[i]Dustin motioned his hand slightly to the open table.[/i]

Rathe glanced down at the layout - a good break with at least a half-dozen clear shots.  "Too bad.  You might've enjoyed losing this one."  She wore a mischievous smirk as she leaned the cue against the back of a comfortable-looking high-backed armchair, upholstered luxuriously in leather and velvet.  "It's your shot."  She called over her shoulder as she searched for something other than the bottle itself for the tequila, eventually turning up a broad-bottomed brandy snifter.  Given the quality of liquor, probably an appropriate choice.  Momentarily, she returned to the table, glass in hand, to survey the damage, though she was clearly only half-interested in the game itself.  "So this is some shit."

Rathe didn't explain her meaning, instead just letting the comment hang there open for interpretation.  It'd been running through her mind, though, since the moment she'd bought a room aboard the [i]Cresenzo[/i].  She'd kept it tucked away somewhere just beneath the surface of conscious thought out of trepidation over the implications, but on seeing the others assembled in the living area returned it to the forefront, fresh with anticipation marbled with threads of terror.  What would make them, or her, or anyone, blindly book passage aboard a ship with no clear destination for an undetermined duration with a cast of strangers, many of whom were probably trying to get away from something more than head toward anything.  It definitely was some shit.