[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] Cargo Bay -> Foy-er [hr][/center]

	The ever dapper Foy Coiffeur raised an eyebrow at the sudden and extended outburst of mirth from the Shepherd before him. He withdrew his hand from in front of the man and put on a neutral face. When the guffaws and chortles died down, and the holy man had spoken his peace, Foy gave his moustache a twirl and returned to pushing the grav dolly. [color=f9ad81]"Manners, Shepherd Pearson. Manners are what separate us from the plebeians."[/color] He stopped, looking back to Atticus, [color=f9ad81]"Indeed, they are supposed to, so I must surmise the sudden change of aerospace pressure has led you to an unfortunate medical malady involving either temporary reduction of hearing [i]or[/i] some incarnation of dementia."[/color] His voice had an edge to it that he had not previously demonstrated, even when approaching their first meeting on Whitefall, when he was ready to insert ammunition into the Browncoat crew at high velocity. 

	He resumed walking to the back of the Cargo Hold with the dolly, intent upon going after his Barber's Chair next. It did not stop him from continuing his thoughts on the situation, whether or not Atticus cared to continue assisting him with his belongings. [color=f9ad81]"Words have meanings, sir, and though many would consider my intonation and vocabulary flowery, gilded (possibly), or something toward the more expensive of speech, I assure you that when I use phrases such as "[i]businesslike influence[/i]" and "[i]liberally adequate for a professional[/i]", or even the simpler to understand "[i]ply his trade[/i]", not to mention the word "[i]accord[/i]", that these bits of syllabic utterance are not equivalent to the more brutish concept of DEMAND."[/color] 

	[color=f9ad81]"I was requesting your assistance and insight in the coming negotiations there, Genesis. But you are correct. I shall speak with your superior on matters of contractual professionalism from this point onward."[/color] 

	He continued into the gurney lift and down the corridor to his place of business, now in mid-disassembly. The most important, central piece of his parlor was the vintage-styled, adjustable Barber's Chair, a thing which he carefully loaded onto the grav dolly and strapped in lovingly. He had half a mind to set up just outside the ship while he waited on everyone else to get ready, if there were time for it. A little "strolling about cash" for the cost of disinfectant and minor styling products would be well worth it, so long as he had the time to spare. 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-joToxLegqZk/UlP_OiXe43I/AAAAAAAAcfs/_sbEOs83YPQ/s400/Peinados+de+hombres+al+estilo+de+Christian+Bale-1.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Outside the Retribution/Newhope Docks [hr][/center]

	Harper was a fairly patient man. Moreso than most, it turned out. Living in a chunk of floating rock where the bare essentials of living were rationed (and sometimes forgotten), including such concepts as breathable air and light; well, they made a man patient. What did not settle extremely well with him was the fact that that he was feeling a little exposed out there. Granted, he looked less like the man he was pretending to be as of a week ago, but here he was in front of an Alliance ship in Newhope. Harper was afraid that he would stand out. 

	But, he wasn't in uniform. He had a bit of facial scruff now, and he was beginning to put a little weight back on. He was more comfortable in utility garb anyway. Now if he could find some proper clothes in the city just beyond the docks, all the better. He hadn't been to a port that didn't also have a mercantile district nearby, ever. But until then, he was going to mind his station and people watch for a while.