[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]

	Foy was quite the vision in splendid bowler cap and charcoal suit as his pace increased. His scrutiny was clearly fixed upon he trail before him; the droplets of blood and pieces of footprint that indicated the passage of their slow-moving quarry. The farther they got, down in the irregular gloom of the storm drain, the more Foy took on the mannerisms of a lanky yet aristocratic hunting dog, becoming more alert and low to the ground quite like a long legged Picardy Shepherd. He would advance into the dark, the only evidence of his passing being the quiet tap-squish, tap-squish, tap-squish of his remaining Madison shoe and soaked double sock upon his noble and immaculately pedicured feet. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Humidity, madame."[/color] he whispered to Dorothy, refusing to break stride. [color=f9ad81]"Reduces the rate of sanguinous coagulation and evaporation; makes a discernible estimate tenuous. Likewise, oils dew to the surface and tracks become muddled. In short, I possess the necessary skills to follow our evasive stowaway, I however have not gleaned enough raw information to discern much more at this stage in our endeavors.[/color] He stopped, raising a hand to indicate something that had caught his attention. A finger point later, and Foy had taken off, down the right passage. 

	Ah yes, the Great Farradayan Stachehound had caught the scent of something slender and wounded, and in his excitement to pursue said prey, damn near ran headlong into a opening chamber that branched off into three separate paths. As fate would have it, his be-sock-ed foot slipped dangerously forward, drawing him into an unintentional fencer's lunge. His arms flailed, hips wobbled this way and that, as he attempted (for the sake of vanity as much as professionalism) to avoid falling headlong into the potentially gooey and occupied liquid below. The next few seconds found the thoroughly spastic looking Mr. Coiffeur whipping his limbs about him in a barely dignified fashion. 

	This time, he succeeded. 

	Gathering what remained of his dignity, Foy straightened his tie, checked his revolvers, and cleared his throat. He looked around at his surroundings, trying to get a handle on where to head off to next. Three options... Were he wounded, he would not want to risk further infection or simple nastiness by slogging through the muck and wet, sticking to the path he was on. But such intentions were not his to guess; they were for him to confirm. [color=f9ad81]"Hmm, yes, well... I do not know about your proclivities, Doctor, but I must confess this is the first three-way into which I've found myself ensconced since leaving Farraday last. Ho hooooo..."[/color] He laughed, but did immediately get back to the task at hand: Selecting a path. 



[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]	

	Well, a good pilot follows orders, and Anisa was his new Captain. So it made perfect sense that, as soon as she beckoned, Harper's sense of military protocol kicked in. He set down what he was holding inside of the hold, brought his feet together and spun to face her. She seemed a touch unstable, this Captain Crowe, although the observation seemed a touch hypocritical coming from him. Nonetheless, this was his journey, she hers was the train to which Harper had hitched his wagon. Time to see where it all led. 

	[color=008080]"Aye, Captain."[/color] he reaponded, following in step behind her and to her right. [color=008080]"Ah, ma'am? Status of the Retribution's system - we're clean. Wiped multiple times and reformatted. Anything that might be of use is in a throwaway device, available for your perusal at leisure."[/color] He cleared his throat, still keeping step behind Anisa. [color=008080]"Dr. Moreau is handling the physical sanitation of the rooms to the best of my knowledge."[/color] 

	He wasn't going to say anything about it, but he was really looking forward to being present for selecting their new vessel. He had a few good ones in mind, with a ratio of upkeep cost vs. performance. If the proper models were available for purchase, anyway. All he could do now was follow, act as his Captain's consultant when asked (or if something obvious came up), and see what was available from the seller. Though a good, refitted Medical ship, Corsair, or a smaller version of their recently vacated Patrol vessel was ideal, in his mind.