[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://67.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7qj8bTLTN1qfcmy6o1_500.gif[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Personal Quarters [hr][/center]

	Nothing. Nothing at all. No record of this ship, this crew, their orders. Nothing about cargo being loaded, no filing of a manifest. No record of his log, at least not outside of the ship's databases. This ship [u]simply did not exist[/u]. Harper had heard of this kind of a thing occurring before, rumors of this from years ago. He had never actually [i]seen[/i] a boat in this situation before, though that may very well have been the point. Or, he may very well have seen one, but did not recognize its true status. This vessel did not have a digital trail of any kind, except possibly to the highest authorities in the Alliance. For all intents and purposes, the I.A.V. Retribution wasn't there, and never was. 

	She was a Black Ship. 

	A slew of curses sprang into his mind, in both English and Mandarin, but they could not find their way out of his face due to pure shock. Simultaneously, panic began to develop in the back of his brain, threatening to overwhelm his senses. Liam's mouth tried to work, to enunciate any piece of word aloud to give himself reassurance, only to find that his potential for rational monologue was stifled by the bare, stark truth of the matter: He had quietly escaped a prison that barely existed officially, only to land himself on board a ship that [i]didn't exist officially at all[/i]. 

	Finally, when his brain allowed his mouth to operate, he managed a fairly solid, [color=teal]"I am running headlong into a massive spray of [i]Da Shiong La Se La Ch’wohn Tian.[/i][/color][sub]1[/sub][color=teal] Damnit. Just, just damnit..."[/color] He needed a drink. Someone on board had to have an alcoholic beverage, smuggled in or distilled on site. He had stuff to trade, and really needed a little something to take the edge off of reality right then. He quietly powered down his terminal, remembering to remove whatever residual signature he might have left on the cortex and his machine. (He would have to program a shutdown subroutine to that effect later on; it was a new and very non-personalized piece of electronics.) Tucking his cortex terminal pack into his traveling case, he rose to explore the ship and try to find someone with booze. Not too much, he had to report back to duty in a few hours. A dram or so would be sufficient. 

	Just before he actuated the door to his quarters, hand held inches away from the release, three sharp knocks sounded from the other side. Considering that he was already a little jumpy from what he had discovered, the unexpected noise jarred his senses. He edged open the door a foot, maybe a little more; just enough to make himself visible, but not enough to invite entry. Then he saw who was standing on the other side. 

	[color=teal][i]Lā shǐ.[/i][/color][sub]2[/sub] [color=teal][i]Double Lā shǐ.[/i][/color] The words echoed in his mind as he saw the blue gloved [s]assassin[/s] Agent of our Benevolent Planetary Alliance waiting for him on the other side. He felt his eyes want to widen in alarm, but he forced the overlay of his generally cool exterior to take over. Harper cleared his throat, and spoke in confident, smooth tones. [color=teal]"Don't think we've met officially. First Lieutenant William Harper, Flight Officer. Captain need me back already?"[/color]

[hider=Translations]
[sub]1[/sub]	=	Explosive Diarrhea of an Elephant
[sub]2[/sub]	=	Shit. 
[/hider]




[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] Cargo Bay [hr][/center]

	[color=f9ad81]"Of course, my fine sir. Always apt to lend an assist to a fellow man of class."[/color]

	Foy Coiffeur gave a half-nod, half-bow to Dr. Jahosafat Moreau as he exited the Captain's office, following the two of them down the hall, to the lift, and finally down to the Cargo Bay. It seemed a little creepy, staring at those three large, black crates. His childhood chum had no difficulty walking right over to them, as if they were of no consequence whatsoever. Like they contained toiletries or protein nibs, ping pong balls, what have you. Foy guessed, and with no small measure of confidence, that whatever was in there was a game-changing affair. Otherwise, there would be little point in all of the secrecy. Otherwise, a man of his background wouldn't be there. 

	Truth be told, if Foy were called into contract by the Alliance (and he still wasn't vocal about which part within the Alliance held the other end of his contract) then something particularly dark might be transpiring that required a specific kind of operative. Or a madman. Or someone expendable. Not that Foy considered himself expendable, quite the opposite. That, and many people would take notice if something happened to the Dapper Gentleman of Fortune. Whether they would [i]do[/i] anything about it... Well, another worry for another time. 

	Foy motioned over to the Cargo Bay's standard Grav Dolly, perfect for making these kind of short runs. But seeing as the man did like to take a more personal approach sometimes, he relinquished his desire to make the job easier, replacing it with the accepting nod of a man willing to do his friend a solid. Even if that solid did involve the lingering distaste of manual labor. 

	The esteemed Mr. Coiffeur rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, revealing a pair of Derringer pistols on quick release holsters along his forearms. Traditionally last resort weapons, and sometimes referred to as "hat guns", they were preferred by many as a good, no nonsense method of putting two bullets into at target at close range, particularly when they weren't expecting it. The unfailing gentleman took a moment to tuck his hold-out weapons elsewhere and get a secure grip upon the Black Mystery Box, heaving upward. 

	Now, though a man raised in the arms of the upper class, and somewhat slender of build, Foy was a lot stronger than he looked. His childhood was indeed privileged, but his teenage years and adult working life was spent in many vigorous, martial pursuits. He possessed a wiry strength of limb, and demonstrated exactly this now. [color=f9ad81]"Dr. Moreau, Captain,"[/color] he began with a hint of strain in his voice, [color=f9ad81]"I would advise that we take this ebon monolith toward the ramp, sirs. Unless you have something with wheels picked out to expedite our transport?"[/color]