Space Station 13

[Beezer12Washingbeard]

oh my god, I used to play this game way too much back on Goonstation, in the old donut ship. Fuck that was fun.

Janitor and clown for life.

[NOOBY93]

Paradise station chemist for life, made so many bombs, slipped some date rape drugs into people's drinks in the bar, until one day I got bored, stabbed a guy in the eyes with a broken glass bottle until he died, and choked a guy to death in arrivals, and got permabanned on my computer, IP, account, etc.

[Teleskop]

Paradise station chemist for life, made so many bombs, slipped some date rape drugs into people's drinks in the bar, until one day I got bored, stabbed a guy in the eyes with a broken glass bottle until he died, and choked a guy to death in arrivals, and got permabanned on my computer, IP, account, etc.

you are so handsome i would permaban you from leaving my bed ;p

[Beezer12Washingbeard]

Stealing some stories about goonstation antics (it got pretty different from the base SS13 game, goonstation best station)

The Doom Peel

If a banana peel is left on the floor, anyone who steps on it will slip and fall down. There used to be a Clown job, which started with a banana and was mostly responsible for playing pranks, telling jokes, raising spirits, and getting brutally murdered by the psychotic crew. When my brother first started playing SS13, he chose Clown and spent the entire round slipping people with his banana peel, farting in their faces while they lay stunned, and then peeling out of there like a brightly coloured human rally car while furiously honking his bike horn. He did this so much and so competently that several people were actively trying to murder him, which of course led to more slipping, farting, and honking before he'd lie low in a locker somewhere until they gave up the search.

One particular victim seemed to have terrible luck, as he ran afoul of my brother over, and over, and over again through no apparent fault of his own. He must have spent a third of the round lying on the floor with fart in his face and a cheery HONK HONK HONK ringing in his ears. After pratfalling for the fourteenth or fifteenth time, he impotently screamed, "CLOOOOOOOOOOOOWN!" at his retreating assailant. This had no effect, aside from causing my brother to laugh so hard that it brought him to tears.

That victim was THE OVERWASP, one of the game's administrators.

Rather than get angry, THE OVERWASP saw the humour in my brother's clowny antics. He telepathically instructed him to stand next to his banana peel for a moment, then implanted the clown's consciousness into the peel itself, giving my brother the ability to move it around directly.

As it turns out, a player-controlled banana peel is nothing short of apocalyptic in the right hands. The station rapidly descended into anarchy as police chases became Keystone Kopps fiascoes, Janitors were left facedown in their own suds, and panicking assistants fled shrieking from the demonically-possessed banana peel before it sent them tumbling facefirst into vending machines. In a desperate bid to restore order, one of the heads of staff seized the unholy fruit rind in his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. Striding triumphantly to the airlock to space the offending item, he met his doom when it leaped out of his pocket and slipped him, causing him to careen into the open void and be lost forever.

The escape shuttle was called, and the crew fled in terror, abandoning the station to its new master: the Doom Peel.

Don't accept drinks from The Devil

I played a few rounds as a Bartender named The Devil, with a huge black beard and glowing red eyes. I would start the round by taking several pills of Kelotane (a drug that cures burn damage over time), drinking a bunch of welding fuel, returning to the bar, and setting myself on fire. This produced a large but short-lived cloud of flame around me, giving most of the bar an ominously scorched appearance, and it allowed me keep burning for an extremely long period of time.

Because of the Kelotane in my system, the fire wouldn't actually hurt me; I could just stand around, blazing like a fucking bonfire, chatting amiably with people as they tried to decide whether to order drinks or run for a fire extinguisher. So, when a crewmember walked into the bar, he would discover a charred hellhole staffed by a flame-wreathed, red-eyed man named The Devil. A surprising number of people decided to order drinks anyway.

Now, I figure The Devil knows how to throw a fucking party. He doesn't just chuck a case of beer on the counter and call it quits, right? So whenever someone ordered a drink, I would mix together some hard liquor (usually vodka and rum), spritz in some welding fuel, and use a syringe to transfer some of my own blood to the glass, creating an unholy devilblood cocktail. Occasionally I would poo and pee in the glass as well, adding Jenkem to the list of Terrible Things Nobody Should Drink that were in the concoction.

Despite the fact that I did all of this gross shit in plain sight, just about everybody would take the damn thing and drink it anyway. Contrary to common sense, drinking that horrible sludge didn't really have any major negative effects, aside from moderate drunkenness and perhaps a mild Jenkem addiction. What's significant is that the welding fuel would remain in the imbiber's system for a while - and, party animal that he was, The Devil didn't skimp on the welding fuel.

Most rounds, this all amounted to nothing more than an overeager assistant spraying me with an extinguisher, putting out my hellfire, and incurring the wrath of Satan. But on one fateful round, the Botanist left a shitload of weed in the bar for everyone to enjoy. Paper was found, joints were rolled, someone produced an igniter, and then it was time to spark up.

The bar turned into a fucking inferno. Some of the crew stopped, dropped, and rolled like sensible people, while others tried to flee in a drunken fiery panic, which was hilarious to watch because the really drunk ones had scrambled controls and would stagger around in random directions while screaming "Ooooohhhh ggggoooodddd!!" Throughout all of this, The Devil stood at his bar, unharmed by the omnipresent cloud of fire, and laughed uproariously while mainlining vodka.

I don't think anybody died, but some people probably came close. Things just got funnier later on, as Engineering failed to do its job and the station's power went out of whack. Power surges caused lights to explode, and the drinkers who'd left before the fire got hit by the sparks, had the fuel still in their bodies ignite, and promptly immolated their surroundings while screaming in uncomprehending terror. It was Hell on Earth. It was also, to be honest, completely hysterical.

I don't do that anymore, partly because it's kind of a dick move, partly because it gets old fast, and partly because an admin got pretty annoyed with me (but he was cool enough to settle for my promise not to do it anymore). Even so, though, I'll be damned if it wasn't some of the funniest shit I'd ever seen.

Don't accept medical treatment from The Devil: diabolic possession for fun and profit

There used to be an SS13 job called the Head Surgeon, which entailed being in charge of Medbay, the Robotics lab, and the Genetics lab. Roboticists can remove brains from people and put them into robot bodies, creating cyborgs; for this reason, there are usually a couple of Assistants hanging out at the Robotics door, begging to be "borged" so they can be cool robot mans instead of shitty greysuits.

Unbeknownst to many, brains can also be put into different bodies. This really doesn't give you anything except a dead dude with some other dude's brain in his head. However, if you bring that body back to life in some way (either using the Genetics lab to clone it, or using a particular complicated chemical mix to resurrect it with a chance of making it gib instead), the player that controls the new clone is determined by the brain - so you've got Joe Schmoe running around in John Q. Public's body.

The Devil did not go to med school to save lives. He did not study and slave just so he could collect a fat paycheque. The Devil practices medicine because he loves to indulge his scientific curiosity (and because he likes the colour red).

My early forays into brain transplantation went rather well. After a few misfires (the Robotics lab was full of blood, gibs, discarded brains, and rotting bodies with empty skulls), I finally got the hang of it and went looking for a likely victim volunteer. As luck would have it, I found a dead Quartermaster lying around in Medbay, and the body was fresh! I dragged him back to my operating table and excitedly pulled out his brain. Then I plugged it into another relatively intact body I had lying around, slapped the corpse into the cloning tube, and... discovered that he couldn't be cloned because the player had logged out. Fuck!

My appointed lab assistant, a delightfully amoral Engineer with a suspiciously firm grasp of brain surgery, saw a silver lining. He laid out the plan, and before long it was The Devil's turn to lie on the operating table. A few snips later and a brand spanking new Quartermaster was stepping out of the cloning pod, naked as a jaybird and healthy as a horse.

A Quartermaster with The Devil's brain. A Quartermaster who was literally The Devil in disguise.

It took less than three minutes for me to completely embezzle the station's entire Cargo budget and funnel it straight into Robotics research. None of the other Quartermasters batted an eye when they saw their coworker walk in and start using the Cargo Bay computer. They sure did yell a lot when they saw that big fat 0 though. I just quietly continued my experiments while my Roboticist lackeys gleefully spent their vast fortune to research nicer cyborg upgrades. Science is its own reward~

Don't accept medical treatment from The Devil: in space, no one can hear you file a malpractice claim

In a later round, I was eager to continue my highly unethical (read: highly hilarious) work. I promptly shuffled off to Robotics, prepped my surgical tools, and walked to the door to look for vict- oh hey an Assistant! What's up, little guy? You want to be borged? Hmm, I do need someone to donate a brain for a little experiment I'm planning. No, I promise I won't throw your brain in the garbage; you will be alive at the end of this. Yes, I know you want to be a Security cyborg - trust me, you will have a totally new lease on life by the end of this! Step into my office...

Idiot brain in hand, I hurried off to Genetics and grabbed a monkey. Previous tests had proven that it was not possible to resurrect monkeys with human brains, which saddened me, but I had a different objective in mind this time around. I dragged the monkey over to the genetic engineering console, put it into the pod, and used my ~mad science~ knowhow to... improve it. Yes, a beautiful new human body for my eager test subject.

He was not very happy to be revived as a black woman with Justin Bieber hair and a randomized name.

After a lengthy tantrum and a minor physical altercation, I calmed my volunteer down by promising to fix the problem. If she would just step into the genetics pod, it would be quite simple for me to make a few little changes that would resolve her complaints. Mollified, the grumbling lass hopped into the pod, which I promptly locked before randomly rolling my face across the keyboard of the genetics computer, bombarding the subject with mutations willy-nilly for a short time. I unlocked the pod and proudly invited my volunteer to step out and survey the changes.

"FUCK" screamed the black woman, falling to the ground and spasming madly, "What the fuck did you do to me? PISS."

"Interesting," said The Devil, consulting his medical scanner. "It would appear that you are suffering from epilepsy and Tourette's Syndrome."

"COCK!" asserted the woman. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

This drew a frown. "That is not very polite, madam. I was enjoying our professional relationship, but if you are going to behave in this way, I must ask you to leave. I will simply have to find another assistant."

And that is why an insane homeless epileptic uncontrollably cursing naked black woman spent the rest of the round trying to convince anyone who'd listen that The Devil had stolen her identity.

My god, it's full of butt, part 1: the Cluwne factory

One of the round types in SS13 is Wizard, in which a powerful wizard is tasked with completing several objectives, while the crew must attempt to kill him. Wizards get access to a huge variety of spells, but can only choose four of them from the list at the start of the round; these are the spells they are limited to for the whole round.

One such spell is Curse of the Cluwne (at least, I think that's what it's called). This spell is generally considered a choice for "advanced" wizard players, since it has an extremely long cooldown, only targets one opponent, and can only be used at melee range, making it quite risky to use. It's still a popular spell, though, as it is far and away the griefiest spell of all. The Curse instantly transforms its victim into a Cluwne: a morbidly obese, subhuman, epileptic, brain-damaged, amazingly annoying ur-clown named "the cluwne" and wearing utterly hideous neon green clown clothing that is cursed and therefore cannot be removed. Cluwnes are traditionally marked for death by their non-cursed former comrades, and even when they manage to escape being murdered by an angry mob, they are so fucking terrible at everything that their very existence is torment and they commonly wind up begging for death since their incredible incompetence can actually make it difficult for them to successfully commit suicide.

I have played in quite a few Wizard rounds, but one still sticks out as my absolute favourite. The wizard went on a Cluwney rampage that was funny as hell on its own, but the actions of one enterprising Roboticist turned the round from "hilarious" to "oh jesus my sides I'm dying over here" in no time flat. This ambitious soul retrieved a murdered Cluwne and dragged it back to his lab; ordinarily this would be a reason for the Cluwne to rejoice, since a Cluwne brain can still function perfectly normally if transferred into a cyborg, granting the player a new lease on life.

The Roboticist did not borg the Cluwne. He had other plans. Butt plans.

The deceased sad-clown was delivered to Genetics, where the Roboticist and a Geneticist entered into collusion. Now two people were in on the butt plans.

I have no idea what madness they got up to in there, but I do know that the second Roboticist was put on Butt Duty, bringing the known number of butt plan conspirators up to at least three. It is also likely that a delivery man was involved so as to speed the process along, as Butt Duty was a full-time job. All those butts had to come from somewhere, however:

They were cloning Cluwnes.

My god, it's full of butt, part 2: the buttening

The mastermind behind it all sat contentedly at his operating table and worked with astounding assembly-line efficiency. Behind him was a locker with a seemingly limitless number of twitching, honking, weeping Cluwnes stuffed into it; he would grab a Cluwneclone, slap it onto the table, neatly slice off its butt, indifferently cut out its brain, hurl the dead body and retarded brain down the disposal chute while he set the butt to one side, and repeat. The man on Butt Duty would then grab the Cluwne butt and slap a robot arm onto it, creating a Buttbot, a butt on wheels that served no purpose except to be a butt and say the word "butt."

The efficiency and hard work of the Butt Conspiracy paid off, and before long Medbay was entirely crammed with Buttbots, to the point where the entire area was rendered non-functional and impassable due to the surging ocean of little wheeled cyberbutts happily beeping "butt" in a tinny chorus. But(t) crowding was not the issue - Buttbots do one thing aside from simply say "butt" now and again. When a Buttbot hears someone speak, it has a chance to repeat what was said, with "butt" substituted in place of random words.

This became an issue when the Captain strolled into Medbay and was aghast at its sorry state. "What the fuck is going on here?" he shouted.

The Buttbots chirped up in a gleeful, deafening chorus. "What the butt is butt on here?" "Butt the fuck butt going on butt?" "What butt butt is going butt here?" and so on and so forth, in a disorienting wave of auditory butt. This infuriated the Captain further, but his hollering and order-giving only further excited the Buttbots, making it totally impossible for anyone nearby to hear what was said or get any idea of what the fuck was going on amidst the titanic cacophony of butt. The Captain flew into a rage and decided to destroy all of the Buttbots, but he forgot that they leave smears of poo when destroyed; it was not long before he slipped head-over-heels and wound up prone and stunned in a puddle of human excrement, cursing relentlessly while the legion of Buttbots around him babbled back page upon page upon page of buttified imitation.

Seeing this, some jokester took a radio, turned on its microphone so that it would publicly broadcast anything it picked up, and tossed it into the room.

Well, shit, now nobody could hear anything. Every radio on the station became a hellish noise cannon, blasting out an incomprehensible wall of recursive butt laced with garbled cursing and butt-riddled mockeries of the crew's anguished cries for silence. At some point a bunch of the Buttbots came within hearing distance of the Cluwneclone closet; this is significant because Cluwnes will randomly and uncontrollably burst into fits of screamed honking. There were dozens of Cluwnes in that thing, and their eerie wails of HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK soon became a HONK HONK butt HONK butt blared forth from uncountable Buttbot speakers, received by the radio and broadcast throughout the station, magnifying upon itself until it was quite literally impossible to divine the slightest scrap of understanding from the game's text box as it was choked by dozens of pages of recursive buttspam per second. The Captain was helpless to stop it. The Roboticists were churning out Buttbots faster than he could destroy them, leaving him effectively stranded in the middle of the deafening, butt-packed hell that had once been Medbay.

I don't even know what the fuck happened to that wizard, and I don't care. He was not the true villain of that round. The Robutticists were.

[DDDsDD999]

bes game

[CloudJhi]

God I'd be so down. I've had so much great memories from playing SS13.

[mdsanta]

I'm slow: slow roleplayer and slow typer but this game was fun few times I played

[Smoopadoop]

Oh my god a haven server would be great

[Sollar]

I never knew this game existed. I tried to read the wiki but "are you fucking kidding me?". It's harder than my college graduating project. I would play it tho because I am sure that not knowing what the fuck am I doing might induce a lot of hilarity.

[Wulfgar1988]

I never knew this game existed. I tried to read the wiki but "are you fucking kidding me?". It's harder than my college graduating project. I would play it tho because I am sure that not knowing what the fuck am I doing might induce a lot of hilarity.

U just 2dumb m8