The fleet set out on this steamy and overcast evening to rendezvous with two alien federations, the Wild Rabbit Moto Show and the Lost Horizon night market. The mission started out with a lucky 13 pilots assembled on the launchpad in the parking lot of Luna MB. As is our nomadic custom, we ambled around without any particular urgency, no mission control klaxon to snap us to attention. In the capable navigational clutches of SCPO Baaaaaane Thunderwolf, we chopped merrily along to Central Constellation, where we rendezvoused with drunken orangutans of the moto-chop persuasion, gleefully wheelieing back and forth to the dismay of passing transport pilots. BRUMMM brumm brum bbbruuum brum BRUMMMM brummm
... though we made contact, our efforts at communicating with our motored kin were drowned out by the sounds of their alien machinery.
Soon we were off towards our next objective, but not before the first blobs of radiation began gently plopping along the starpaths. We quickly veered towards Luna Target for a little cover and a brief shore leave, so that Dr. Claw could procure the galaxy's finest ziploc bags to fashion himself radiation proof boot covers. The sky continued to slowly drip as we proceeded onwards to the farthest reaches of the Somerville system.
We patrolled the usual starpaths, scanning with our lasers for signs of the night market, but all remained eerily quiet. Navigator Bane had one final trick up his sleeve, and led us through the chasm of Satan's nostrils. Surely we'd find our paradise of otherwordly delights on the other side! Alas, nothing but potholes and flattened space weevil. We pulled up for a hasty conference. "Does anyone know anyone who might know where the market is?" asked the Fleet Admiral. Eventually, it was concluded that we'd received some bad intel, and in fact the secret location of the night market was hundreds of light-years away in the New York City System. Oh well - when times get tough, derby derby derby! Not many pilots were enthusiastic enough to answer the call, but a few rose to the challenge, and babymaggot Amoeba put in a fine showing. Soon enough, some civilian friends showed up, in pursuit of the night market after having received the same bad intel. Unperturbed by the absence of the promised event, they elected to join the mission instead, and so we shoved off to salvage the evening with two new klingons in tow.
Bane set his navigational thrusters to cruise control, and we barrelled through the Charlestown system, popping out near the Zakim at one of the usual haunts. As we cruised a short section of wormhole, Fleet Admiral Skunk tempted fate by holding out his hand to Gritty for a scul handshake, from the tallest ship in the battalion to the smallest and squattest, Ass Over Tea Kettle. Veering here and there, Gritty valiantly reached up to make contact, only to promptly crash in a heap. Ever the stalwart pilot, she managed to avoid taking out Syntax Error by sacrificing herself to the gods of irony. Here we stopped to play on a playground while Gritty dusted herself off and Threespeed inspected Ass Over Tea Kettle for damages. Accepting our all-around failure, we made motions to wrap things up and Bane set a course for the landing pad. This pilot doesn't recall any attempts at a flight formation for the final mission objective, but perhaps it's just as well, we woulda messed that up somehow.
On the landing pad, we successfully hazed Amoeba, and Cosima was awarded a medal of patronage in absentia for her work preparing Vespira and handing her over for flight.