[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://www.equilibriumfans.com/EquilibriumStill0100-ClericJohnPreston(ChristianBale)MD.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Quarters & Bridge [hr][/center] Liam took a deep breath and straightened his posture. He was in the Alliance Military again; it was time to carry himself as such. His one concession against the starch stiffness of his situation was his wrench - a large and painful affair that he generally kept fixed to his person as one would tether or sheathe a large carpenter's hammer. The rigid discipline ordinarily expected of every member of the Alliance Military was often relaxed as it came to pilots. Relaxed in some ways, in any case. Certain personnel were given liberties, owing to the nature of their work. Pilots, Doctors, certain specialists; an element of tradition and/or superstition came along with longstanding occupations that would take a morale blow, and thusly compromised effectiveness, were they denied their little eccentricities. It could have been so much more awkward than a massive wrench, too. William had heard stories about pilots who refused to change their undergarments until after a rotation was over. Another insisted on the callsign of "Shifty Giggler" and refused to speak into his comm unit otherwise. Yet another one recited the Saint Crispin's Day speech before takeoff, [i]every time[/i]. He doubted the Alliance would begrudge him a wrench, so long as it was secured. Especially out near the Rim. Not to say that Lieutenant Harper was undisciplined. Quite the opposite, his life was abundant with orders, work, and hardship; the kind that most people (even military types) never had to experience. Scars on one's psyche weren't always apparent, but they left their traces. Luckily, his weren't as obvious as some people's under similar conditions. William Harper returned to the Bridge in short order, as promised. He paused along the way for just a second to take note of another new arrival, walking past him down the corridor in the opposite direction. Tall, dark-skinned man wearing ridiculously expensive clothing suited to a rustic gentleman; not Central Planet attire, but easily as stylish and costly. His impression of the man was that of perceived importance; he was there for a specific reason, at a guess. At the very least, he did not look like standard military. At the moment though, it was little of his concern. He was the ship's Pilot, and he had a job to execute. A curt nod and he was on his way again. His return to the bridge prompted him to offer another salute to the Captain before taking his place at the helm. Were he on a larger ship, his role would be more specialized. In a patrol boat, his duties would be threefold: Flight Officer, Navigator, and Helmsman. Right at this moment, it was Navigator. Settled into the helm, Liam pulled up the NavComp and punched in Persephone's real-time coordinates. Next, the planet Athens. True, they were shooting for Whitefall, but Whitefall was a moon orbiting Athens. The larger body would prove to be the gravitational force they had to worry about when slowing to approach speeds. That's when they would need a competent and initiative taking Helmsman. Luckily, he was that, too. [color=teal]"Course set in for Whitefall, Captain. At full burn, we stand to arrive in just over two days, sixteen hours. Ready to go at your command. Departure time, sir?"[/color] [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] "Foy-er" [hr][/center] The irrepressible Foy was taking to his family's ancestral craft with vim and proficiency. The trappings of a classical barber at work lay organized and clean on a small workstation in between a wall mirror and a vintage-looking apparatus that was obviously a tastefully constructed reproduction of a barber's chair from Earth That Was. A clean, white towel hung over one forearm, and the opposite hand held a stylized straightrazor. It was a different tool than the one he was seen stropping earlier; somewhat smaller, more squared. Less intimidating, too. Some clients wanted more basic sort of service with little in the way of personal touches. Foy has satisfied to oblige, despite his instinct to treat each such dealing with an amount of upper class panache. The (un)fortunate crewman in his chair had his face half covered with warm lather, a cottony bib attached snugly around his neck. Foy bore own upon him from his rear flank, deftly removing lather and stubble both in steady, practiced strokes. As fit his custom, Mr. Coiffeur was holding a mostly one-sided conversation with the man. It was an interesting psychological phenomenon in humankind - the willingness to stay quiet and still while someone else pressed a blade against their face, regardless of what they might be saying at the moment. Case in point: [color=f9ad81]"Yeoman, eh there, sport? Well, I am flooded with satisfaction that you made it into my parlor, nonetheless. You yeomen, you ah... Carry the bags and such, push mops, do you not?"[/color] Foy scraped away another line of facial hair from the enlisted man, continuing, [color=f9ad81]"Well, no matter. It's all necessary to keep things tidy for the rest of us. Chin up there, son! No no, I mean raise your chin, Yeo-y. And thank you..."[/color] Foy continued his work with grace and speed. He was an artist at his craft, and open conversationalist during, despite thinly veiled annoyance at the plight of the common man. [color=f9ad81]I've never Yeo'ed, myself. But I did have the pleasure of having another yeoman in my chair a score or so years back. Charming fellow, in his own way. Silly boy got himself shuffled off to the hereafter two days later. Thanks to me, the corpse looked [i]superbly[/i] dapper. I do hope one day you are likewise blessed, good sir."[/color] The final few swipes were taken, revealing a fresh face unmarred by nick or razor burn. It truly looked as if the young man was born without the capacity to grow a beard of any sort, so close and thorough a job was completed by Foy Coiffeur. The barber wiped the blade on the towel over his other arm, folded said towel deftly and pressed it to his client's face, removing the last flecks of lather. He stepped back to his workstation, selecting a two ounce bottle of pale blue liquid. He rubbed a bit into his hands and slapped it brusquely upon the man's cheeks. At that moment a voice sounded from behind him, using an expletive in alliteration with his presented first name. A combination he had heard many a time before, and with certainty was used many more times behind his back. [u]Fucking Foy[/u]. He risked a sideways glance backward to confirm his suspicions. Addressing the man in his chair, he intoned in a low voice, [color=f9ad81]"Keep the aftershave, Yeo-y. You need to stand up slowly, and walk out of this parlor. [i]Do not[/i] look back."[/color] Foy quietly retrieved the razor he was just using and pulled out the oversized, personal one he kept on his belt. The Yeoman took his barber's advice, exiting with a confused and concerned expression on his clean and dolphin-smooth face. Foy turned to square off with this new threat, coming for him inside his very own Foy-er. The very second his client was out of view, Foy nearly split his sides in mirthful guffawing. Setting both razors down, he looked to his fellow gentleman, exclaiming, [color=f9ad81]"Why, Jumping Josie Moreau, you [i]delicious[/i] mahogany rapscallion! As I live and breathe, directly in my mobile parlor! Whyever would you come slumming, you old so-and-so?"[/color] Foy's face froze for a half second, [color=f9ad81]"Oh, something is afoot, is it not? Well come along, have a [url=https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/46ac5680-6c3b-4c25-ad05-ee8f8c0a87fa.jpg]cup of coffee[/url] and give me all the scandalous details."[/color]