[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-8481603-500-480.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Foy-er [hr][/center]

	It occurred to Liam that being in this room was likely one of the more surreal, unexpected experiences of his life. It was not a thing of horror, granted, but a sudden unsettling feeling that washed over him as he set foot inside (what he assumed was) the ship's Barbershop. It just seemed [i]off[/i]. The events of the past week of his life had led him down an unerring path that traded a life of anonymous servitude and imprisonment for an unspecified amount of time on a recently unregistered Alliance vessel that didn't technically exist, sharing canned air with people whose worth was measured by their kill count and capacity for human apathy. This was a place of slate grey walls, uniformity, and sterilized routines. 

	But [i]here[/i] there was hot lather and wrapped candies. It made no sense. 

	Harper forced himself to step inside, despite his sense of propriety screaming otherwise. He'd almost died a couple times, very recently. A coin toss could have decided his fate, prior to landing on Persephone. Surely he could face up to the challenge of entering a well-lit room open to public access that smelled of coffee and mild aftershave. 

	As it turned out, this little corner of the ship seemed very inviting, once the initial shock wore off. One side was like a small lounge area, complete with commercial terminals, a low table, comfortable places to recline, and most importantly: Coffee. It seemed like a setup designed for clients waiting on the absent barber. The other side had all of the trappings of an older style Gentleman's Barber Shop and Salon, even down to various tonics and elixirs designed for facial hair maintenance. Strangely, most of them had a moustache emblazoned across their labels, and some had a man's face upon them. Closer inspection revealed that it was the very man who was on the Bridge earlier, the paler Dandy. 

	Sighing, Harper poured himself a drink of coffee into a delicate looking ceramic cup, sat down, and decided to go with it. The level of crazy in which he had embedded himself was solid and highly unexpected. Perhaps it was best to relax and see where this series of events took him, as he was powerless to change his situation for the better. 

	This was a remarkably odd day. 


[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] Lounge [hr][/center]

	Foy's initial impression of the situation was most correct. The talented Dr. Moreau had known Foy since childhood, and had been well briefed on his coolness of nerve and combat readiness, traits often in conflict with his generally foppish exterior. If Jahosafat told him to remain calm as he revealed something, it was an event worthy of notation. Oh, and it was, too. The revelation of a Reaver, seemingly near its metaphorical infancy. 

	Foy's own steely resolve took a startle, though he refused to let it show. Palms tightened around the relatively smallish grips of his hold-out pistols, fingers loosely around triggers in anticipation of the squeeze necessary to end a life. Luckily, it did not come to that. Firing a gun on board a ship was a risky affair; there were places where a bullet might travel that could place the entire crew at risk. A hull breach was an obvious one. Destroying an element of their electrical system or air filtration were others. All the same, the desire to dig out his larger guns leapt into his psyche, understandably so. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Shèng Lā Shǐ..."[/color][sub]1[/sub] breathed Foy, before he remembered his manners.

	He trusted his friend, though. At least so far as to believe that the subject was properly bound and sedated at that time. A flick of his wrists retreated his large bore Derringers back into the concealing fabric of his sleeves. If nothing else, the Captain had blatantly refused to holster his own weapon. In the interests of keeping out of the path of potential gunfire (and making himself a less likely first target), Foy took a step back, completely clearing Quinn's line of sight. 

	The conversation they had just entered left him with a sour taste. For starters, the use of the word "Harness", in describing plans for the Reavers, was ever so slightly disturbing. But he was paid to do disturbing things. Moreso were the things which could effect him, and others, in the shorter term.

	[color=f9ad81]"I say, Josie, this [i]indeed[/i] is positively scandalous. And here I thought to exaggerate earlier. I must confess to two immediate concerns with this, old fellow. Firstly, what are your intentions for the crew, should they have the appropriate sanguineous prerequisites?"[/color]

	[color=f9ad81]"Secondly, isn't Jayne a girl's name?"[/color]

	
[hider=Translations]
1	=	Holy Shit
[/hider]