The Shooting Star (Expedition RP)

Pacifica
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1

“The end of the world,” so thought Webster Herge — a member of the exclusive Royal Cartographers Club in Sedunn, currently stationed on Government Island for the sole purpose of manning its observatory. He was alone in the facility that day, and for some time now, he had been considered a recluse.

The Almanac of the Lampshade, written by the Stoinian astrologer De Maverickus, had proven uncannily accurate through its vague and cryptic lettering. Webster Herge studied the almanac faithfully, and according to its latest prophecy, tonight would mark the end of the world.

Well — not specifically.
It mentioned a brilliant object streaking across the night sky and crashing into the ocean, creating a tidal wave and a burst of light that would silence all communication. The momentum of the fallen star was said to be so great that it would pierce through the entire planet — ending all life, and all its stories.

Well — if you were a lurker on the internet.
Obviously, Webster Herge didn’t believe that any of the current meteor showers would have enough mass or velocity to penetrate the Earth’s atmosphere — let alone drill through the planet like a bullet through paper.

Still, amidst all the apocalyptic messages — vaguer than the letters he used to receive from his female counterparts back at university — there were only a few astronomical structures he noted through his telescope. It would pass.

As night fell, though, he felt something in his bones.
A boom.
Could it be that the calculations were wrong?
Could it actually be the end of the world?

No.
It wasn’t.
However, seismic readings had begun. One of the shooting stars had managed to pierce through the atmosphere and crash into the Antarctic Sea.

Spectroscopic analysis from the observatory led Webster to announce to the Cartographers that whatever had hit far eastern Keylian waters was no typical meteorite — but a highly anomalous object. Possibly extraterrestrial. Possibly of unknown material composition.

Wherever that hunk of space rock landed, it was outside any nation’s borders or exclusive economic zone. Collectors, salvagers, governments, and researchers were quickly informed.

It is now a race to reach the shooting star.

Inspired by “Tintin and The Shooting Star.” A lighter, exploratory RP to balance out the more complex Government Island incident. More details will be written in the OOC.

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Caitlin was asleep in a pile of pillows in her suite. Her solitary café sat near that hunk of round metal that now gazed at the skies — but the newspapers did not come early.

Still, a digitized letter had arrived, sent by Archibald Calculus, a member of the Royal Cartographers Society. He had made it necessary for Caitlin to know.

Of course, Caitlin was a woman of aesthetics. While she occasionally accessed her secure mailing service, urgent messages were to be printed and brought to her by her loyal butler, Darach.

So in the early eve of 4 a.m., when the Society was already awake, her butler delivered the letter on a silver tray. Caitlin stirred; she knew what a letter of this nature meant. She thanked Darach and opened the envelope, still half-asleep.

"Dear Madam,

Ever since you came to the Region, your name has been synonymous with exquisite taste.

It is no secret that you deal in some of our greatest treasures. While this practice is perfectly legal, we regret to inform you that we are unable to place a bid for what is rightfully ours.

Our collective would like to encourage the repatriation of this object and hope to enlist your assistance in the matter.

Rather than intrude on your time uninvited, we have an offer to make — one well suited for a trader such as yourself.

Further details are within this message. We await your command at Atelier Insolito, hosted by the Yaoasca Research Center.

May the Mother of the Collective guide us.

Faithfully,
Archibald Calculus
Royal Cartographers Society"

Caitlin continued reading the carbon copies of a report from the island observatory. It told the tale of an asteroid composed of a newly discovered metal — one of extraterrestrial origin — and its perceived value for both scientific research and the savviest of collectors.

“Hmph. So this is your offer? Empty papers and written promises, Archie?” she thought.

“A piece of the future, madame,” said Darach. “And a chance to do good for the world.”

“Ruin our reputation? Risk my assets to outpace these obtuse gentlemen in their own little club? They’re some of my richest customers, mind you.”

“Please, madame. These people are thieves. There is no end to what they’ll take, and they will use absolute force if they must. We’ve left them unchallenged — and this is what has come of it. Mesoan gods used as the Society’s paperweights.” Darach responded, with the considerations of his master in his mind.

“A Mesoan god… such a sign has never graced my café.” Caitlin folded the papers and handed them back to Darach. “Perhaps I could use a challenge. One last wager of influence. One more chance to feel the wind in my hair.”

She gazed outside, where the gleaming ocean shimmered, moonlight dancing on the waves.

“I want that rock."

3

Day -1

Caitlin had flown to Hai Men the very morning she got the message. Upon her arrival she instructed a car to take her to Atelier Insolito, once a trading company shared by the Stoinia and Sedunn, now home to one of the more curious chapters of the Royal Cartographers Society. She was no stranger to the city’s layered allegiances or its salted mist, nor to the sorts of experts that gathered here: researchers from the Yaoasca Center, known less for restraint and more for results.

The meeting opened quickly. A long mahogany table was strewn with tempting charts, annotated reports, and the ever-glowing screens of laptops in light. Caitlin barely needed the explanations; she’d spent enough of her life triangulating secrets and tracing the edges of what maps refused to show all for the sake of her cafe.

Through the Cold Gates, a name that tugged at half-forgotten sailor myths — the meteor had fallen. Approximately 1,500 kilometers east of Irykia, well outside any recognized region of The South Pacific. A safe descent, allegedly: over the ocean, far from ecological consequence. But then again, possible radiation had its own logic.

Across the Huawanese sea in Hai Lan, a salvager was being stocked. The vessel had just returned from coral sampling in the Gulf of Kringalia and was in good shape, relatively speaking. It was no flagship, cramped and aging, but dependable. A loyal crew. A seaworthy hull. The sort of ship that had just enough room for science and secrets alike.

Her name evokes interest, “La Main de Minuit”, the Midnight’s hand. A nod to the long hours workers spent working on the ship from its conception, construction and christening. A name that hopefully bless effort, good effort that shall not betray the results.

Caitlin sat quietly, reviewing final reports on her tablet as the researchers briefed her. It was already past her usual nap hour, but sleep had no place in moments like this. A kettle steamed softly beside her, and the gentle clink of her cup broke the rhythm of scientific chatter.

The low hum of the air conditioning blended with murmured hypotheses and the scent of ocean salt still lingering on the salvager’s crew. Caitlin finished her tea, her eyes tracing the final lines of magnetic anomaly reports. There was something oddly elegant in the meteorite’s arc, skimming the boundary of the known world and falling into a quiet, contested nowhere.

Dr. Lien, soft-spoken but never hesitant, tapped the display. “Mass still unknown. Surface disturbance detected, but no visible object. Strong magnetic pulses suggest it’s submerged. Could be intact. Could be shattered. We’ll know once sonar makes contact.”

Caitlin leaned forward. “Fragments sell better,” she said flatly. “More stories to split. More hands to outmaneuver.”

Lien said nothing. Caitlin stood, brushing a wrinkle from her coat.

“Have the vessel stocked for thirty days. I don’t trust the ice, and I trust rivals even less. And make sure the comms can reach our Collective without delay. I want to give word back the second we make contact.”

The researchers nodded and dispersed, shadows returning to their labs and backlit screens. Alone by the tall windows, Caitlin watched the lights of the Hai Men grand lighthouse flicker over the harbor. Far from sight, her salvager waited below: modest, silent, prepared.

Her tablet pinged. A message from Darach:
Cabin prepared. Coffee packed. Crew standing by.

She smiled faintly.

“Then it begins. Ladies and Gentlemen, we sail tonight to Irykia."

Note:
(Its been awhile since I RP, a lot of my dialogue is proofread by GPT)