[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3c3411c6-0824-4467-a04b-331c7b1330ca.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Prometheus - Newhope (Docks)[hr][/center]

	The fervently organized Foy Coiffeur wasted zero time in getting his parlor together, starting with his very fine, vintage Earth-That-Was replica barber's chair. It was the centerpiece of his setup, designed to draw the eye and inspire trust in his abilities. Such things were useful to first-time clients only; those who had sat in his chair before may very well trust the man to do a masterful job while sitting on a wet tree stump, if they could see their way around his peculiarities. In fairness, the man's irritable... [i]Foyness[/i] found a good home with the family's ancestral occupation. The role of Gentleman Barber came with certain expectations, which Foy leapt into boldly and snatched up with both hands. The fact that he was a trained killer was something to keep under his hat when pursuing clients, a thing which he may have to commence in the near future, if only as a well portrayed and respectable cover. 

	The good news was that, given the proficiency with which he handled his craft and his workspace, setup was a trivial affair. His cases were set up in such a way that they could be opened, the interior drawers and shelves already holding his necessary materials. The water hookup told him that this room was originally designed to be a dwelling; access to the resource was adequate but less fancy than he preferred. He was ready for business in about a half hour, including time to set up and ship-stabilize his equipment, including a smallish table with reading materials and a bowl of wrapped candies. There were a few luxury items that Foy would prefer to pick up for the new location. Sadly, that could not happen right then as the Captain had ordered a total lockdown of the ship. Maybe tomorrow, as places that sold life's little luxuries generally closed at nighttime. 

	He could do with another coffee brewer. The last one that he used technically belonged to the Alliance by way of the [i]I.A.V. Retribution[/i] and had to be left behind. And some additional seating, though Foy supposed that the Lounge would have to suffice as it was close by. For now. Priority was establishing himself. 

	Given the long stretch of time that he still had available to him, Foy began feeling a bit pent up. There was a whole, shiny world out there (or at least a merchant area) for him to peruse. He had seen part of it during his little professional debacle earlier and was anxious to check out a couple of those shops now that he wasn't spattered with filth and torn clothing, one shoe missing somewhere underneath their feet on a long and winding journey through the Newhope Docks drainage system. He needed a little something to occupy his time. Then a thought occurred to him. A memory from earlier. He had mentioned aloud his intent to organize the remaining weaponry from the fallen, former crewmembers into an armory of sorts. There wouldn't be much to start off with, granted, but if anything was true in thie 'Verse, it was an old adage that went "To The Victor Goes The Spoils". The more conflicts they survived, the greater the size and complexity of their Armory. 

	With this in mind, he began gathering and cataloguing the unclaimed weapons still unceremoniously stored in the Cargo Hold and moving them into the series of supply lockers between the Lounge and the Engine Room. The haul was what one might expect from individuals traversing the Black; pistols and rifles mainly, as suitable for personal defense as they were hunting supper. Nothing of modern military quality with two expections - submachine guns previously owned by the Browncoat mercenary lady whose name escaped him at the moment. They each seemed to pack a load of ammunition with them, almost to a level of paranoia. No matter, it just made things easier to store and organize. There did seem to be a shortage of 9mm rounds, however. Ordinarily one of the more common ammunition types to locate, Foy assumed that some degenerate or another had run off with the bulk of it, lining their personal stores. More would have to be located. 

	Come to think of it, that lovely, older model sniper rifle he had claimed for himself would need a few things to make it more suitable for contemporary extreme-range splattering. Yes, the dapper gentleman would have to visit a more or less decent gunsmith, or at least munitions vendor. The things he wanted were standard and inexpensive. Well, that and ammo. A later conversation with Anisa would have to include petitioning her for a financial allotment to shore up their needs in that regard. He could not simply toss his own money around anymore. 

	With the impromptu "Armory" secure, Foy felt a mild sense of accomplishment. There was still a good amount of time until the lockdown was done and they could engage in frivolity, and he meant to dress for it. This would perhaps take the most time of all his self-appointed tasks. Suffice it to say, after setting up his own relatively spacious private quarters, checking and servicing his personal weaponry and selecting [i]juuust[/i] the right pocket square to tie his shoes/waistcoat combination together (it was paisley), he heard the ship's PA announce that it was time to gather outside of the ship in preparation of attending their bit of R & R. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Splendid!"[/color] he mused aloud, throwing on a breathable wool suit-coat and one of his better bowler hats, both classic black. He counted out a decent amount of scrip and pocketed it, careful to keep it divided into two amounts and fastened tightly. He rather wished he had a more or less decent walking cane to carry with him for outings like this, preferably with a narrow, nasty blade concealed within. Another purchase for another time. A spring in his step, Foy descended the stairs nearest his room and exited the ship by means of the main Cargo door. 

	[color=f9ad81]"Oh I say, Captain, that is a [i]particularly[/i] fetching ensemble you with which you adorn yourself. Though, if I may hazard a gentleman's opinion, a lady as singular as yourself requires not gaudy decorations. Heaven forfend, though I declare that you do give the dress a sense of purpose, to wit."[/color]

	He focused his attention on her escort, [color=f9ad81]"And [i]you[/i], my homeworld sibling! Might but I have guessed that you should ensconce yourself into the graces of the dear lady with offered arm. You are truly a Man About Town, sir! If I may request, do remember to reserve a morsel of time in our shared jocularity for a brandy or two amongst ourselves; catch up a bit while breathing more casual air, as it sits."[/color]

	[color=f9ad81]"Now, wherever is our intended locale?"[/color]



[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://data.whicdn.com/images/1875529/original.png[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Prometheus - Newhope (Docks) [hr][/center]	

	In contrast to the multiple accomplishments of the resident Robber Baron, Harper kept himself busy dedicated to a single task, that being the overview inspection of the engine. It was a more contemporary version of the same engine types common to the "-fly" class vessels; a shiny and new (or gently used, anyway) [i]Camdon TX4 Drive[/i] with a [i]Garrett A4 Plasmadrive[/i], suitable for extended range hyperspeed. Not quite as flashy on the outside as its predecessor ship but just as fast, just as maneuverable, and exactly as reliable. Not to mention that it was as easy to repair. If Harper wasn't flying this vessel, he might have thrown a hammock up in here and claimed the Engineer job for himself.

	The engine casing was different, but that was to be expected. Proper shielding had to be arranged with ergonomic entry points for ease of servicing, and in the days since the first 'Fly rolled out of the shipyards, the manufacturers had learned a thing or two. Shaving precious seconds off of a repair could mean the difference between living and dying out in the Black. 

	The first part of the engine, the [i]Camdon TX4[/i], did not overly interest him. It was a fine piece of machinery, no doubt, but he had gotten a good read on it while he took his test drive earlier. It was easy to feel for anything rattling or loose when you're skipping the ship off of a planet's lower atmosphere or gunning it toward a rock face and changing direction at the last possible moment. Nope, the cruising engine was stellar. What brought him visiting the Engine Room was the Plasma Drive, the second part of the great, spinning cylinder that kept the boat moving. The [i]Garrett A4[/i] was not something that he could run a field test on immediately. But he could initiate a site diagnostic. 

	Harper's tech skills as came into play as his fingers danced over the controls, his eyes took in the readout on the small screen present, dedicated to engine function. He nodded, finding the readings acceptable, and stepped away to let the machine compile and uncompile lines of internal tests, sorting through them in rapid succession and spitting out affirmation after affirmation that yes, the machine was indeed running within acceptable parameters. The experienced engineer could have set these tests up and come back later on for the results, maybe get some quiet time in his private room. But if Harper had taken that route, he would have missed his opportunity to hear the startup hum and quietly winding shutdown of the various mechanics that made up their plasma drive. If a mishap occurred with that particular part of the engines in the middle of the Black, they had problems. Big ones. 

	A cursory sight check accompanied the technical readout. It was one thing to trust a series of digital letters and numbers, and it was quite another to visually inspect the inner workings as they warmed up and began moving. After an indeterminate amount of time, Harper was satisfied enough with the engines to extend his trust. He could, and would, pilot this bird into the open possibilities of an uncertain universe, content that the [i]Prometheus[/i] would reliably keep them aloft. 

	Harper wiped his brow on his sleeve. How long had he been back here? It couldn't have been too long; such a diagnostic on board the [i]I.A.V. Retribution[/i] took a matter of minutes. Then again, that particular vessel was chock to the brim with the most modern electronics with redundancies on top of redundancies and a full staff to speed the process along. And to be fair, he was taking his own sweet time, enjoying the slightly retro feel of this powerplant setup. Then he looked at the readout again and realized that he had run the diagnostic at minimal output. Yeah, this could have gone faster. Still, for the first time in a great while, Harper felt at ease. Not quite happy, really. Few things could make Harper show any form of "happy" that wasn't also a little "unhinged", but he did try his best to effect a warm, winning smile. He was headed to his quarters, trying hard not to transfer grease and graphite from his hands onto his coveralls. 

	Grudgingly, he had decided to go along with the rest of the group. Initially, he would have appreciated the opportunity to have the ship to himself for a couple of hours, but the uncertainty of the day colored his thoughts. Their unwanted visitor from earlier could have been a coincidence. Or it could be a warning of things to come. Harper cleaned up and changed into a fitting pair of workman's pants, paired almost apologetically with a decent black button down shirt. Perhaps this wasn't the occasion to be seen hauling around a massive adjustable wrench, though, as it might draw more attention than a sidearm. Besides, if he attends a bar setting, Harper reasoned, there would be plenty of impromptu blunt objects to use to get his point across to others. If needed, of course. When the announcement was made over the P.A., he made his way out to the front of the ship with the growing group of his new crewmates, quietly nodding to them. He could't help but feel a little out of place.