet in his hands.

The visor had been smashed in and some of the fittings had been ruined. It’d split open across the back of the head when it’d hit the moon. But it was still recognisable.

“It’s NASA gear,”

Leena stared at him. “NASA?”

Mackie blinked. “Wait, what?”

“No doubt.” Oezaki’s voice had shrunk right down into his throat. Leena and Mackie stood there, coated in grey dust, eyes wide and waiting for an explanation. “And, I think I know what it is.”

“What?” asked Mackie.

“Look at the patch on the spacesuit,”

His voice was sombre. Shaking, stained by disbelief. They both bounced across the wrecksite, Mackie still carrying his piece of control panel. Oezaki beckoned them towards him, crouching down on his knees, placing the wrecked helmet on the ground.

Gingerly, he gripped a piece of the ruined grey spacesuit, offering his torch to it. They both crouched down on the regolith, taking care not to cut their pressure gear on the few remains shards of metal.

“So,” said Leena, calmly.

It’d been trashed, torn up in the impact, turned grey by the lunar dust and eaten by naked sunlight. Threads had unwound and frayed, exposing the layers underneath. Some had dried and cracked, flaking away as Oezaki angled it towards his light.

“Mission patch,” said Mackie.

“Look,” said Oezaki. Two more torches converged on small patch of fabric on what might once have been the shoulder. Barely visible were the faded colours of an American flag. “I think we found a crashed Apollo lander. And only one of them is still missing.... NASA never tracked it after it separated.”

Nobody said a word. They just stood there staring at it for what seemed like an age. Beyond, Blownapart the tank looked on, still waiting for them to come back. Above, the traffic to and from Kandor still flew. Earth was now full and high in the sky.

“Oh good sweet holy fuck,” said Leena, swallowing a fat lump that’d grown in her throat.

That about summed up the collective feelings of the group.

At the moment, what I'm thinking is that we should figure out a time, figure out a means of communication, and verify that everything works.
We're not going to finish a game today.  That's a given.  We can't really make concrete progress without at least an hour-long session, I'd say.  Three hours would be preferable, but one would work.  If we can do something in that scale semi-regularly on Saturdays, that should let us reach the 1400s this year.
Also, Yuku isn't fast enough.  We need instant messaging and/or voice chat.  I'm on Skype, MSN, Google, Steam, and Ventrilo- whichever you want to use, I'm good with.
I've had games (mostly Civ5) that I just couldn't play with people
because of network iffiness on one or both ends, bad coding, and the
like, so before we get the 'real game' going, we should do a test run. You know the type- make sure we can all connect to the same game, run it just fine for a while, save our progress, and reload it afterwards.  If we can't do all that, this whole thing (probably) falls apart.