[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]https://snippetstudios.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/a-million-ways-to-die-in-the-west-640x350.png [/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Conference Room -> Foy-er [hr][/center]

	[color=f9ad81]"Positively, my good man!"[/color] remarked Foy to the Shepherd(?), spinning his hat from its resting place atop one of his sidearms and onto his head. The picture of gentlemanly panache, he slid one finger across the brim to ensure a tidy, level fit, and turned toward the door behind him. A self-assured smile grew on his lips. He turned his head halfway around so that those in the room could clearly hear him. [color=f9ad81]"Should anyone appreciate the feel of a clean shave, fresh cut, or merely the luxury of a decent coffee and something sweet, please feel free to join us."[/color] He stepped into the corridor, and completed his thought aloud, [color=f9ad81]"The sentiment likewise is applied to civilized discussion. I have come to ascertain that it is in reduced supply in this part of the 'Verse. That is [i]civilized[/i] discussion. I refuse to tolerate the guttural musings of underclass prolix within my parlor."[/color] 

	He strode casually to the nearest ladder, calling behind him, [color=f9ad81]"One deck up, across from Recovery!"[/color] 

	A very short time later, Foy found himself setting out a plate of shortbread and toasted nuts, readying a pot of aromatic black coffee (providing the appropriate creamers and sweeteners), and of course, his virtually endless supply of wrapped candies. The final touch came when he unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it across the left ear of his barber's chair. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Might I interest you in a styling, or simply a cleanup, my good man?"[/color] 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://images2.fanpop.com/images/photos/8400000/John-Preston-christian-bale-8481614-500-375.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Captain's Office [hr][/center]

	This was going to be an interesting conversation. No two ways about it. Harper did not know this Captain, but she had said very distinctly that she was a confirmed Browncoat. So he expected to be either treated like a precious resource or jettisoned from a missile tube, equal chance of either possibility. So what the hell? He was in this. Time to allow his actual personality to slip, what was left of it after the last few years. Glancing at the instrumentation in the room, he made really damned sure that no recording or observation was taking place before saying what he had to. Or even getting comfortable. 

	He settled into a chair opposite Quinn's former desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. Harper squinted his eyes slightly and cocked his head to the side, looking at Anisa in an appraising manner. He raised a finger, motioning in her direction as he began to speak in a confident, damn near upbeat voice. [color=008080]"I've got very little to lose, so I'm going to start this out with the biggest piece of conversation. So let's lay it out bare:"[/color] He was obviously [i]significantly[/i] more assertive than he had been letting on throughout the meeting. 

	[color=008080]"Lieutenant William Harper died about two weeks ago, in a cold and horrible place I wouldn't wish even on that Quinn asshair. Blunt force trauma that involved a [i]Jùdà de Tā mā de Bānshǒu[/i].[/color][sub]1[/sub] [color=008080]I am not Alliance, but I used to be. Cards on the table, yes I served in the Unification War. Pilot. Imagine that. I do a lot more than fly, these days. A couple of those things can help keep this ship under your control. Trust me, they're thinking about it. Guns and numbers too - they've got 'em. I'd prefer to be an asset than not, personally. Hope you feel the same way."[/color] 

	[color=008080]"So! What part did you want to discuss first, Captain?"[/color] 

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1	=	Huge Fucking Wrench
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