[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] Hallway just beyond -> Back to the Foy-er [hr][/center]

	The scissors clipped on and on, occasionally pausing for a quick switch to layering snips and back again to the more methodical removal cuts. It was done quickly and proficiently, as only a generational barber could. One day, Foy would raise his own little gentleman. They would learn the wonder and niftiness of being dapper, of looking down upon the working classes, and of growing a fine moustache. But most importantly (and perhaps a little ironically), the various Foy Juinors would learn the trade of Barbercraft, hopefully to surpass even the likes of the astounding Mr. Foy Coiffeur. Such is the destiny of a generational professional. 

	That being barred, the hypothetical "Lil Foy" would make an excellent Haberdasher. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Explosives, my good sir? Hmm... Seems unsporting. Though I should say, and from no small matter of experience, my good man, if you desire the impersonal disposal of several hundred plebeians at a common time and location, a bit of the Boomage does it none the better."[/color] The dapper fellow took a horsehair brush to the Shepherd's shoulders, giving a bit of turnaround to see if he had even lines. [color=f9ad81]"Alright, cut is made... Now for the styling. Shan't be but a moment or two; this part is easy. Of course, it's all easy when you're of certain lineage."[/color] 

	He got out the various small bottles of salves and pomades, treatments and mousses and sprays. A comb in hand, he began the final stage in Atticus's follicle-based transformation. [color=f9ad81]"It occurs, sir, that one may derive a certain amount of personal satisfaction and profit, were, once said explosives had been placed, one may station one's self in a point of vantage and perform a touch of ballistic crowd control. You know, just until the exothermic reaction du jour laid waste to the location in mind. Yes makes perfect sense... Oh! Perhaps also, one could take a differing vantage and pluck off those sent to assist any hypothetical survivors. Wouldn't you say, Shepherd? Scorch the earth, and whatnot? Strictly spoken in the academic, mind you. We need not ruffians of that sort mucking about in our already imperfect 'Verse, now do we?"[/color] 

	A couple more strokes of the comb, one more spritz of moisture, and he was done. [color=f9ad81]"Well then, Psalms, how about you take a gander in the wall mirror just behind you. We are professionally concluded."[/color] 


[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-8481614-500-375.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Corridors ->  Galley [hr][/center]

	A shrewd man, while searching for a hostile Captain, finds a very good reason to be on the lookout, preferably with official looking documents of some kind. Harper could be accused of being shrewd. Intelligent, definitely. He was a very sharp man, if the slightest bit mentally traumatized by the past few years. But he was painfully bereft of official paperwork. Not that he honestly thought it would matter with this woman, but he couldn't show up with nothing. Plus, it would likely be highly insulting to hop on the PA and request her presence in his quarters. Such an action would likely be met with her indeed relocating to his room, only to paint it with Harper's own mix of brain matter grey and arterial red. 

	But going to his quarters first wasn't a bad idea. He couldn't dig up anything official, but he might scare up a peace offering. Point of fact, he was headed in that direction anyway. It was just a quick moment in his bunk, long enough to grab two jars from the big crate of goodies he brought along from that confectioner's in Persephone. He returned to the corridor, walking the length of the vessel back to Upper Engineering, down the stairs, and halfway back up the ship, poking his head into every public room he came across. 

	Harper was intrigued to find that there was an impromptu gathering in the Galley, of all places. One might have heard his footsteps coming down the hallway, especially in the operating night hours of the skeleton crewed vessel. And just in they didn't, Harper took it upon himself to clear his throat as he stepped in the doorway to the Galley opposite of Dorothy. He got a pretty good eyeful of Anisa standing present, and apparently the Medic arrived shortly before himself. Harper maintained his persona of the dutiful Alliance officer, for the most part. 

	[color=008080]"Ma'am,"[/color] he began, regarding Anisa, [color=008080]"and ma'am,"[/color] to Dorothy. It had been one hell of a day. Harper would have loved to have gotten into a bottle of something relaxing and flammable, but he was a little nervous about the person on the stick that shift. That, and he didn't remember packing any alcohol in his belongings. He did have a couple of personal luxuries, though, a little of which he brought with him. 

	The Lieutenant set one of the jars on the nearby table and slid it across. [color=008080]"I hadn't expected more than one, but... Preserved peaches, whole and pitted."[/color] The second one followed with a supplementing, [color=008080]"Preserved strawberries, whole."[/color] Looking towards the nearest galley cart, he offered, [color=008080]"I'll find us some spoons. Help yourselves, please. I'd prefer it if we spoke, unless the two of you were about to discuss something privately."[/color]