forum Out in Space (classic lit and sci fi) (Reboot) (CLOSED, stalkers welcome)

Started March 10, 2021 by @ElderGod-Icefire

tune

(On an unrelated note, would it be helpful to have, like, a brainstorming PM with everyone in here or something so we don't clog up this chat with discussions and such?)

(Yeah, that could work!)

(Also perhaps….Kate as Heather Chandler?)

(Le gasp yes!!)

(Ooh, totally! Because he's very stressed all the time right?)

(Yeah. Also big mood)

(here I am, three days late with the starter lmao)
(Also it's uh. A Lot. Good luck)

Soul Station was one of the larger Space Stations out there; more of a floating city than a station, really. It had an underworld, it had a high class and a middle class and a lower class and everything that characterized these classes. It had a mixture of people and populace from all corners of the known, habited galaxy. People who spoke any dialect could be found there, though the most common languages were still English and Mandarin, those two ancient languages from Earth and its people. As such a large city, Soul of course had a police force, just as it had crime. In fact, the station could be characterized, almost, by the dichotomy of its force versus its criminal underworld. People came to Soul either to win fame or to win infamy or sometimes just to disappear; rare were those who came seeking none of those.

So of course, the police force had a lot on their hands. They would often hire, therefore, private detectives, to work on various cases, so that their own detectives could work on some of the larger, more high profile or secret cases. On occasion, a man named James Moriarty was involved with the putting together of such teams.

What position that this James Moriarty held, precisely, most of the officers would have been hard-pressed to say. Was he the governor of Soul Station? The king? Was he only the chief of police? Or only a very rich man? Certainly he had connections, and certainly he had money, but where these connections and money came from, none could guess. But the teams he put together often succeeded at what they were supposed to do, and so no one really questioned his involvement with the force.

Moriarty, though, had plans that were not exactly in the best interests of Soul Station. For years, he had quietly dipped his fingers into every pie that the station had in it, and more outside of it, until he was one of the galaxy's biggest kingpins, and no one even knew it. There wasn't a thing that happened, but that he knew of it or had some hand in it. He was a spider seated in the middle of a mass of threads, and he was beginning to pull them tight. All that was needed was to finish his plans, so long in the making. But for that, he would need some exceptional teams. Teams he could manipulate without them ever knowing just how much he was manipulating them. Teams with just enough dreams of doing the right thing that they would blunder blindly ahead, no matter how intelligent they believed themselves to be. Teams that all had something to hide, so they wouldn't dare try to go public with anything they discovered.

So he searched his strings, plucked at his threads and unearthed secrets until he had assembled two teams, summoning them to Soul. For some of them, they were already at the station, and so all he had to do was wait, for those who weren't.

Once they had arrived, he sent letters. Not electronic ones, but real, paper letters; hardly anyone ever sent those anymore. Each was sealed with a blob of red wax, with a curling, cursive "M" sealing it. These letters invited each team to a spot, to meet the other members of their teams. Their mission would be to bring down the Clay Man, which was what Moriarty called himself, when doing his criminal dealings.

There was, of course, the double meaning of "Clay Man". A fake, a pretend. A stand-in. But he knew none of them would think of that, or if they did, they would brush it off.

---

Hamlet Aleksandar Monpezat was one of these poor flies that Moriarty had ensnared; the young prince was already on Soul station, having fled there after escaping from a mental facility. Now he fought in illegal, underground fighting rings, where people would bet on whoever they thought would win. Most of the time it was hand-to-hand combat, raw, vicious, and brutal. Sometimes it was swords. Usually not projectiles, as those didn't guarantee a good fight. The prince's formal training stood him well, and while he was not the champion, he was not at a disadvantage, either. He often sported bruising from these fights, but it was enough to survive on and that was all he needed.

After the fights of the evening were done, winding up at around midnight or one in the morning, he would go home to his tiny apartment that seemed to be no bigger than a broom closet. It was all he could afford on the money won from the fights. It was a far cry from his old suite in a palace. But he tried not to let himself think of his old life and what it had been. How it had ended, in a bloodbath of pain and anger and madness. A madness that still lingered, still crept in at the corners of his mind and stole away his sanity. Some nights, in the arena, he lost control. He hadn't killed an opponent yet, but there were a few that landed in the hospital and he didn't even know how. He just knew that he lost control and the fight ended with his opponent broken, beaten, and bloodied on the floor.

So when the letter arrived, crisp and white and sitting on the table in his apartment, his first instinct was suspicion. His first instinct was that Horatio had tracked him down and found him, how he knew not, but that Horatio would bring him home. Horatio, who thought Alek was still fixable. Horatio, who Alek had kissed before he fled. Horatio, who was the only one that had ever really believed in him. Horatio, who he would never see again. So he opened the letter hesitantly, but when he read it, was surprised to find that it was not, in fact, what he had thought it was, though the opening rather worried him.

To Prince Hamlet Aleksandar Monpezat,
Greetings. It is not often that Soul Station receives a visitor such as yourself. Though, I am aware that you would like your identity to remain hidden. This letter is not about that identity of yours, though it may have some bearing. This letter is to recruit you for a team. I am sure that, in your fights in the ring, you have heard of a man known as the Clay Man? He is a plague upon this city, and I am politely requesting your help in eradicating him from the city. You are, of course, free to turn me down, but before you do, I have an offer to make:
If you agree to this, and succeed, then I shall have a new Identity made for you. You would be free to go anywhere, do anything, and this identity would keep your past from coming back to haunt you, as I'm sure it does now. You would not have to live in secret as you do now. Of course, this venture will not be without risk, and there is the chance that you will die before it is completed. However, if you do not, then the new Identity is yours, free of charge. In addition, everything you need while in my employ will be taken care of for you. For instance, any medication you may need, such as testosterone, will be provided for you free of charge. Any medical care, too, will be provided, should you have need of it for any reason. Housing, too. I suppose it may be similar to being a prince again, albeit with some differences. Your true identity, too, would be yours to decide whom to tell. If you accept, please come to the Morcan de Rouge Building at precisely three o'clock in the afternoon, next Thursday.
In hope,
James Moriarty

Alek considered the letter and its contents for a while, weighing the possible pros against the possible cons. The idea of a brand-new identity was alluring; it had been his main obstacle. Fake identities, or at least good ones, were difficult to procure, and he couldn't imagine how much money one such as the one Moriarty spoke of would cost. So he made up his mind. He would go to this Morcan de Rouge, and see what this was all about.

---

Sherlock Holmes was a private investigator who was often hired to work in tandem with the police. They had been hired by Moriarty before; in fact, their very first case with the force had been on the recommendation of James Moriarty, and so it stood to reason that the young person felt at least a little indebted to the man, for giving them a chance.

They lived in a small flat, but not a tiny one. It was comfortable, and that was all that really mattered to them. That it was comfortable without being cramped. They lived there alone; they had considered getting a cat, but had decided against it, since they didn't feel that they could be responsible enough for another living creature, not right now. Not with how they still had drug issues sometimes. They didn't want that amount of responsibility. Taking care of themself was enough.

Right now, they were between cases. Which was fine, they had enough laid away that they weren't desperate for a case. So they spent their time reading, learning, bettering themself and becoming ever more acquainted with the details of the world around them. They kept track of the news, too, reading different local news sources and also galactic sources. As a result, they were very knowledgeable about what was going on in the galaxy, and could often figure out how things would pan out, if one person did this and the other person reacted like so. It was part of what made them such a good detective.

They came home from a walk to find a letter on their music stand, with a wax seal holding it shut. They were careful not to break the wax as they opened it; after all, if this letter was something hostile, the seal would be evidence.

To Sherlock Holmes, detective,
You are one of the better private detectives on Soul station, which is made more remarkable for your youth. In your cases, you have come across many links to a crime lord known as the Clay Man, who has escaped the grasp of our noble police force for years now. Therefore, my proposition is thus:
Assist in the finding and capture of the Clay Man. You will be working with a team. If you can do this, I am prepared to reward you. You have placed applications to the force to become a detective on the force, rather than simply a private detective hired on for some cases. These applications, however, have been rejected, due to your past history and offenses. The reward that I shall offer is assistance with getting your applications accepted. I shall not stoop to bribery of the force, but I shall assist you with finding a way to become a part of the force. This is what you will gain, if you assist and your team is successful. While on the job, all expenses and needs shall be provided for. You are, of course, free to turn down the offer, if that is what you wish. If you wish to accept, then your presence is requested at the Benjamin Towers building at 12 o'clock sharp, next Thursday.
Respectfully,
James Moriarty

Sherlock knew, when they finished the letter, that they would comply. The reward was one they had been wanting and denied. The force did not accept anyone who had prior offenses, even if those offences were non-violent and had, indeed, harmed no one, such as Sherlock's had. Their offences were drug-related; and while they were clean now, they still had a record, and the department had automatically denied their applications on those grounds. So now, with the hope that they could, perhaps, be granted a position on the force? Why not do it? So, they decided that they would go to the Benjamin Towers building, and meet their team.

(Yes I posted a reply that I immediately deleted, what of it? Anyways, here’s a better response from a no longer sleep deprived me.)

Eden and Victor had fled to the Soul Station several long years ago. They had ran, and chased, and scraped and fought and bled and bit and nothing came of it. They were two tired bastard sons on the brink of insanity when the ex-Captain had found them, and now they were slowly creating some semblance of a normal life. Eden worked at the docks while Victor fixed robots for their neighbors, and when the day was over they’d eat together as if they were a real family. It had taken a while to get to the point where one could trust the other not to pour drain cleaner in the other’s food, and even more struggle for the two to stop doing it entirely. However, they were on good terms now. It was dangerous, to be on good terms. Who knew what would come of it?

So when the letter came urging them to go to the Morcan De Rouge Building at three, this startled the careful balance the two had struck. That was good, in a way, but also quite bad for Victor. He didn’t know if Eden would even permit them to go, despite being the wretch’s creator Victor was generally subject to their whims and didn’t get much chance to escape from this except for when they weren’t home. Which, lately, wasn’t often, as Eden was mostly just staying home now. Victor suspected something was up with their work, but every time he tried to bring it up they shut him down immediately.

It was a surprise when, after looking at the letter, Eden agreed.

“Fine then, old man. We go, if only for the stability this provides us. This Moriarty has promised us food, shelter, and work, and a chance for you to see your brother again and me to get as far away from you as possible. What better luck?” they said.

“You’re calling me your old man? How sweet of you, kiddo.” Victor said, for the sole purpose of being annoying.

“I am not your-and that’s the only thing you get out of me saying-and I hardly think that I’m sweet-oh, nevermind.” Eden blustered, shaking their head.

“An old frog like me only has so much time before he croaks, let’s make the best of this then. I’ll never see you again after this, and that’s what you want, right?” Victor changed the subject.

“Fine then. We go,” Eden said, giving Victor a warning glance before stalking off.