A week of planning and preparation had gone by slow, with Iosif still having spent the majority of his time working, resting and thinking matters out at his station in the bridge. Often, he found himself comforted more by the embrace of his pilot's seat than that of the cramped, shared bunk space set aside elsewhere in the ship and so he'd been able to use it as an excuse whilst events drew closer. Dex, or [i]Pomponia[/i] as she had chosen as a cover for this job, had already been over things with a rather meticulous level of detail, putting the rest of them to shame - Iosif included. In his case, he'd committed the station schematics both to memory (albeit in a rough form) and to his Omni-Tool, though his own approach to cloak-and-dagger would probably have left something to be desired.

Not as if there was any other form of recourse at this point, though - they had committed, so had he. Seated in the pilot's chair, Iosif had been the one to send the docking hail as the station came up on their sensors and, shortly after, into view.

True to form, Lafayette station bore all the hallmarks of being another bastard offshoot of the System's Alliance, one of many outposts which had been hastily dropped into orbit in the early days before being sold and partitioned off to anyone who was foolhardy enough to try and make such an investment. There, the original structure had been rendered barely recognisable to his eyes and that in itself was only because he'd seen his share of them during his service. In a strange way, it was somewhat inspiring to know that people had still managed to carve out a living here - though such a notion was quickly forgotten when one recalled that an outfit like Eclipse was this place's biggest investor.

And on that last thought, it had not eluded his notice that there was a small but nontheless intimidating contingent of Eclipse vessels positioned in various defensive positions around the station, clearly intended as a deterrent more than anything but still more than capable of reducing a ship such as the [i]Borealis[/i] to tissue paper if their full wrath was incurred. It was enough for a knot to briefly form in the pilot's stomach from that knowledge alone.

Breaking that train of thought, however, was the response to his earlier hail, the nasal voice of a human male. "Docking hail received, align with traffic and proceed to station D-7."

He exhaled, then began to manoeuvre the [i]Borealis[/i] into place, following the direction of the station's traffic control as an illustration of the dock became highlighted in the cockpit's display. It didn't take too long to pass through and soon enough the ship came to a halt. All it took was the familiar thrum of the station's magnetic clamps fixing into place to signal that it was time to unload.

Though, in Iosif's case it didn't take long. He'd already packed a small case with a few [i]essentials[/i], which included a handheld welding tool and a cut down M-3 Predator which was always good for keeping concealed on his person in those troublesome moments. No armour or anything otherwise too bulky, in this case - at least then he could pass his baggage off as tools.

Dressing practically, he'd thrown a black jacket over a dark gray vest and kept his cargo pants, whilst for for the purpose of keeping his barcode covered up, he'd hung a grease-stained bandana around his neck and tucked the front end into his neckline. Long sleeves and a pair of gloves rendered his arm mundane to the naked eye - though it wasn't so much the arm itself as the fact it had the potential to make him stand out in a crowd that he had an issue. [i]The less distinguishing features, the better.[/i] All in all, he looked like your average pilot, cargo hauler, mechanic, whatever one might've associated with that 'class' of work and that suited him just fine. 

Iosif waited for a short while, giving some of the others to trickle past the entry checkpoints first, before deciding that there was a window open for him based on their clandestine comms chatter. Approaching one of the terminals, he was stopped by a fellow human in Eclipse apparel, fumbling with an Omni-Tool and after a moment of running through the usual routine, he was prompted for his details,.

"Name?" The guard asked, unenthusiastic.

[color=steelblue]"Artyom Poroshenko."[/color] Iosif  had mentally rehearsed the cover ID that Dex had set up for him enough to recallthe name without trouble.

"Purpose of visit?" Boredom and perhaps fatigue at the monotonous nature of such a task gave away the fact that this man probably loahed this side of the job. [I]Still better than getting shot at, though.[/i]

[color=steelblue]"Business and leisure,"[/color] Iosif answered, before leading on with a questionof his own, [color=steelblue]"Know where I can get a decent drink around here?"[/color]

"Hrm," The guard grunted, then idly jabbed a thumb in the direction behind him, "Depends on your taste, there's a cantina of a sorts just after this terminal. Drinks are good, but avoid the varren kebabs unless you want a nasty case of scale itch."

[color=steelblue]"Oh, yeah?"[/color]

"Yeah, whoever came up with the name must've had a sense of irony. The [i]Doctor's Order.[/i]" A brief ,almost forced chuckle escaped the guard's mouth and Iosif found himself snorting along, just for the sake of blending in, before the man pivoted and gestured towards the rest of the station with a free hand. "Go on ahead, anyway, you're clear."

Wordlessly, Iosif tilted his head upwards to the guard and proceeded inside, baggage and all. Judging from Serena's last hail, he figured it would be best to get a hand on her crate and link up with her at this cafe which sold the shady kebabs, perhaps. [color=steelblue]"On it, Serena. You'll get your things."[/color]

[I]Hopefully things wouldn't go to shit, this time.[/i]