After a few hours in the bar, and a few too many drinks, I find myself waking up in the station drunk tank the new proud owner of a slightly beat up Sidewinder, with no memory of any such purchase.
According to station authorities, I staggered out of the bar, made it to the shipyard, managed to convince the dockmaster that yes, I could indeed fly, bought said Sidey, and proceeded to crash it into the wall when I passed out. So here I am with a skull-pounding headache, a Sidewinder and no idea what to do with it. I could just sell it back, but that would risk the contempt of the dockmaster... Or I could strip it out and join Kliggs and his Boost Fail on the board.
After a couple more drinks, I choose the latter. I head back down to the shipyard and proudly proclaim that I want them to strip everthing out of it, replace it with the lightest parts (excepting the FSD of course, A for always, or something) and bolt in the biggest fuel scoop they can (not very big, it IS only a Sidey, after all), I'm taking it racing.
While they do that, I'll get something to eat, a couple more drinks, and submit my application as follows;
OPEN UNLIMITED
CMDR Mangel
In the Sidewinder, Corona Surfing
--- UPDATE ---
After a few more than a couple more drinks, I staggered to my ship, waited on the clock, and set off, boosting out of the slot, passing an authority Viper close enough to shake up my stomach with its engine's rumble. Slightly queasy, I got the second boost I could sqeeze out of my little engines to break mass lock and spooled up my Frame Shift Drive. This race was on.
Until, half way to the 7 Sisters, I got a swift reminder in the importance of, being in a ship that can only make two maximum range jumps, checking my route in the map for any unscoopable stars that need to be scooped enough before-hand to pass by.
This reminder came in the shape of a massive purple sphere and a friendly reminder from my computer that my main fuel tank was drained. After a few choice expletives, I quickly opened up my map to see if I could reach anything nearby. I couldn't. A few more expletives, and my cockpit was suddenly feeling very cramped. I had a choice, self-destruct and give up on the race, or call someone for fuel. I remembered the excellent service I was rendered by the Fuel Rats some time ago, and pulled their card out. With my sliver of a fuel gauge slowly slimming, I dropped into deep space, turned off everything but my life support and, with my cockpit already frosting up, dialed into the Rats' frequency.
Moments after raising the "Rat Signal", the dispatcher asked me who and where I was, and set me up with two fine commanders who would assist me. They were both 15 jumps away. I figured this would be a bit of a wait, so I pulled out a bottle of brandy I stashed under my seat and settled down to wait, trying not to glance at my still dropping fuel readout.
Not long after, I got the message that one of my rescuers was within 3 jumps of me, with the other not far behind, so I sent them each a wing request, and was homed in on quickly. Unfortunatelym it became quickly apparent that there were some strange problems with them being unable to locate me after dropping onto my wing beacon, so, with some trepidation, I powered on my drives and FSD, for a quick pop into super-cruise, so that they could follow my wake back down to normal space.
After that the rescue, not being my first, went very smoothly, with two limpets fired at me topping up my miniscule tank to full. I breathe a sigh of relief, and one of my rescuers suggests we take a picture. I figured, why not? Until now, I never truly appreciated the scale of the largest of the ships in our galaxy, and how small we actually are.
After picture time was finished, I was struck with another choice. Abandon the run, or continue on to the Sisters and back, taking my time as is. Again, I opted for the latter, so after a few pulls from my bottle to calm my frazzled nerves I continued on.
A routine pop around the nebula, and a quick jaunt back along to HIP 29312, with only a minor crash into the colloquial toaster rack, and a small bounce off the landing pad, I finally made it back. My time, you ask? A blistering 1 hour, 23 minutes and 29 seconds. I guess drinks are on me.
Shoutouts to CMDRs Alec Turner and Richard Anderson with the
Fuel Rats for the rescue, and the second punch on my loyalty card. I'm not sure I want to know what I get if I fill it, hopefully I never find out.
--- ANOTHER UPDATE ---
Looking through my pictures, I actually missed a shot of that feisty temptress, Pleione. I'm not sure I even want to try again after that earth-shattering attempt. I'll still buy everyone a round though, so that everyone can have a laugh at my expense.
