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Desolate industrial space western . . .

You're titanium mugs clinks on your belt as you settle down in a control seat.

landing sequence initiated. The computer chirps out, cold, synthetic, and lifeless.

"One last job" one of your crewmates mutters under his breath. As if. Everyone telss themselves it'll be their last job, then they're out. free. and. clear. That ain't how it works, not ever. Every trilithium run gets wasted on maintenance, booze, and other degenerate pleasures. Only a few riggers actually have the sense to save their earnings, and they usually die on the job before they cash out. Maybe the onese that blow it all on drugs and whores are the clever ones.

The concussive blast of the landing pod slamming into it's launch tube jars any other thoughts you had loose. The countdown starts.

60 seconds...

Riggers don't use shuttle pods to land, the equipment is heavy and the takeoff capability to expenseive. Instead they load all the equipment, crewmen included, into a disposable launchpod, and blast the whole thing down onto the planet.

3, 2, 1

The charge locks into place, a pause, the blast plating was checked what... 10 cycles ago?


The sheer energy is unbearable, the whole pod hurtles down towards the planet, the cabin instantly jumps from frigid to unbearably hot. Just as you start to get uncomfortable you black out from the G's, everyone does.

- Sketching out some ideas -

The Concept: There was a massive galactic empire once, but a massive technological cataclysm ended all that centuries. All digitac records where lost are destroyed shortly afterwards. The empire crumbled from the inside out, war, famine, pestilence. Now the galaxy is run by ruthless warlords and even colder mega-corporations. Civilizations are few-and-far-between. Raiders, and space-savages are littered throughout space like trash on a highway, opportunistically attacking riggers, freighters, colonists, and pilgrims.

The Sights: Jean Giraud, ALIEN, that other Alien movie nobody liked where Sigourney Weaver is bald an everyone is on a prison planet for some reason, Redline, Star Trek: Enterprise, Blade Runner (on the populated planets). Industrial equipment. Soot, oil, and rust.

The Sounds: Sunn O))), Cloakroom, Emma Ruth Rundle, Earth, Author & Punisher, The Sword, Alphaxone, ProtoU, Randal Collier Ford.

The Gear: Hamcus, Guerilla Group, Enfin Leve, Triple Aught Designs. Anything that shouts 'post apocalyptic space cowboy' or 'military space cadet'.

The Rules: Hey man, it's your game. I'd probably run this using a modified version of the 'Endure' rule set though. The focus is on survival in a hostile environment filled with hostile people. Space sucks and is trying to kill everything in it. The planets mostly suck and are polluted to the brim or otherwise un-inhabitable. I'd keep the rules light to non-existant and focus on didetic role-playing.

Enemies: It all depends, there's religious zealouts, drugged out freaks using mega-roids, space raiders, techno-savages, evil warlords, and psychopathic corporations mostly run by defunct AIs. Not to mention mutants, and whispers of a darker force brewing at the center of the old empire.

Starting Out: The player characters are could be anyone. Riggers stranded on a desert planet whose scavenge ship was stolen or destroyed by raiders, security officers, cargo workers getting raided by space pirates, pilgrims seeking religious enlightenment, or colonists trying to escape the clutches of the warlords by fleeing to the outer edges of the galaxy.