Infinity Greaves

Stardate 170804. Morning. The daystar was obscured by ominous cloud cover. Four pilots assembled at the fort to prepare for a dopey local century engineered by Lord Mcfuzz and inspired by similarly dopey endeavors of years past. The pilots offered to repent to their weather lords, but alas, radiation tumbled from above and necessitated a hasty indoor launch ceremony.

The would-be centurions made a quick detour to Punchy’s fort to retrieve additional radiation protection, getting thoroughly assailed in the process. Punchy assumed temporary navigational duties and led the fleet through the snarling traffic of Harvard Constellation. At Porter, Lord McFuzz casually leaned his ship on the window of a heavy transport while waiting for the green light, positioning himself at roughly eye-level with a somewhat startled driver just in time for still cam Stogie to snap a photo.

Arriving at Fresh nebula, Punchy discovered their boots had suffered a hull breach and radiation contamination, forcing them to burn up rather than risk serious chafing in pursuit of only very mild and dopey glory.

Lord Mcfuzz, Stogie, and Dead Bride thus set off at a blazing clip, orbiting the nebula and beginning their descent into loopular space. The route was smooth at first, with few civilians to dodge and only a handful of squishable dogs, though Dead Bride nearly gave Dr. Moreau a fresh victim to play with at one point. Terrain soon changed: dirt, rocks, bumps, and a steep mulch-paved descent made things challenging. Round and round they went, each loop ever faster, passing familiar faces along the way. Blue shirt jogger. Tiny old lady. Dog wearing a cone of shame. Hipster fisherman. Lady on phone. Soon the groove guided the fleet into an emo death spiral. Blue shirt. Cone of shame. Still on the phone… how many more loops? At last they had fulfilled sufficient orbits in order to earn lunch. While gathering what was left of their wits, Stogie discovered that Chubz was gestating a plasma blowout, in the form of an ominous bulge in the primary thruster. The pilots hastily scoffed a quick lunch and then detoured to the Fort so that Stogie could make the necessary repair.

The fleet then pointed their thrusters across the river and headed for Jamaica Nebula. At the crest of the BU Hyperspace byway, temporarily closed to transport traffic, the 3 pilots took the opportunity to fly in wall formation, showing off in front of the gaggle of STs manning the crossing.

The Jamaica nebula was characterized by moderate gwell activity, and the fleet took frequent breaks from the undulating circuit in order to rest and mitigate damage from uncomfortable cockpits. At LY48, Tard intercepted, and injected fresh energy into the group with groove courtesy of JVH Trinity’s upgraded sonic disruptors. Passing food were appreciative of the circuitous efforts, including one memorable individual who couldn’t quite catch up with the fast pace, but managed to scream a parting wish: “please tell me you guys have a websiiiiite!” As the daystar began to fade, Lord McFuzz declared the nebula conquered, and the fleet stopped for dinner in the JP system.

After refueling with burritos (and in Stogie’s case, a dinner comprised exclusively of ice cream molecules), the fleet headed to the South Boston System. As they navigated towards the final target, they were detained briefly by an ST; though at first alarmed, fears were quickly assuaged when it was determined that the ST merely wanted assistance in locating a missing civilian. The fleet kept their eyes peeled and pressed on. Once they reached the Castle Island causeway, they determined the optimal direction to proceed with as little headwind as possible. They searched the horizon for the telltale blinky lights of the intercept cohort, but saw nothing. Where were the promised lemonade molecules? Undeterred, the 4 pilots continued their loops. Finally, a procession of colorful ships was spotted in the distance, and the two groups passed each other going in opposite directions, gaining high-fives as the centurions swooped onward into the darkness.

On subsequent passes, the pilots were tempted by a variety of tantalizing treats, including a mobile lemonade stand and various forms of steering dampener, the tableau brightly lit by the nearly full moon. In fact, the centurions had been flying in dizzying loops for so long that their vision had suffered, and it seemed as if many moons were visible on this Saturnight.

The dopey comrades completed their final passes quite rapidly, and reconvened with the intercept mission in order to ride triumphantly back to Fort Tyler together, congratulating themselves on a successful mission: 102 light years, 15 hours 4 minutes.