[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]http://images.yuku.com/image/pjpeg/f041546f1b728f6f6f828bff34ee80e3af45481.pjpg[/img] 
[hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Med Bay -> Out-Of-Service Lavatory [hr][/center]

	Harper got the message, loud and clear. Both the actual words of it and the deeper meaning behind them. He was a First Lieutenant and Flight Officer, with very little in the way of technical expertise in his dossier (regardless of his actual knowledge, which was admittedly extensive). The actual words indicated that the Captain (or proxy thereof) wanted him to assess and possibly do something about an atmospheric imbalance originating from a bathroom. However, the meaning behind this was clear: Harper as on bitch detail, probably along with everyone else. 

	It was insulting, really. Mostly because the I.A.V. Retribution had someone on board that would have been better suited to engineering tasks. At least on paper. Oddly enough, the ship's [i]Engineer[/i]. On a boat with a larger crew, he or she would have some manner of flunkie or new guy to handle a non-perforating pressure imbalance, along with mopping floors and/or seeing to the waste disposal units. Even a smaller vessel like this, if fully staffed, would have [i]someone[/i] from Engineering to take a look at a difficulty that obviously had monstrously little to do with flight plans, astrogation, or piloting the boat. 

	Either the Engineer was really, really busy and desperate for anyone else to handle the issue with the atmo, or someone higher in rank than himself was proving a point. Not like it mattered precisely [i]why[/i]. He was Alliance Military, and someone gave him an order. It was reputably difficult to desert one's assignment while hurtling through space. The thought did cross Harper's mind. 

	With a sigh, he looked to Foy and gave him the news. [color=008080]"Mr. Coiffeur, I've been ordered away. I don't know how long I will be, so you may need to find someone to help you with that last box. Excuse me."[/color] 

	William gave a nod in the direction of Jahosafat, straightened his uniform, and exited Medical. He knew where the lavatories were, and had a feeling he wouldn't miss which one they were talking about. Up the ladder, just aft of him, and back up toward the front, along the corridor. It really was a well-planned ship, designed so that the crew could make efficient runs from one section to the other at moment's notice. As long as you knew which floor your destination was on, it was easy to figure out. As he neared the crew's quarters, his suspicions were confirmed. 

	3A, red banner plastered across the door, calmly reading in block letters, "OUT OF SERVICE". Imagine that. They had taken off without making some manner of minor repair which probably tripped an indicator, now that they were up in the Black. Reasons for an atmospheric imbalance did occur to Harper; all of the crap had to go somewhere that was easily removable from the exterior of the vessel. There were tons of reasons how an imbalance could happen. Regardless of what his file said (or didn't say), he had a vastly superior education as it came to mechanical and technological engineering, not to mention a proven knack for computers. He could puzzle this out without breaking a mental sweat. Most likely, it was a redundancy failure. Because it was only in the one stall, that narrowed the possibilities further. 

	Basically, it meant that the difficulty was highly localized, not leading to the outside. If it were, they wouldn't have quietly sounded an "Atmo Imbalance", it would have been a highly noisy klaxon call of "Hull Breach". Pulling air into in reclamation tanks would be the most likely culprit. Steadying a solid handhold on the wall next to the door, even going to far as to brace a knee against it as well, Harper depressed the button to open the door. 

	It refused to budge. Not surprisingly, if one thought about it. Locked from the inside; occupied. This lent a whole new color to the situation. He touched his comm unit, addressing the Bridge. [color=008080]"Harper, William. Officer override, lock on 3A."[/color] A quiet beeping sound indicated the desired result. He braced and tried again. 

	A harsh intake of air filled the hallway as the door cracked open. Liam's muscles strained against it as he watched the scene inside, revealed by the seeming slowness of the door's opening. A hollow lump of flesh squatted atop the toilet, compressed and rubbery but still recognizably human. Its mouth was still agape, screaming loud and long as the air rushed through the only avenue it could - through the thing's mouth and into the partially depressurized bilge. Harper looked upon the sheer grotesquery of the misshapen blob of hollow, unsupported flesh, the whistling of air through it reduced to more of a pitiful whimper, an anticlimactic whine of fleshy machinery powering down as the air pressure stabilized. 

	[color=008080]"Lieutenant Harper to Bridge. I found the Doctor. I'm going to need a Yeoman with a strong stomach and someone from Medical. No rush."[/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] Medical [hr][/center]

	Foy looked about the Medical Bay. Gentlemanly courtesy demended that he finish the job to which he had been set by his good friend, Jahosafat. There were only two people left, aside from himself; one was the very friend that requested that the task be done. Asking him to assist would be patently rude. Not that Foy had any difficulty being rude, mind you. It was a sort of sarcastic catharsis for him, acting in a manner that was polite and proper, yet rarely friendly. Particularly as it involved one of more of the unwashed masses. They had their place, granted, taking care of the grunt work and agricultural needs that were required for society to function; every proud anthill needed workers to keep things moving along. There was even a sense of quiet pride in it. 

	But Foy's pride was anything but quiet. No, his pride was a blazing zeppelin, dressed in rhinestones and screaming poetry to the awestruck and fearful masses running and screaming for their lives. Nonetheless, a little labor was needed to fulfill the obligation of his word, and a little humbling of self was required to accomplish even that. Foy looked to the only other person in the room. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Why, Miss Lobo! Lovely as ever, I see. Still sinewy of arm, I trust?"[/color] he smiled underneath his preened moustache, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. One such as Carla, a woman having professional familiarity with the man (and not in his capacity as a barber), would know that this sort of flattery was an extremely, laughably thin example of buttering up, soley for the purpose of putting in a request a second afterwards. It likely came as no surprise when he continued, [color=f9ad81]"If you could avail me the use of your physicality, madame, I would be obliged. I have one such container remaining in Cargo, and would greatly appreciate your assistance."[/color]