[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] Foy-er [hr][/center]

	[color=f9ad81]"Motivation of the Divine being a sole purpose for grand, life-consuming explosions seem a trifle, were I given serious query on the topic, my good man."[/color] Foy took a brush to his chair, getting the bits of severed Preacher hair floating lazily down to the floor. It was never his favorite part of the job, cleanup. Though it was necessary to keep a tidy shop, point of pride even, the whole process seemed to hit a little too close to manual labor for his likes. But there was no alternative here. Back on Farraday he might have a Sweeping Lad to handle this for him, as apprentices or interns were sometimes referred to in the noble profession of Barbering, but this was a relatively cramped room aboard a ship. Barely a middle class walk-in closet, by his reckoning. And even if they weren't operating with a skeleton crew, Foy lacked the specific authority to order some yeoman to do it for him. 

	Tiny sacrifices for one's noble profession, he supposed. That depressing thought in mind, Foy snatched up a broom and began corralling the mess upon the floor to a vacuum pan for disposal. [color=f9ad81]"Though I can appreciate the taking of 10% for one's endeavors, my dear sir. You dear and shiny Church demands 10% for its expenses incurred pursuant to the acquisition of grandiose hats and ...oh, I imagine they feed the poor on occasion, but I am oft mesmerized by the fetching quality of that headwear."[/color] He tought for a half-second, [color=f9ad81]"Tithing, I believe is the nomenclature. Yes... Well, were I not in the profession I am now, I should fancy myself a passable and fashionable Bishop."[/color] 

	Foy made short work of his cleanup and stashed his tools in a sanitation case, then continued his thoughts with the holy[i]ish[/i] man before him. [color=f9ad81]"But I digress, of course. My point being that as you demand 10% for your efforts of blowing people to wet and splotchy smithereens, just as your Church maintains its hat fund (amongst other things, naturally) with a similar request of moneys. There is a sense of specific poetry to it, I suspect, one of inverted propriety that is just familiar enough for potential clients to give cognizant attentions. A marketing strategy, or surreptitious gimmick to drawn in that clientele, yes?"[/color] 

	The dapper gentleman was finally done straightening up his workspace. It was quick work, and afterwards Foy sprayed the air down with something vaguely smelling of sandalwood and vanilla. [color=f9ad81]"There we are, then. If you would extend a basic courtesy before we locate my esteemed and lofty colleague, I promised him a warming dram of Londinium Brandy before the evening comes to cessation. I suppose you may join us, spirit of cooperation across the lines and whatnot, but I must abscond to my quarters in the interim twixt now and our search for Dr. Moreau to acquire said nectar. Shall we?"[/color] 

	Foy retrieved his gunbelt, hat, and coat, then stepped out of his parlor, proceeding down the corridor to the pitiable accommodations that passed for his quarters. 


[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] Galley [hr][/center]

	Anisa pointed out the additional crewmember, laying sloppy drunk behind a counter. There were noises resembling speech coming from the man, but distance and interposing furnishings mostly muffled the exchange. Though he did pick out a name from among the senseless blathering of the practically incapacitated man: Camilla. Harper had to guess that she was one of the Browncoat crew that caught a bullet, though why he would grieve over her caught the Lieutenant as a mystery. Obviously they had some history, and obviously the crew of this ship had some connection with that of the downed Firefly's. But Harper had his own problems at the moment. 

	[color=008080]"Oh. Evening, Doctor."[/color] he gave as casual salutation. Dorothy's mention of "toasting" did serve to give him an idea, though. He walked over to a galley cart and shuffled around noisily until he located a handful of smallish metal spoons, then immediately set out to locate some manner of bread he could slice and put a golden brown on. While he prodded about, he kept sharing the particulars of why he sought out the Captain. 

	[color=008080]"So... I've got the Bridge pager on my person, ma'am, just in case Proximity picks anything up. I like to keep informed. It'll also let me know if we have any notification short of a General Alarm that a pilot should be made aware of."[/color] Freeze dried dinner rolls? No. Wouldn't do. [color=008080]"Now, the reason I have the extra eye on the stick, ma'am, is that I have my concerns about the primary eyes on it. Not to insult your hiring practices, nor your crew, but I have some reservations with the level of dedication your Pilot has for the task at had."[/color] 

	His search didn't reveal gold, but perhaps a passable bronze. [color=008080]"Ha! Water crackers work for you guys?"[/color] he asked triumphantly, waving a box in front of himself. [color=008080]"My experience with pilots is ...mostly... limited to military personnel, so I'm hoping it's that laid back Browncoat mentality that causes people like me to underestimate. All I'm saying is, I'm keeping this pager with me and checking in until I'm satisfied we're forgotten about."[/color] 

	[color=008080]"So hey, crackers and fruit preserves aside, when did you want to continue talking business?"[/color] an oddly amused expression colored his voice with humor, [color=008080]"My schedule is a little freer for the foreseeable future."[/color]