[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] Med Bay [hr][/center]

	The esteemed Mr. Coiffeur took to heart Carla's words about duty and assignment, phrased in simple and direct words in a way that left no room for wiggling or misinterpretation. It was said in a manner that was both calm and respectful, ensuring that Foy couldn't even take mock offense at the fact that she could not help at the moment, in an attempt to guilt her into the assist anyway. Not that [i]guilt[/i] particularly motivated the lady; at least it never had before. Then again, when they knew each other last, the two of them were assigned to some wetwork or another, merrily if aggressively trading ammunition with people who may or may not have deserved it. At least Foy was merry. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, his moustache was freshly waxed (mid-gunfight, mind you), and he was absolutely [i]destroying[/i] soft cover with his Callahan, enjoying a rare cigar all the while. 

	Then again, it might have been stated once or twice that the Gentleman Barber was a borderline sociopath. 

	His mind snapped back to the present, where regretfully he was being told NO. It was not a thing of which he was overly fond, but he couldn't seem to get a conversational workaround in play fast enough for it to be effective. Instead, he took a slightly more objective approach. [color=f9ad81]"Absolutely, my dear. Of course you have orders; I should have surmised something comparable, given the peculiarities of the day. But I shall require assistance with this final box nonetheless. [i]If[/i] madame would be as kind, I would appreciate your help when you find yourself able. Or a nudge to that Lieutenant, polite or no (at the lady's discretion, of course), to get him back on task. Either way is just dandy by me. I'll be in Cargo, acquainting myself with the supplies and sundries."[/color] 

	Foy affected a polite bow to the veteran Assassin, arms stretched out at his sides. [color=f9ad81]"Excuse me, Ma'am."[/color] He flashed a dashing smile and exited the Med Bay, bound for parts Cargoey. 



[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] Out-Of-Service Lavatory [hr][/center]

	William Harper, Pilot of the I.A.V. Retribution, First Lieutenant in the Alliance Military, continued to survey the scene in the malfunctioning water closet. It was as if he had looked upon a man pulled inside out and left dead on the crapper. His brain had actually used that analogy, possibly as a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that he was, in fact, looking at exactly that: A man had been pulled inside out and was left dead, and as it turned out, he was on the crapper. This was how the Earth-That-Was performer Elvis went, only with even less dignity. Had such a travesty befallen Harper in the moment of his passing, he would have utterly died of embarrassment. If he hadn't just died, that is. 

	[color=teal]"Well Doctor Moreau,"[/color] began Liam, [color=teal]"I had all of one conversation with the man. It was enough. The man actually tried to intimidate me into violating the Captain's orders about early takeoff, citing that he would have to cannibalize parts from the crew in case of a medical emergency. I have no sorrow in his passing."[/color]  

	Jahosafat's suggestion that he retrieve cleaning supplies was taken with a nod and a smart pace down the corridor to the nearest ladder. Division of labor was fine with him. He'd rather be cleaning a minimal of bodily fluids in a room with a water source and (perhaps more importantly) a drain. Of course, finding it in an unfamiliar cargo hold would be a minor challenge, but if it was stacked to regulation, it wouldn't be too bad. Now all he had to do was remember regulations. Eh, he'd get it.