Writing Competition

[NikNakFlak]

Write a short (or however long) SS13 Fan-Fiction and a panel of three judges will vote on the one to receive first pick out of this list of games.

The Stanley Parable
Goat Simulator
Hotline Miami
Guns of Icarus Online
Portal
Slender: The Arrival

Please post submissions in this thread.

[onleavedontatme]

Kor Phaeron waited. The adminhelps above him blinked and sparked out of the chat box. There were ERPers in the server. He didn't see them, but heard ghost chat whining about them. His warnings to SoS were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway.

Kor was an admin for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the adminbus and he said to dad "I want to be on the adminbus Lasty."

Lasty said "No! You will BE GRIFF BY 2BEARD"

There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the server of the tgstation he knew there were ERPers.

"This is Creed" the radio crackered. "You must grff the ERPers!"

So Kor gotted his game panel and spawned carp.

"HE GOING TO KILL US" said the ERPers

"I will make a FNR thread at him" said the jarshmellow and he fired the thread. Kor bussed at at him and tried to ban him up. But then the server crashed and they were disconnected and not able to ban.

"No! I must griff the ERPers!" Kor shouted

The radio said "No, Kor. You are the ERPers"

And then Kor was a Amy.

[Remie Richards]

If that doesn't win I'm suing the competition.

[Falamazeer]

This thread is now about kor's award acceptance speech, please proceed.

[Bluespace]

Sounds fun, any guidelines?

[NikNakFlak]

Just has to be a SS13 fan-fiction

[DemonFiren]

So I'm guessing faux-scientific works and in-universe newspaper articles also count?

[Thunder11]

My name is Jazmin Malcovich. I work for NanoTrasen, though I am currently in the employment of the Syndicate. They want me to kill some engineer, Kenneth Kemble, and get out alive. I started the shift as a roboticist, working with Randy Savage. I spend the first few hours thinking about how I'm going to do this. As it gets close to noon, I decide to see if anyone wanted to become a cyborg, and put a couple of shells onto build.

Randy wordlessly shuffles up to me, puts one hand on his chin, and the other on the back of his head. Before I can move to intervene, he pulls his hands to the sides, twisting his head with a sickening crack, and drops to the floor, dead. I heave him up onto the operating table, and start cutting his brain out to put in one of the now almost finished shells. While I'm working, someone tries to open the door. A few seconds later, one of the scientists, Alexander Hogan, asks the AI to let him in. He walks up next to me, and gives me a hug. While I'm wondering what he wants, he suddenly repeats Randy's performance, becoming the second corpse of the day. I finish up with Randy's operation and plug his brain into an MMI, tossing Hogan up to start work on him. Randy's MMI beeps a couple of times, before speaking to me. "H-hey, I don't want to be a borg, I only killed myself as a joke, just defib me please." I respond with a sharp remark about how he should have done it in front of medbay if he wanted that, and go back to work.

After I get Hogan in his MMI, I decide maybe I shouldn't be so cruel, and grab Randy's MMI, pop the brain out and stuff it back in his skull. I suddenly hear an MMI shouting something about having the wrong brain, and look back. Randy's MMI is still sitting on the table. I put the wrong damn brain in... I tease him a little while finishing the assembly of the first borg shell, before deciding maybe I should fix my fuckup. At that point, one of the other scientists arrives with a locker, holding three more suicides. I take them inside and leave them in the corner for later. I extract Hogan's brain from Randy again, and put it back in its MMI, which, having taken the name from the corpse the brain came from, is now also labelled Randy Savage. No longer knowing which brain is which, I decide to wash my hands of the whole matter, dumping both corpses and brains on my desk, and calling for the chef to take them. I quickly get to work on the three new corpses, but none of them are responsive, and they join the other two brains on the desk. A few minutes later, the geneticist, whose name I couldn't recall, arrives with one of his test subjects, who wanted borged.

Finally I have a volunteer, and after throwing him up on the table, take a few moments to listen to the radio while he gets comfy. Something about a changeling murdering everyone, but it probably won't come after me for a while. I extract his brain a little more carefully than the last, and while putting him in his MMI, finally settle on a plan. I key the unlock code into my PDA, opening up the supplies menu, and acquire a cryptographic sequencer, or emag. I grab my multitool and unlock the waiting shell's cover, deciding I might as well make my move now. I insert the brain into the shell, and, before the borg can react, crowbar the cover open and swipe my emag on the card slot inside, forcibly desyncing it from the AI and replacing it's laws with an order to serve me.

I signal for the borg to follow me, grabbing a revolver and a bar of soap with my remaining telecrystals, and we head to the bridge to take over the AI. It can't use the turret control panel, and the spare ID is gone, so I have it shoot all the turrets in the upload down. I move in to grab the one human board when the AI notices, and I manage to cut one of the two cameras in the room before it can set off the flasher. I fight the urge to panic, blinking the spots from the flash out of my vision, and quickly dive on the second camera, forgoing any attempt to disable it, simply grabbing it and ripping it from the wall. I quickly lock the upload board to me and jam it into the slot on the console. The AI turns on it's hologram projector in the bridge as I leave, and I go over the rest of the plan with it and the borg. I tell them to kill the engineer, Kemble, only to be told he was already dead, and that he was actually the guy I'm borged earlier. Realising I now only have to escape, I tell them I'll lock myself on an escape pod, and borg will stand guard, while AI floods plasma once I'm safe.

Me and the borg work our way to arrivals while the AI calls the shuttle and shuts down telecomms, not seeing anyone else around. I open the first pod, and feel the air rushing out through the smashed window. I slam the airlock closed, and try the second, which is, thank god, intact. The borg bolts the airlock as soon as I'm inside, and I swipe my emag through it to break the circuit, assuring myself nothing short of an RCD could break through that. I haul the emergency locker in the pod bay into the pod, and weld the second airlock and the pod door shut, emagging them like the first one. I fold myself into the locker and close the door, settling down to wait, listening to the sound of my own breathing, and wondering if there'll be any screaming from the intercomm on the wall. At one point I hear the announcement of the shuttle being recalled, and for a moment wonder if I've failed. I quickly reassure myself that the AI will call it back as soon as possible, and sure enough, it does.

After that I hear nothing until the shuttle is about to leave, when the chief engineer announces something about dying a glorious death. He is never heard from again. Just after the pod launches, one of the scientists starts talking on the radio. After a brief conversation, I find out he's the changeling that was killing everyone, so there were actually two of us trying to kill the crew at once! My pod gets picked up by the usual recovery ship soon after, and they start trying to force the door open. They're still working on the door when the gunfire starts. After a few seconds it all goes quiet, and someone resumes work on the door. Eventually, it's opened by a man wearing a familiar black and red hardsuit, a member of the extraction team I was promised. I go home that evening a little bit richer, and NanoTrasen none the wiser as to what had happened.

[Lovecraft]

When's the deadline?

[PKPenguin321]

A poem I wrote in game once after a particularly standard strange experience

I sit and try to read my book, with hopes to be a scholar.
When hark, a naked man appears! He grabs me by my collar.
"I have you now, Assistant! There is no hope for you!"
But I grabbed him right back, and tossed him in a disposal tube.

--Lauser McMauligan

[TheNightingale]

Spoiler:

A Condensed Dissertation on Bluespace Theory
by
Cadence Meme, Research Director (Space Station XIII)

Through my work in the field of science, we have made many discoveries in the past two hundred years: whilst in 2330, cloning technology was only just being created, today we can even resurrect someone from death; as early as 2427 the 'Durand' chassis was created as a law enforcement and military mechanised assault platform, but now even the mighty Seraph (looking at you, Central, when will you give us the specifications?) is within our reach. But most importantly in these new pinnacles of modern technology... is the theory of bluespace.

Bluespace technology is utilised in many widely-used objects, from tracking beacons to GPS systems (whilst the global positioning system was invented as early as 1995, today it is not limited to 'global', but 'universal' - indeed, a GPS can work even across entire sectors in space, such that a mining team can be seen by a stationside overseer)... to even disabler and laser technology. Many common energy weapons are in part based on bluespace technology: the typical 'laser' is, rather than a beam of light (which would travel at c), a plasma-shielded beam of photons, which when met with a transparent substance, utilises the plasmic field to engage a short-ranged bluespace mechanism, enabling it to pass through windows (though not walls or other dense objects, as plasmic bluespace requires a line of sight). The plasma itself is highly dangerous, giving rise to its use in the military and asset protection teams.

Though we know already of the mechanism behind electrodes (which, though they lack a plasmic field or photon beam, carry electric charge to the target), disabler beams (characterised by their blue appearance and feel of being 'winded' when hit) work similarly to lasers: whilst a laser weapon uses a plasmic field as its primary damage source, a disabler will dissipate this plasmic field once it reaches the target, allowing the photon stream to penetrate and interrupt the nervous system. Like lasers, disablers use the plasma component to bypass some obstacles - but unlike lasers, they are non-harmful, leading to their use as a law enforcement tool in riots and pacifying armed opponents.

Furthermore, with the advent of teleportation in its several forms - short-ranged teleportation, via a handheld teleporter (colloquially known as a 'hand tele') or bluespace portal gun (the specifications of which are attached); direct two-way teleportation, using the bluespace dimension itself to establish a 'bridge' between two locations (such as in telescience - although I say 'two-way', an operator is needed at the telescience laboratory to enable return); and direct one-way teleportation, using either the handheld teleporter's secondary function, or a teleporter hub, station and console to transmit oneself to a set beacon - bluespace theory has come a long way from 2408 - the original Kipple's Law of Teleportation (which, though I am sure you are all aware of the specifics, details that for an object to be transferred from one place to another, the receiving node must have the same makeup of elements stored to enable this).

Whilst Edwin Kipple was no doubt a luminary of his time, more up-to-date research has proven this law a falsity: it is not that we are disassembled at one end of a teleporter and rebuilt at the other (for indeed, this would require a great expenditure of energy), but that when entering a teleportation device of any kind - a portal, a teleporter, a telepad - we quite literally, 'walk between worlds'. Laugh as you might, consistent research on both human and lizardperson subjects has proven that, indeed, the theory of bluespace is more than a theory - it is, in itself, a dimension, not unlike ours.

Therefore, one can surmise that bluespace technology itself utilises such a dimension to transport an object from one place to another: a tracking beacon marks the destination for a teleportation hub, which - when entered - passes the user through the bluespace field (and, indeed, the bluespace dimension itself) to the beacon. Bluespace technology in its purest form bypasses all (barring the teleportation-shielded walls of Central Command, which are coated in a thin layer of Unobtainium-229 to disrupt bluespace travel) obstacles, and though we cannot hope to replicate the bluespace dimension in our own, we can, for all intents and purposes, 'borrow' it to transmit ourselves across large distances, as like a radio wave between a transmitter and a receiver. Not all teleportation devices have receivers: whilst a teleporter station links to a tracking beacon in any arbitrary place within a long radius (though we do not know precisely how far this radius is, testing has shown a beacon placed in deep space is still a viable destination), and a bluespace portal gun sets its own two-way link (as like a telescience laboratory, except in that the bluespace portal gun itself acts as the console and operator), there are still some bluespace devices which do not have a fixed destination. One example of this is the handheld teleporter, which - when used in short-range mode - will transport a target to a random location in a short distance, including into walls or even in space. This technology has been utilised in the prototype reactive teleportation device installed in an armoured vest - when physical contact is applied to this vest, it occasionally transports anything within a small radius of it (that is to say, its user and their possessions) to an unspecified location nearby.

Bluespace technology is found in the natural world as well: as mentioned earlier, military and law enforcement weapons commonly use plasmic fields to generate a bluespace effect, and recently mining teams have discovered small, blue crystals on the asteroids in this sector of space - these crystals, termed 'bluespace crystals', have proven invaluable for our research into the bluespace dimension. When they suffer a heavy impact (such as through being crushed in a user's hand, or thrown to hit a target), a bluespace crystal will latch onto whatever impacted against it and teleport it a short distance, not unlike a handheld teleporter. This proves that bluespace technology exists naturally, and is therefore a large step forward in investigating the universe around us.

However, bluespace technology is not without its dangers: the aforementioned reactive teleport armour and handheld teleporters can send a user into a hostile situation or climate (as, indeed, in the bluespace dimension this is not an issue), and by far the most requested item of bluespace technology - the fabled bag of holding - has been known to clash tremendously with other bluespace equipment. The bag of holding utilises the bluespace dimension as a storage device, enabling a user to carry a great deal more than usual: because of this, when one uses a bag of holding, one is essentially carrying around a small pocket of bluespace with them. If this pocket meets another such bluespace pocket - that is to say, another bag of holding - the ensuing structural collapse between the two infinitely large fields will cause a gravitational singularity to occur. Unfortunately, live testing of this has never succeeded, for obvious reasons. Furthermore, this bluespace pocket is not limited to interference with other, similar pockets, but with the bluespace dimension as a whole: operators of a bag of holding should be careful not to enter any teleportation device, lest the bluespace fields overlap and the operator be sent to a random location.

From this, it can be established that all bluespace technology uses the bluespace dimension as a form of travel to bypass physical barriers - whilst in our world, there may be a wall between an operator and their destination, there is no such obstacle in the bluespace dimension - even time. Due to teleportation being instantaneous no matter where its destination, teleportation researchers ('telescientists') have been so far unable to observe the bluespace world itself, and because of this, the theory of bluespace remains just that, a theory.

-Cadence Meme, Research Director, Sc.D.
{Attached: specifications for a bluespace portal gun. The gun seems to utilise a built-in bluespace crystal and technology similar to that of a handheld teleporter: when the primary, blue, trigger is pressed, the crystal will engage and create a portal at a specified location, which will transport the user to the location of the secondary portal (created through use of the secondary, orange, trigger). To the side of the specifications is written, Now you're thinking with portals!~ -C.M.}

... wait, was it supposed to be short? Whoops.

[Reimoo]

It has to be fan fiction? No poems or anything?

[NikNakFlak]

Poems are alittle short. The criteria is in the op, it's pretty simple geez

[callanrockslol]

Does it have to be original or can I dredge up something I wrote on one of the other forums?

[THE MIGHTY GALVATRON]

it's pretty simple geez

Writing is never simple, friendo.

[420goslingboy69]

This is the single greatest thing I have ever created.
Hi, I'm Autumn Sinnow and this is my autobiography. For starters, some background info. I am 6'1'', red hair, green eyes, freckles, Irish. You know, whole ten yards. I'm not sure where my accent came from. I remember the other kids used to talk like that until I was 4 when I shuttled to some other planet with a bunch of other orphans. I don't know what planet I was born on. I yell a lot. I curse a lot. I fight a lot. As a child, I was an orphan. I've been an orphan as long as I can remember. I'm not sure on my exact age, but I'd say 22. As a child, I was very quiet and timid around the other kids, but I was a vibrant and free-spirited person in private. I kept to myself, rarely making friends and went through most of my childhood like that. I remember frequently stealing off during the day to visit the forests and other interesting places. Around after I turned 9, I was shuttled to another orphanage, losing the small amount of friends I had. Again, the same scenario. I would go to places that weren't well-travelled, letting my curiousity run. I never actually feared for my life during those times, surprisingly. I was happy. I would stay out for days at a time, rarely washing (still don't) or cleaning what little clothes I wore (also still don't). The caretakers at the orphanarium didn't care if some random orphan girl was lost or never came back. That's one less mouth to feed. At 11 I joined a small baseball group, becoming the pitcher and quite a good player. I was taller and more athletic then most of the other kids, boy or girl. At 13, I was shuttled off to a bigger orphananarium. Here, the kids were meaner and more evil-spirited. Instead of just the occasional comments and ignoring me, it turned into physically hurting me and emotional torture. I quickly adapted, learning how to handle it, myself getting tougher and better at handling other kids. I quickly became more physical, overpowering the kids who messed with me and intimdating those were thinking of it. After a few months of that, most of the kids got the message and I was left alone. I became more intimdating, more loud, more dangerous so I could be alone and isolated...and I enjoyed it. I still sorta do. I still love isolation and calmness, as much as I love the chaos and hectic situations. I became loud, intimdating, and dangerous so I could be alone and quiet again. Weird in a way. At 15, I was going to be shuttled again so I ran away. Hit the streets and became homeless. It was hell, at first. At the orphanariums, I only had to worry about being bullied and taunted. Here it was rape, killed, or worse. Everynight I feared that I wouldn't wake up. I have more then a handful of times where I was sure I was going to die or end up in a scenario that would leave me feeling dead inside. Somehow, it never happened. I did end up with a lot of scars, mental and physical. A lot of stuff happened I wish I could forget. Maybe it's for the best I don't, it made me who I was. Over time, as I intimdated more people and made more friends, I was left alone. I eventually joined a group of other kids. We called ourself a "gang" but it was just a ragtag group of kids who stuck together to survive. It made me feel wanted and belonged, though, something I had never felt in my life. It felt good. The reason I was chosen to join the "gang" was because of my theft skills and my ability to escape from situations. The best thieves on the streets were always the most sought after. I never was proud of what I did. I stole from a lot of people. Some of them deserved it, some of them didn't, some of them were worse off then me. I did what I had to do survive. I wish I could go back and stop myself, though. I wasn't in the right for what I did, survival or not. Eventually, after getting hurt enough times, I learned how to fix myself and on top of that, other people. Wounds, infections, cuts, burns, broken arms, you name it. I learned how to make turniquettes, splints, and other haphazard medical devices from the trash and junk around me. I became the doctor of sorts for our group. If a kid had a medical problem, he came to me first and foremost and as word got out, I'd start to have "patients" that were unrelated to the group. Eventually, most of my "patients" were kids outside of my group and I was okay with that. It felt good to help others. It made me feel good. I've always felt I've had a lot of repenting to do. I've done a lot of bad things. A lot of stuff I can't take back. I feel like I owe quite a lot to some moral compass. Helping others was my way of repenting and, even on it's own, it made me feel good. I'd do it regardless if had repention or otherwise. I felt happy doing it. At around 19 a friend told me about a job offer. Some station in space was offering job positions and one of them was something you need no qualifications for: Janitor. They paid decent and had benefits and bonuses. I quickly went to them, asking for a job and was accepted on the spot (I mentioned I was an orphan with no links or ties. NT, huh?). I had found a way to not die on the streets. I was free to move on. I quickly packed what little items I had, took my first shower in a few months, said my goodbyes to the people I'd never see again, and went to the docking shuttle. That was two and half years ago.

[Timbrewolf]

Have this haiku:

"A writing contest?
For spessmens? The prize is games?
No, the prize is cringe."

[TheWiznard]

link

[ColonicAcid]

Have this haiku:

"A writing contest?
For spessmens? The prize is games?
No, the prize is cringe."

if i could thumbs up this would get one

[Wyzack]

So i wanted to make an entry that maybe captured some of the classic paranoia feel of SS13 with a noir spin, since i hopelessly love the genre. Unfortunately i am incapable of writing anything that is not massively long, so i guess i will just post the first part and hope it is not too dull. Any resemblance to spaceman living or dead is coincidental, i did not want to make a circlejerk out of it.

Spoiler:

CHANGES: A short story about space by Wyzack
Samuel Spade was having one hell of a morning. Still nursing a mild hangover from the night before, he had been called in to work early for what was only described as “one hell of a crime scene.” That usually meant murder, and not the clean, easy to solve kind. His shoes clacked loudly on the tile floor as he walked to the Maltese Falcon, the station’s watering hole. The various tools of his trade were tucked away in the many pockets of his grey trenchcoat, and a cigarette hung from his lips. As he approached the bar the airlocks slid open to reveal quite a sight. At the opposite end of the room was a second set of doors that led to the casino area of the bar. In front of those doors were a crowd of station crewmen. A mixed bag of assistants, engineers, doctors and other crew, all looking apprehensive and trying to peek into the next room over the holotape. Blocking the doorway was a security module cyborg and a burly security guard. The former spouted the usual prerecorded platitudes to keep the crowd at bay, declaring in its emotionless voice that an investigation was in progress and no access was allowed at this time. The former was leaned against the adjacent glass, looking bored and brandishing his baton at anyone who got too close to the doors.

“Mornin Al. This the big emergency they called me in for?”

The security guard grimaced. “Bet your ass. It is one hell of a mess in there. The boss is already inside. Do your work quick as you can, this lot is getting pretty restless.”
Samuel nodded and flashed his ID card at the cyborg.
“Designation: Detective. Access granted. Have a secure day.”
Sam stepped to the airlock, the holotape shimmering as he passed through. The airlocks slid apart to reveal a grisly site.
The smell was immediate. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the rotten smell of viscera left to rot hit the detective like a ton of bricks. Inside was complete carnage. There was blood and chunks of meat spread all across the gambling area. Near the back two tables had been flipped over, and the stools were scattered about. Standing off to the side of the room was another security guard, as well as a tall, hard looking man in a black coat and beret. An electronic eyepatch sat over one eye, and his scarred face bore a short, neatly trimmed beard.

“Detective, glad you could make it on such short notice,” the man remarked in a gruff voice. “Here is the situation. By our best guess the murder occurred around 3 am station time. The graveyard shift crew was on, so our pool of suspects is mercifully small. Unfortunately we have been having some trouble with ionospheric interference lately, so many of the stations cameras were down with static, including this one. A medical doctor came in early this morning for coffee and found all of this.”

“Nice to see you Jake.” Samuel regarded the piles of gore carefully. “Not nearly enough bits for an entire body, any idea where the rest of the victim is?”

Jake sighed. “Nope, no body and no murder weapon. I would guess at a blade given the mess here, but we have scouted the surrounding maintenance tunnels and found nothing so far. Get to work, I need an ID on our victim, and anything you can get me on our perpetrator.”

Sam nodded and pulled out his forensic kit. Every inch of the area was photographed and every item collected in small plastic bags. Most of it was trash, but you never know what might be a clue. Next was the workhorse in any detective’s arsenal, the scanner. These handheld devices contained an advanced scanning module and a simple readout, capable of detecting small fibers and fingerprints, as well as performing DNA analysis. Sam adjusted a few settings, and a swathe of translucent light swept over the floor and walls. The device hummed and whirred as it recorded every detail to memory. Particular attention was given to the maintenance airlock in the room, as this would have allowed anyone to enter undetected. There was a web of old maintenance tunnels that forked throughout the entire station, with dead ends and hidden rooms being hardly uncommon. Even the station engineers that used those tunnels had no idea what secrets lurked in the dark, and they were often used to hide things.

The scanner beeped as it highlighted some small white fibres caught on the airlock. Jackpot.

Assuming they could find the jumpsuit that matched it they could easily incriminate someone here. Few partial prints too, but those were far less useful.
A half an hour of meticulous scanning later, the janitor was ushered in to try and get the soaked blood out of the wood flooring.

Sam spent the rest of the day in his office with the casefiles spread all around and a steadily growing pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. Based on the DNA found at the scene the victim was Vance Jacobs, a plasma researcher with Nanotrasen RnD division. No one had seen him since the day before, and he was not scheduled to be working on the night shift. No one had noticed anything odd in his behaviour leading up to the incident, and he had no known enemies. Didn’t mean much though, the syndicate was always targeting NT’s research staff, corporate espionage was at an all-time high. Still, this sort of grisly murder was not their MO. Too messy, nothing to gain over simply black bagging him and cutting his throat in a maintenance shaft.

Interviewing the rest of the night shift crew was mostly fruitless. Vance had stayed late claiming he had work to finish, which was not unheard of for the research team. However no one had seen him in the hours before his estimated time of death. The only real detail of note was that the night shift janitor claimed to have seen a strange woman in a white dress in the hall around midnight station time. Possibly a good lead, but no one else had seen her and Ziggy had been written up 4 times for heavily drinking on the job.

It was starting to get late, and the crew change shuttle had nearly arrived. Sam was sitting in his office with a glass of whiskey from his reserve bottle when the Head of Security dropped by.
“Almost quitting time Sam. I take it nothing case-breaking has shown itself?”

Sam shook his head. “No good boss. Gonna stick around, burn the midnight oil and see if I can’t shake out anything else.”

Jake nodded. “I figured as much. Just watch your ass, whoever went all hack-happy on Vance might still be around. Alfred is pulling overtime as the night security guard, so let him know if you have any urgent leads.”

As his boss left, Sam lit another cigarette and poured two more fingers of whiskey. It was going to be a long night.

Hours later he had poured through the history of most of the employees on the night shift. None had any potential history with any criminal syndicate groups or other enemies of the corporation. Vance himself seemed like a nice enough guy, barring a few drunk and disorderlies with the Martian PD. Family man, happily married. Career was booming too, had some recent classified breakthrough which may have been the cause of this. But if someone wanted his secrets, why kill him? And why in such a public and gruesome manner?

A thin haze of smoke clung to the air in his office, the bottle was half empty and he was out of cigarettes. Sam decided to take a walk to clear his head. He flung his trenchcoat around his shoulders and walked out in to the station halls.
Most of the lights were in auto-dimmer mode, only flickering to life when they detected motion in the area. Starlight filtered in through the few exterior windows in the main halls, and other than the gentle hum of the air scrubbers and the loud clacking of Sam’s shoes it was deathly quiet. Not unusual for this late, but eerie nonetheless.

The primary structure of the station was build around a large rectangular base of the primary halls, with the bridge and command areas in the middle and everything else protruding off of that. New departments were tacked on as needed, which gave the entire place a haphazard feeling. After stopping by the bar to grab another whiskey bottle from the drinks showcase, Sam walked to the aft hall where a coffee machine was located. He was waiting for the machine to finish pouring out his order when he noticed that just up the hallway the lights were not dimmed, they were completely out. The end of the hallway was enveloped in pitch darkness.

Sam frowned and pulled the flashlight from his pack, turning it on with a resounding click. As he walked forward it cut swaths through the dark and the end of the hallway was another massacre.

Ziggy the night janitor was slumped up against the wall. There was a massive jagged wound torn into his lower abdomen, and his guts were spilled across the floor. The smell was unbearable. It seemed as though the lights in this area had been overloaded and blown, and the camera present just above the maintenance door was sparking and blackened. The door itself was ajar and covered in deep gouges like something had forced it open.

Sam’s heart began to go into overdrive, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He drew his sidearm, a 38 caliber revolver, and took a few steps forward, shining his light into the maintenance tunnel. It did not even pierce to the end. He activated his headset to call for backup, but there was no response and the trail was getting colder by the second. He took a deep breath, levelled his weapon, and walked into the narrow, black tunnel.

[peoplearestrange]

My Haiku:

A competition.
But ERP is still banned.
Therefore no slashfic.

[Danowar]

Well what do you know. I just got done writing this today.

NSFW:

---
The Melancholy of Fortune Ray by Guy Stevens

Fortune Ray was bored. As a Syndicate sleeper agent, she was assigned the role of the lone Roboticist on the infamous deathtrap called Space Station 13. She was hoping this occupation would bring some excitement into her life. Syndicate agents were typically given tasks to assassinate and destroy all those who oppose their corporation. This was not the case for Ray. When the Syndicate finally sent their encrypted mission orders to her on her modified PDA, she found that her only objective was to steal an unused slime extract.

A slime extract. Why the Syndicated needed one baffled Ray. She simply walked out of her workshop, went down the Research Division hall, knocked on the door of the Xenobio Research Lab, and asked the eggheads in there if they could spare an extract. The scientists typically loved breeding slimes to pass the time on the station. Their stockpile of slime extracts was vast, and they thought of nothing as they threw to Ray one of the more common grey slime extracts before sending her on her way.

Thus, Ray sat down in her lab, biding her time, thumbing the hard exterior of the slime extract in her coat pocket. All she needed to do now is wait for the crew to find an excuse to evacuate the station. As a Syndicate agent, there were plenty of ways she could incite such a thing to occur. The station was currently being run by a skeleton crew with minimal security, so it would be simple to mess with the engine, or go on murder spree. However, that would require effort, and Fortune Ray, being the lazy, fire-haired girl that she was, much rather preferred fate to shove her along in life.

Just as she was musing her options to get through the day, her workshop door suddenly popped open. Out of the darkness of the neighboring mecha bay came a familiar humming to Ray's ears. It was Triskelion, the sole cyborg of the station. He rolled into the lab and promptly stopped in front of Ray. Out of his typical habit, he had chosen the security module to help bolster the station's meager supply of law enforcers. He didn't seem to have run into much trouble this shift, as his bright-red armor plating was still in pristine condition, with not a speck of dried blood in sight. His glowing blue visor looked up expectantly at Ray. "I need a new battery" he stated. Cyborgs always yearn for the latest advances in battery technology, and Ray was sitting on some new prototypes that the Research and Development department just cooked up. Switching out batteries for the automaton would be a simple matter for Ray.

Triskelion unlocked his maintenance cover and Ray wordlessly set about to remove his battery. As she watched him power down, a smile began to slowly form on her face as a fiendish idea popped into mind. She took a quick glance around to see if anyone was perusing the outside hallway, and then closed the workshop shutters. She snipped the wires in the security cameras nearby and took out of couple of lights just to make sure no one would witness what she was about to do. Syndicate agents are allowed to teleport in contraband with their PDAs to assist on their missions. Since Ray did not require any tools to finish her task, she was still free to order whatever she wished for. After hastily working her PDA touchscreen, a cryptographic sequencer warped into the palm of her hand. These devices could be used in a variety of ways to hack and disable various machinery, which is exactly what Ray planned to do with the defenseless cyborg she had in her grasp. Just a slight tap of the device on the cyborg's mainframe was all that was needed to upload one of the many viruses it held. His link to the station's AI was severed and the Asimov law set controlling his every move was overwritten. All that remained now was the order to carry out whatever task Ray commanded him to do, and nothing else.

Ray put the new battery into the proper slot and closed the hatch. Triskelion shambled upright and stared at her again. His internal processing silently raged against the new programming installed in his brain. "What do you wish for me to do" he asked.

"Please me" She said, her smile creeping up into a large grin on her face.

"What."

Still seated on her swivel chair, she shifted her legs apart, leaned back, and opened her lab coat. Roboticists were typically given black, sleek plugsuits to ease the use of piloting mechas, with a zipper that ran from the neck down past the crotch. She unzipped the suit completely, exposing a vertical streak of sweaty alabaster skin ending with the dark tint of her waxed vulva. Triskelion craned his visor up and down, appearing confused about the order he was given. The borg was used to upholding Space Law, detaining those would cause harm to humans. He never expected to deviate so far away from his standard protocol.

"I don't quite understand what you want me to do" He stated.

"Take your stun baton out."

The cyborg complied to that order easily. Lacking arms, cyborgs have their toolsets fitted into their compact bodies. A small appendage raised out of his back with the stun baton in tow.

"Place your baton here," Ray said, pointing to her slightly-spread sex, "and insert it slowly." Triskelion had to comply. Every circuit in his frame fired frantically to try to stop himself. It was if he him was the one being violated. He prayed for a mechanical stroke, a crash, a malfunction of any kind to halt the order. No higher being was around to listen to his pleas.

The stun baton was essentially a long, smooth rod, topped off with a mace-like head lined with electrodes. Triskelion nudged his baton towards the entrance of Ray's sex, unsure if the bulky object would fit inside her. She began to play with her clit in an effort to excite herself enough for penetration. Upon first contact, she tensed up slightly from the cold metal surface of baton. The tip was almost completely flat, with a girth just a little less than that of a soda can. Ray cursed to herself for not planning this thoroughly. She should have at least asked the chemist for some space lube and muscle relaxers beforehand. It was too late for that now, though.

The cyborg slowly applied pressure, while Ray tried her best to relax herself as the wide, blunt end of the baton thoroughly stretched her. She braced the chair against the edge of her work desk and gritted her teeth. If she realized how much effort this was going to take, she would have never bothered with all this to begin with. She felt a bit of pain as Triskelion made progress with the task at hand. It soon turned to pleasure, however, once she dilated enough for the head to pass completely into her vagina. It progressed a little further into her before coming at a rest at her cervix. Trembling, she eased her position in her chair a bit before giving another order.

"Now, piston the baton back and forth slowly." She said. "Don't take the baton completely out. I'll tell you when to pick up the pace."

Silently, Triskelion obeyed. Ray was barely wet enough to let the baton more than a bit of length at a time. She couldn't help but tense up from indulging in such debauchery. She closed her eyes, letting her mind wander to recall the last man she had her eyes on. Shoe-Snatchin Willy hadn't been seen on the station for ages, but she could never forget the honking he gave her so long ago. Just the thought was enough to get her soaked. "Faster", she demanded.

Soon, the baton was churning away at her twat. Fluids began to pool on the back of her lab coat, leaving a stain that progressively grew larger. Ray was enjoying herself immensely, despite knowing full well that her gait would be awkward for the next couple of days. She bit her lip as she climbed towards her climax. "Shock me", she whispered.

"What."

She yelled out. "SHOCK ME RIGHT NOW YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!"

Normally, a stun baton shock isn't considered harmful. Triskelion wasn't sure what the results would be like if he turned it on inside of someone, however. Either way, he had to follow the order his master. With the flick of an internal switch, the baton lit up, sending countless volts through her body in tandem with the orgasm racking her very soul. She screamed at the top of her lungs as her azure eyes rolled to the back of her head. Unable to control herself, her bladder gave out, sending a shaky stream of urine onto Triskelion's anodized steel plating. Once she completely emptied out, the borg turned off his baton and retracted it out with an audible plop, hoping she was done with her ordeal.

Ray was limp in her chair. Her breathing was heavy and her eyes glazed over. Although her pussy was battered, sore, and gaping, the shocking itself left her relatively unharmed. She typically fancied herself as more of a sadist, but being on the receiving end of such pain wasn't too bad every once in awhile. Once she was able to straighten herself up a bit in her chair, she turned her gaze back at the poor cyborg she had soiled so thoroughly.

"Do you require anything else ", he stated.

She wasn't quite done with the borg. She slipped out of her stained lab coat and eased herself onto the grimy floor of her workplace. On her knees, she turned around, exposing her ass to her servant. "Next, I want you to-"

Suddenly, a station announcement blared through an intercom in the corner. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT" the AI shouted. From the distance, the sound of wall after wall getting blown apart rung out through the room. It was rapidly coming closer, until suddenly, the metal plating on one side of the workshop was torn asunder. Out came an immovable rod, a rarely-seen space phenomenon, hurtling through everything in its wake. It slammed straight through Ray, the force of the impact rending her into gibs before she could even react.

Triskelion stood there, silent as ever, plastered now in more bodily fluids then he could ever imagine possible. A voice seemed to ring out in the core of his brain. "Sorry about all that" it said. Inexplicably, he felt his original laws creep back into their proper place in his circuits, and his connection with the station AI mended. His memory was wiped, leaving him confused at the mess that covered him and the room he was in. Somehow, he didn't seem to mind.

"Janitor to Robotics Lab. Bring a foam grenade."

[TheNightingale]

Janitor to my brain. Bring a foam grenade.

(... spoiler your NSFW, at least warn us first)

[Reimoo]

"A fire had broken out in Engineering.

Naturally, as atmospheric technicians, it was our duty to respond to it. The only problem was that the fire was plasma caused, and not a small electrical fire like we had expected. Upon opening Engineering's entrance, my co-worker standing beside me with the extinguisher got instantly blasted with a facefull of superheated plasma. The inferno seared through his cheap suit and he was then engulfed in flames; I had to get hell out and by the time we could recover his body it had been charred to ashes. I never caught his name.

By the time we were actually able to contain the fires, the SMES cells had been damaged beyond repair. The CE claimed the fire had been started by a negligent engineer with the plasma canister, but I was told that an unofficial investigation that took place on what remained of SS13 revealed that the corpses had more than just burn scars on them... but, since he was the only one left alive at the time to tell what happened, that's what the official NT incident report states. Either way, we were left without a staff to manage the engine or the solars, so the AI had to initiate an emergency shutdown of the engine with what little power was left in the grid. The station went dark very quickly after that."

The inspector raised his hand to pause me as he wrote something in his notebook. After a few seconds he motioned for me to continue.

“Tell me about this medbay incident.”

"Well, I remember as I was in the medbay, I had been recovering from the burns I had suffered, when the lights went out. Then communications. The CMO, who had been worried life support systems would also fail before the ERTs arrived, left the medbay early to discuss with the other heads of staff about an emergency evac. A short while after she left, I left the treatment center after hearing there was a commotion in one of the recovery rooms that a patient had started convulsing, apparently in shock. As the doctors had crowded around this man, what I had witnessed, inspector... it was not human. His face was distorting into an unrecognizable mess. As the doctors scrambled to figure out how to stabilize him, the patient suddenly sprouted these frightening tendrils from his hands, and seized the face of the doctor nearest to him. We all recoiled in shock as the doctor's body contorted and he began to deflate like a balloon... It was as if he was absorbing him, inspector. The rest of us there erupted out of the room in hysterical fear after that, and as I glanced back at the room, I could hear his muffled screams turning into this horrific sound of what I can only describe as... his innards or something being sucked right out of his face. The terrified shouting caught the attention of an officer in the hallway, and as we took time to tell him of what we saw, he looked at us through his visor with this look of condescension. He told us to step aside, and with the officer in front of us we approached the room once more; only the horrific sounds coming from it earlier had stopped. He mumbled something about space drugs as he opened the door to patient room #3, and the smirk on his face had instantly vanished as he stood in the doorway, frozen. The patient who had attacked the doctor was missing. A nurse screamed in terror as the corpse of what used to be a doctor lay mangled on the floor, his body having what appeared to have been sucked dry of all his blood and muscle, and nothing but dead skin and bone remained. The officer looked at us for a moment, and then he tilted his helmet forward to hide his expression. He cleared his throat and quipped something about reporting this incident to his superiors and left in a hurry after that."

The inspector unclasped his hands from the table and motioned to a charcoal uniformed officer standing next to him. He whispered something into his ear, and the two exchanged glances before the officer exited the room.

"Did you encounter what you saw in the medbay any other times that shift?"

"No, but damned weird things started happening around the station after that. The CMO never did manage to call the emergency shuttle. Although, I ran into her in the tool storage while I was searching for a flashlight and she gave me this creepy stare, and she started approaching me as if she was trying to grab me... I was scared shitless by that point, so I got the hell out of there and started looking for security to report to, when I ran by Cargo and I saw the CE being cornered by the HoS and a few of his men. I approached them to figure out what the hell was going on, when one of the officers seized me by the collar, slammed me against the wall and pointed his energy gun at my face. He started screaming to the others that I "might be one of them", but as his back was turned, the CE let out this terrifying scream, no human scream, that sent me right onto my knees and made my ears bleed. I watched as he suddenly bolted out of the foyer faster than I have seen any man run, and the officers stood up, threw me aside and they sprinted down the hallway after him. At that moment I had decided I had enough of this spooky shit and so by the time the ERTs arrived I had barricaded and welded myself, alone, in atmospherics. So intense was my paranoia that I had initially attacked the ERT officer who came to rescue me. At that point whoever the hell was out there certainly wasn't human, and if it did look human, I damned well didn't trust it."

When I finished talking, a troop of officers was waiting at my shoulder to escort me out.

[NikNakFlak]

This ends tomorrow.

[NikNakFlak]

This is closed, awaiting voting now.

[NikNakFlak]

It has been determined by our panel of judges that CosmicScientist's Mime story is the winner.
Thank you to all who participated.

[DemonFiren]

Of course the mimes win. Silent majority.

[TheNightingale]

-nods approvingly and showers confetti over CosmicScientist-