[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] Newhope Docks (Underground) [hr][/center]

	The irrepressible gentlemanish individual scurried down the ladder underneath the manhole, and into the gloom below. There was a sort of change that came over the man as he descended, a set to his jaw perhaps, or a sudden wave of outward professionalism washing over him. For all his pomp and finery, Foy was a mercenary, with a history of asset recovery and elimination for the Alliance as well as private parties. You do not gather that sort of reputation by being a useless dandy. 

	You do so by being an [i]exceptional[/i] dandy. 

	Foy's descent was punctuated by a sudden slip and catch as a foot lost traction, nearly pitching himself into the fetid unknown of what lay beneath the Newhope Docks. A slew of possibilities took hold of the perpetually tidy and kempt man in the split second of uncertainty, possibilities of what awaited him in the darkness of the underground. Was this a proper sewer? The ships had to decompress their bilge [i]somewhere[/i], after all. This dock didn't seem the type to have the untreated waste of a thousand ships a day flooding underneath their feet, though he did not know this planet extremely well. If he were [i]very[/i] lucky, it would be a simple maintenance access space, dirty but relatively dry, nothing a good brush-off couldn't fix after they were done wit the hunt. 

	Luckily, he caught himself in time. The last few steps were solid enough, and he soon found solid footing on the floor of the subterranean passage. A sluice-way of dark water ran in the middle of the narrow passage, with raised access walks on either side. So it was a storm drain; the quaint middle ground between his best and worst case scenario. If maintained properly, they would find a straight and smooth pathway taking them wherever they needed to go; if it were not, this could get a little stickier. It wasn't his first time tracking a fugitive in a gloomy tunnel. 

	As Dorothy fell in behind him, Foy picked out the distinct outline of a footfall coupled with splotch of sanguine color. Silently, he waved it to her attention, and pointed in the direction that his experience indicated. He drew a revolver and took a forceful step forward, quietly waving Dorothy forward. 

	It was about at Step Number Two that his right foot made awkward connection with the edge of the sluice, giving him the split-second option of twisting his ankle or sliding further to the right. The very human desire to avoid crippling injury, even temporary in nature, won out in that very short time, unceremoniously depositing his foot [i]damned near to the knee[/i] into the grey water flowing past them. His spine straightened and his arms flailed about for a second or two as he struggled to maintain balance. As Foy succeeded in keeping upright, his face adopted a look of restrained alarm and disgust. His foot was in the stale runoff of so many amateur cooks, people hosing down their ships, livestock cargo, and rainwater mixed with trace amounts of synthetic lubricant and vehicle fuel, all flowing and fermenting to parts best left alone. Rodent droppings and hangover vomit likely mixed in with this horrifying under-dock stew, which he was now stirring with his best pair of leather Madison shoes. Or at least, [i]just the one[/i]. 

	Suppressing a shudder, Foy removed himself from the horrid water, or at least tried to. Be it a tiny denizen of the shallow, opaque fluid, or merely a bit of rubbish that caught upon him, as he withdrew his foot, his very fine shoe was painfully removed from his immaculately pedicured foot. Revulsion piled on top of him, and he pulled off his now sodden, black sock, splatting it upon the wall nearest him like grandma's homestyle test for cooked spaghetti. It stuck there, dripping foul fluid along the wall beneath it. [color=f9ad81]"Just a suit, indeed."[/color] he whispered, aggravation evident in his voice. Foy hastily removed his other shoe with his free hand, shaking it in the air before dropping it softly upon the ground next to them. It was a noteworthy piece of footwear, one a laborer would never think to own, nor could afford as a reasonable purchase otherwise. [color=f9ad81]And [i]that[/i] was just a shoe, I presume?[/color]

	Foy removed his remaining sock, and in the tradition of action stars everywhere, fixed a steely look of coming revenge as he tied it around his head in the form of a tailored, monogrammed headband. He quickly replaced his bowler hat and took up his gun yet again. Someone would answer for his damaged suit and ruined Madisons. Oh yes, they would answer, indeed...

	[color=f9ad81]"Come along. Where did you go, little rabbit?"[/color] Far from the usual verbose dialogue, the mercenary Coiffeur was a thing of cold business. He took a harder look at the spotting and attempted to determine what he could from the pattern; speed, gait, and the most important bit - [i]direction[/i] of their intended quarry. 




[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] Cargo (and just beyond)[hr][/center]	

	It didn't take long to get back to Cargo, seeing as he really only had a picture frame and his personal terminal to carry with him. He debated stopping back by the Bridge and doing his best to urinate heavily upon the Captain's Chair, possibly behind a panel or two, regretting only that he did not dine on SoySparagus beforehand (guaranteeing none of the fresh vegetable flavor but twice the pungent aftereffects), resulting in a situation that the new owners wouldn't discover until they were [i]well[/i] into the Black, with unseen hilarity ensuing. Ah, to be a fly upon that wall. But no, Dr. Moreau took great effort to make sure they had a sanitized vessel, it would be additionally insulting to the wrong person. So, just slightly unethical on his part. Damnit. 

	It really was a shame. Unfortunately, he [i]did[/i] have to lay low, be a pilot of whatever ship whose console he was placed behind. Do his job for his employers. Browncoats this time, for two years. Just two more years. Ok... Time to keep being Harper. 

	His posture slowly crept back to the of the able Lieutenant, despite the fact that he was not Alliance anymore. It was the best way he knew to behave in the manner of a professionally spacefaring man, and most of these people had a background with the "bad guys" anyway. He was just another officer gone turncoat when given evidence that he was on the wrong side. Hell, technically, that was [i]exactly[/i] what he was anyway, just with a different timetable than most people in the same situation. By the time he set foot back into Cargo, Harper was (aside from his unshaven appearance) every bit the solid Flight Officer. 

	Something seemed off, though, a sort of tension in the air he couldn't quite put his finger on. Tempted to draw his sidearm, Harper carefully made his way down to his belongings and, with eyes scanning are area, replaced his Terminal into his gear and carried it outside. He looked to Atticus and Daphne, the only two in the area, and inquired of them, [color=008080]"What happened? Where is everyone else?"[/color] 

	He was ready to assist in the hauling of gear, but a twinge of paranoia kept him feeling a little edgy. Much more of this, and he'd likely find himself falling back into the habit of claiming a chairleg as a bludgeon and/or sharpening a toothbrush before attempting to sleep whilst sitting upright in the corner of a concrete room. Such was the perception of his reality, half of the time.