Long story short, I came across a few memes about a particular show that is, shall we say, interesting. Not exactly my cup of tea, nor do I plan to write anything in depth about what it's about, but maybe something one dimensional leaves room to improve upon, or mess with in a crack fic kind of way. And having seen Ready Player One, I wanted to try out something a bit different anyways. I know a story like this isn't exactly original, but hey, let's run with it.
A Guilty Pleasure
Admittedly, buying a 1998 model of Jupiter 2 was not exactly meant to be an investment for solid returns. Corporate beancounters once again mistook tongue-in-cheek memes as serious nostalgia, leading to products based on everything from Strike Commando to Maciste. Which, of course, lead to bargain bin avatar gear and vehicles that clogged up the virtual markets and ended up being written off as a loss. Those who found charm in obscure media ended up with a lot of bang for their buck for their collections and gaining tools to get the job done. Finding out the designers never even bothered to install protection against reverse engineering was the icing on the cake. Anyone with two braincells caught on pretty quick that a Starchaser shuttle with no safety locks meant covering the entire hull in M56 Smartguns and wheeling the contraption through a world with PvP accidentally left on was a sacred duty.
The massacre of a Hello Kitty world by Tiny Tank continues to live infamy.
No matter how many times the corporations caught on that their products needed encryption against modders with hairtrigger tempers, another marketing board head happened to forget that lesson faster than CEOs forget their promise to lock down on gold farming bots. Cost cutting measures for naming the products after 1980s and 90s developer notes actually ended up being a somewhat effective defense against reverse engineering. Finding obscure information meant the difference between discerning actual names for the various props and just slapping on a random name left up to an intern born far too many decades after a film's release. Rambler-Crane Series Robot versus the original B-9 Robot? Easy enough. Major West's Bubble Fighter and the exact output on his can-of-RAID rifle? If any promotional material existed then it had been long since forgotten in someone's attic. No proper names, if not numerous names for gear, made it somewhat of a challenge for modders to easily trade notes on just what sort of item they got their hands on.
The inevitable crackdown on supped-up Lensman uniforms kicked off due to complaints from customers with a bit more than a few credits to their name. Starship Trooper fans laying claim to being the pop-culture originators of exosuits did not take kindly to a swarm of ray-punk astronauts carpet bombing their armories. At least the fans of the novel were up in arms. The movie fans? They found it hilarious. This in turn lead to more memes, more flame wars over which take on a franchise was the best, more 40k versus Starcraft battles until the Dune and Heavy Metal Magazine crowds got involved, and when Dark City game back into public view to debate on how much the Matrix may or may not have ripped off, a new wave of 90s sci-fi aesthetics lead right back to a particular gamer getting his virtual hands on a Jupiter 2 that did not end up in the recycle bin.
In the real world, a particular gamer lazily checked off a few boxes on a good old fashion computer to promise that this collector's item would not be enhanced and used to disrupt public hubs and worlds in the Oasis, which really meant no Duck Dodger's disintegrators taped to the bow for enhancing the scenes in one of those anime roleplay worlds. In the Oasis, a newly acquired 1998 Jupiter 2 floated under the shadow of some rich kid's Emperor Class Battleship returning to space dock to deal with another rich kid's Macross lodged just under the gilded bridge. Kid being subjective of course, given the rather adult sounding and quite heated Cockney and Tohoku accents going back and forth on the docking master's com, giving the unfortunate Brazilian a throbbing headache. No sooner did the new Jupiter 2 pilot slip back into the gaming rig did the dock master's robotic avatar pop up alongside to hand over the virtual keys.
"Yo, dude, no mods, no fly-bys, no distiming doshes with gostaks, all that stuff," the Heavy Metal themed robot warns, not bothering to mask a real voice with a pseudo-Candy one, "and keep your head down when flying through the new sectors. Those CFC guys?"
The new pilot of nostalgia flicks the pill-bug helm back down and finishes adjusting the new virtual black pilot suit sleeves. "Eve ships, right?"
"Yeah, those guys," the dock master continues, pointing knowingly to the new Major West avatar. "They've been blowing up anything bigger than a freighter that enters their space. Pissing off a lot of Trekkies trying to farm credits. You ain't exactly got Sisko's pimp-hand there, but they ain't looking to waste ammo on obscure ships either. Use that to your advantage. Fly low, stick around the sector's corners, and don't come crying to me if they try hitting you with a fly-swatter. Got my hands full as is with all of these new guys who haven't figured out the Y-axis yet."
The West avatar follows the small robot's gesture over to the station's east side and nods. The smoldering multi-kilometer long wrecks were finally parked over one of the giant platforms. He takes a few more tries to adjust the avatar's new jacket with his gaze occupied.
The digital dock master gives a thumbs-up. "Okay, you're all set. You'll be following them out." His head tilts, using a megaphone shaped ear to gesture at the Deadmau5 looking ship taking up almost as much space as the Macross soon will. Both avatars glance over to the small Jupiter 2 tethered right behind the Heavy Metal ship aptly named 'So Beautiful, So Dangerous'. "Love the b-movie stuff too, eh?"
The gamer behind West shrugs and the avatar follows suit. "Small enough to keep me out of trouble."
"Yeah, just no digging up Loc-Nar stuff, right?"
A kite following a mountain. A poorly reviewed ship sailing after a true cult classic. The 1980s sphere truly dwarfed the 90s vessel that sported a flashy yet otherwise ineffective hyperdrive. 'Major West' did not follow as much as he watched Zeke and Edsel's ship lift straight up and effortlessly float away from Axis Station. The former fittingly trailed 'All of You' as though the gamers piloting it truly were stoned. The later had gotten around to cranking off its own theme, as "It's your one way to ticket to midnight!" screamed over the Jupiter 2's speakers, and thus the gamer's headphones. In virtual space of Oasis, everyone can hear you ROCK.
Not that 'West' would complain with such classics, but a ship with a mid-90s aesthetic needed mid-90s music. Frowning into the game goggles has the avatar frown as well. No techno nor rave stored on the ship yet? The music library must not have fully imported over yet. No matter. Reaching around the controls modeled right after a futuristic motorcycle, West taps at a display to pull up the next best thing. The public channels blasting 80s metal is quickly silenced by the Eurodance tracks that were already available. Something slow and nostalgic for his tastes to suit the mood of a small vessel pulsing after hundreds of ships gunning towards the newest nebula.
Leaving the craft on auto-pilot, West pushes off from the insect-like chair. In the real world, the exo-frame locked around the gamer's legs release their hold on knees and back to allow the user to stand upright and shuffle across the Teflon-like mat. Purples. Silvers. Flickering blues and thin gold lights. His gaze wanders over the distinct aesthetic rarely replicated outside the Matrix. "Yeah." He nods and smirks. "Feels right."
Across the rather spacious bridge is the rounded hall that leads to the stairs, cargo lift and the holo-table flickering to life with his presence. The next several minutes involved reading over the rest of the TOAs, articles on whatever drama threatened this section of Oasis, and inspecting the various worlds coming into render distance. Once more the marketing departments forgot to include the same restrictions imposed on the much more powerful vessels favored by the more popular fandoms. Maybe he could get the bridge shifted a bit more to the center from one of the chop-shops. That off-kilter look on the model was a bit too... unique in the end. Ideas for another day.
Virtual hands push off the holo-table as real-life hands brace against the tension felt in VR gloves, and short travel time brings the avatar before the ship's hyperdrive. He nods at the 1:1 replica of 'level 6' pylons and gantries framing a generator that would not look too far off from an alien mothership's cannon. As it stood, firing it off risked launching the ship to just about any point in the Oasis void. On one hand, instantaneous travel put this type of hyperdrive leagues beyond most other fandoms. On the other hand, no beacon or hyperdrive gate meant he had no control over where the ship would end up. A bit of customization would fix that and turn this little ship into one of the most overpowered transports out there.
No collector items in the bedrooms? To be expected.
No supplies in the medical ward? To be put on high priority.
No Rambler-Crane model docked in the robot station? Well, spending that many credits for that extra bit of guilty pleasure can wait.
"Hey, West, you there?"
He glances up, as though there were visible speakers on ship and not just some science-fiction handwave of generating sights and downs. "Yeah, I'm here." Laser rifle, plasma carbine, futuristic rooty-tooty-point-and-shooty, whatever name best suited it, the double barreled weapon components finally had a home in a shared universe armory. "One sec," he calls out, shoving the metal case into a glass slot before marching past the sliding doors. Back to the holo-table once more, a few quick taps accepts the facetime call.
ID-Glitch_24xAa87 reads out over the Metal Arms character shimmering into view. "Got your new ship, eh?" The avatar of an avatar peers around the circular room.
West steps out of the way, letting the other gamer get a better view. "Eyup."
"Cool digs," Glitch opines, nodding this way and that. "Hey, isn't this one of those movies that you like as a kid but actually sucks?"
West turns around and leans back against the console with arms crossed. Metal joints clicking around the gamer's legs are heard over the shared mic. "Eh." His bounces side to side, half-nodding in agreeance. "I like it. One of those films you just turn your mind off when watching."
"Hey, yeah, I get ya. Guess I figured you were going for some knockoff Mad Max look." A metal finger twirls about, gesturing to West's outfit.
"Yyyyyyyy-nope. Just figured I could stand out without really standing out, ya know? Make everyone think I'm just going under the radar. I mean, yeah, I go under the radar, but I don't feel that boring. Or something."
"Mhmm, I get ya. Gonna have to check it out next time you're over." His image flickers, leaning closer to peer up at non-existent speakers. "Techno?"
"Eurodance."
"Ah. Riding a meteorite classic. Speaking of, looks like more planets just popped up. Sounds like just about anyone with a ship's gonna be digging for credits."
West glances over a shoulder to Glitch's hologram. "Got your diamond pickaxe?"
"Mining laser," Glitch corrects, flashing the instrument configured to look like a pistol. "Plant the beacon. I'll teleport in. But I'm gonna need you to fly me out after."
Eyebrow perked, West pushes back off the holo-table to fully face the robot. "But isn't-?" He trails off, waving a finger for Glitch to fill in the gaps.
"No warp beacon out. Cheet's is out in a Thundercats convention. I know, I know," Glitch quickly adds, cutting off West just as the later went to speak. "We're just gonna have to double-time it and fly it all out."
To say West look pleased would have been misleading. His mouth hangs open, ready to lay out the complaint the moment he stops pointing a finger at Glitch from crossed arms. "I don't have any missiles on my ship yet."
"I know."
"Glitch. That's the deal." West gestures with his chin to an imagined planet. "I drop you off. You fill up the crates. Cheet yanks you out. If someone shows up," jerking a thumb to his chest for emphasis, "I don't have anything to keep them from blowing us out of the sky."
"I know. I'll give you a bigger cut this time."
West scoffs.
"Half." It is Glitch's turn to cross his arms. A robotic eye turns and half closes to represent a perked brow at West giving undivided attention now. "You fly me out. I'll give you half." His head bows as though daring West to decline. "It's a big haul this time. And those Minecraft guys don't stripmine as fast as Droid Town miners."
West's jaw flexes side to side for a moment. "I could move into a better apartment."
"And get yourself a Will Robinson." Glitch blinks at the silence. "You know, the robot."
"Will was the son."
"Oh, right."
A shorter silence follows before West sighs. "Fine."
Glitch gives a thumbs-up. "Cool beans."
West points at Glitch. "But no wasting time digging down, got it? You strip the caves then we bolt."
Glitch holds up a hand. "Hey, don't worry. The bigger guys will be fighting over the asteroids. No one bothers with the smaller ships landing on the planets until after they duke it out."
West takes a deep breath, holds it, nods and exhales. "Yeah. That is-"
Not true.
West slams the controls up and twists to right. The Jupiter 2 dives straight down, pivoting just enough to avoid the Systems Commonwealth Andromeda tearing out of slipstream and bouncing off the hull of a Minbari Sharlin. Its stealth capabilities are immediately obliterated by a passing Ork Kill Kroozer that either does not care about or notice the smaller vessel tearing apart on its mawed bow. A Protoss Mothership's purifier beam unintentionally shatters the Kroozer's back, having made an attempt to rip into the Executor class Super Star Destroyer delivering a hellish payload of turbolasers into its underside. Both vessels slowly pitch away from a Ket-pattern battlecruiser's plasma barrage as a Covenant captain entered the fray.
And an LMS Explorer attempting a b-line to an asteroid breaks apart from a Conestoga class' broadside before its Unitron Star Hawk II escorts can intercept.
The rich kids and corporate sponsors were out to play. More vessels warp into the system, sending temporal shudders through the space-time continuum. Or rather, the ships carried over from what had once been Eve Online were jumping in just to lag out the entire sector, screwing with the corporations' livestreams. Whoever said bad publicity is still good never accounted for falling stock prices to a bunch of trolls burning dick-butt sigils onto hulls with their laser cannons. And all the while West pitches and rolls the Jupiter 2 through crossing beams and trailing missiles.
The gamer's clenched fists sends a warning across his visor: too much pressure on the embedded joysticks in each glove meant to represent handles when gripping virtual objects. He tenses, rears back and nearly falls off the podium when a fiery shuttle screams past the ship's main view port. Everyone and their mothers had decided asteroid mining would not be today's agenda. The main planet in this system has proven Glitch to be an unintentional liar.
A sharp, echoing ring of metal pinging off metal is followed by klaxons blaring. West grits his teeth and barrel-rolls away from a Republic Y-Wing tearing apart a Space 1999 Transport, the hapless avatars spilling out into the void and nearly colliding with his ship. Another ping, another debris field finding its mark. He hits the atmosphere at an awkward angle, coming in upside down while trying to level out his descent.
A twin tailed comet splits the sky already engulfed in fire and flame. A lightshow of a thousand colors marks the defiant stand and demise of a dozen large vessels with each salvo. Down below, dropships dig trenches and drop pods blast craters into what had once been farmland. Chainswords shriek against Olympian Blades of Chaos. M41A Pulse Rifles attempt to drown out the rumble of MA5B Assault Rifles with their electric staccato. Max, the butler of Cats Don't Dance, picks up a Brotherhood of Nod Mammoth Tank and launches it into the path of a passing Terran Valkyrie, giving a full four acres the equivalent of a godly shotgun blast.
And huddled behind a recently captured fortification, alongside mercenaries far too terrified to exploit any spoils, a particular Black Dog commander tears his wide eyes away to focus on the obscure ship hurtling off into the horizon, having been deemed insignificant to all save himself.