[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] Captain's Office[hr][/center]

	[color=008080]"Hmm..."[/color] 

	It was the sound of a somewhat puzzled man. His diagnostic aside, there appeared to be absolutely nothing unusual about the Captain's personal terminal. No hidden files, no points of blackmail material, nothing on the keyword search or coded message detection, no ciphers or the like. It looked very much like the man was pursuing a straight and narrow path of Alliance service, period, end story. At least, that's what his terminal's files had to say on the matter. To make matters worse, the office itself looked to have been given a once-over already. 

	Harper couldn't learn anything more than what he got from the Bridge. This was a waste of time. At least he was able to get a little more time in with a Cortex Terminal, re-honing his skills against modern software. Not a lot had changed since his last wrestling match against a system, though there were some improvements in the details, from what he could see. Maybe he would get some practice in with the next ship they acquired. 

	Well, plans for the near future. The diagnostic was finished, giving the appearance of a standard system. He had access to the Captain's private terminal, which pretty much meant a firm grasp on the short and curlies on the ship's operating systems, routines, archives, protocols, whole nine. And what [i]he[/i] wanted to do? Reset back to factory standard. No history, no personnel, no records, nothing. An empty slate, waiting for a new buyer to take over and do with what they needed, customizing the programming to suit their needs. Of course, if the Alliance happened to locate their former Black Ship, he wanted to make damn sure that the asshats in possession of it at the time took the heat for its capture, and everyone attached to the vessel (himself especially) was pleasantly forgotten about. [color=008080]"Okay, Retribution... prepare to be reincarnated. You've served your Alliance well, but now it's time to shuffle along to more clandestine service under the employ of some possibly less ethical entity."[/color] He giggled a little, thought occurring to him, [color=008080]"Heh, just like me..."[/color]

	He keyed up a full formatting of all systems, hesitating over the command enter key for just a second before letting his finger fall. [color=008080]"Maybe we'll meet up in a few years, Retribution. Different name, bigger history for us both. I'd appreciate that. You might have given me my freedom, whether you know it or not. Ah, damned sentiment. Wouldn't mind being your Captain; you're a hell of a vessel. Alliance built you well."[/color] He thought for a moment, [color=008080]"...except for that little issue with the lavatory. Might want to get that looked at by your next Engineer..."[/color] 

	Sighing, Harper watched as the system sped through its files, removing or reserving as needed. It might take a little bit to really get going. If some stop or block was in play, his only alternative would be to completely remove the memory manually from the boards and replace the storage, then institute a whole new copy of the operating system. [i]That[/i] would take some time, and the former Lieutenant doubted that he had the kind of time necessary for a full system replace. No matter. If he couldn't, after the ship exchanged hands, he'd send an anonymous, sourceless comm burst to the nearest Alliance interceptor, bounced off of so many relays and signal reinforcing points as to render it next to impossible to determine the exact system from which it was sent in the form of a coded S.O.S., informing them of the Reaver attack and subsequent hijacking of the ship by brigands from Whitefall after the crew had been picked over. Hell, he might just do that anyway (pending his new Captain's approval). 

	None of it should come back to him, I mean, Harper wasn't rated for things like Technological Interface Programming or Core System Alteration, let alone possess the technical wherewithal to service the physical aspects of the ship or her engines. Oh no. Harper was a Pilot and an Officer. He couldn't hack a ship. Besides, he was very likely dead, used as sport and later as food by Reavers on Whitefall, following an underestimation of enemy numbers. At least, that's what the comm burst would say, the dying message of one or another of the crew. The Doctor, perhaps, or maybe the Captain himself.

	Whatever happened next, he had a few minutes in the meantime while lines of code compiled and replaced. Harper found himself staring at a little something he found, wedged in the back of a drawer in the Captain's Desk. It was a picture of a younger version of himself; a young officer at an Alliance gathering, with a woman on his arm in similar Officers' attire. If memory served, that woman was one of the members of Anisa's crew, the very lady whose sidearm he now carried. 

	[color=008080]"Hmm..."[/color] 

	He was still puzzled. Why would that have been stuck all the way back in his desk drawer, out of sight and out of mind? If he didn't want the damned thing, he could easily have gotten rid of it. Or kept it packed away. This guy wanted it close, yet concealed. Harper began to study the picture; its framing and size, whether it was an analog or holo printing, if it could be removed from any casing it may be in. Really in-depth viewing, as if he could find some manner of password written inside of it or a bit of emergancy scrip. It just seemed the place one would hide something. 


[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] Corridors of the [i]I.A.V Retribution[/i] [hr][/center]

	[color=f9ad81]"Three hours, you say? How very final. I assume that negotiations went smoothly and to the positive, yes?"[/color] He didn't quite anyone an opportunity to answer, as enamored with the sound of his own voice as he was. [color=f9ad81]"Brilliant! I shall collect the last of my resplendent belongings and assist..."[/color] He waved his hand in the general direction of the crew members behind him, [color=f9ad81]"...those fine persons in relocating our collective gear to the locale of your illustrious choosing, madame."[/color] 

	Foy continued pushing the dolly up and out of the cargo bay, following behind Anisa for a while before their paths diverged. He did offer parting words of, [color=f9ad81]"You may wish to speak to your Doctor friend concerning some plans for afterwards. Looks to be quite the solid social affair, indeed! And I would so relish speaking with you in less formal conditions, opportunity presenting. Finalize our business, and what have you. First round falls squarely upon Yours Truly, of course."[/color] As they began to move to different parts of the ship, Foy called out behind him, [color=f9ad81]"And I do hope you are a proficient dancer, madame. I do [i]so[/i] adore a good cotillion, or even more rustic rug cutting, and I shall save a spot on my card [i]just[/i] for you."[/color] 

	His last case wasn't quite as large as one might absolutely [i]need[/i] a grav dolly to move, but repeated trips make for longer and more encumbering ones. Foy had a respectable amount of personal gear, mainly wardrobe, but he also had a three cases' worth of professional working gear, designed to give the best damned shave, style, or cut on-the-go to prince and pauper alike. Though if Foy could help it, princes mainly. Better class of people. Good tippers, mostly. Plus, his extraordinary skill gave him the perfect cover to conceal his more clandestine activities, in addition to aiding in turning a profit when tracking and killing was slow, while opening up the family business to potential product contracts. All around, it was good business. 

	The last case loaded up saw him lightly sauntering back to Cargo; those inside capable of hearing the sharp tunes of Foy, whistling a song to himself. As he rounded the doorway back in, the whistling slipped to words as he finished the line he was on, before stopping and grinning at those present. 

[center][color=f9ad81][i]"You may not have the looks.
You may not have the dash.
But you'll win yourself a girl,
If you only got a moustache..."[/i][/color][/center]

	Foy gestured to the personal belongings of the crew and put aside his more garrulous nature, merely asking the simple, two word inquiry of, [color=f9ad81]"Shall we?"[/color]