[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://goodwillwatching.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/A-million-ways-to-die-in-the-west-640x350.png[/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
[b][color=f9ad81]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

	In the traditional keeping of one properly raised in the social niceties of the grand moon of Farraday, the captain of industry and Barber Extraordinaire known to outsiders and mere mortals alike as Foy Coiffeur was sitting with perfectly maintained posture, deftly wielding a set of rather pedestrian chopsticks against the savory potency of the large yet pillowy [i]Baozi[/i], carefully cracking open the top of the mighty dumpling and dissecting the interior. He picked through this and that inside, sorting through the vegetables and appropriately sized chunks of barbecued pork almost as a surgeon might peruse the inner workings of a patient, though with a strikingly casual expression to his face. 

        He was taking advantage of the quiet moment to assess his present set of circumstances. Logically, this should be an occasion of moderate depression, stuck aboard a vessel for an indeterminate span of time with a collection of persons he would never have been in the same room with otherwise, given his social status and professional proclivities (the presence of his dear childhood friend Jahosafat aside, of course). But existing around this mismatched selection of people living their own quiet and respective desperations, their own struggles to overcome that which fate had slapped against them, if nothing else, [i]was not boring[/i]. 

        True, things had hit a bit of a lull this past handful of minutes. Reflective time was necessary. Gave one the opportunity to get one's affairs in order and take stock of the goings on and implications thereof. So, as he quietly ate his meal, it occurred to him that these people would give him an opportunity to experience life on the Rim (and Border, he was rather fond of the Border planets) from a previously unseen perspective, surrounded by people who colored it with their own intensity. And that, to his highly cultured standards, was not boring. All the same, Foy gave a small smile every so often as he glanced in the direction of their new pilot. 

	Indeed, not boring. 

        



[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.cinemablend.com/filter:scale/cb/6/4/a/b/d/a/64abda9122910e2617318cdc3d43516062ebc1ae5b880e96ddb5beadc78d4655.jpg?mw=600[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Galley/Lounge)
[b][color=008080]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

        With the only other person in the room bring uncharacteristically quiet, Harper almost felt like he was alone. Ordinarily that suited him just fine, and in fact did now to a point. Though he did feel just a little foolish with a spread out in front of him that be could never finish by himself on the most optimistic of days. He imagined that the Captain needed a bit of settling in time, though in truth he realized he wouldn't know what to imagine, seeing as he really didn't know these people at all. It was an interesting situation to be in. 

        So Harper kept to himself, idly sampling the local port fare of Newhope in the form of lightly seasoned nuts with fried basil and one ponderous looking baozi. After the first couple of bites, he began to realize that he was actually very hungry. Harper's first impulse was to take the food into a corner of the room and hunch over it protectively, horking it back as quickly as possible while keeping a hand near a makeshift stabbing utensil. Or at least consuming it as quickly and efficiently as possible before anybody noticed that he had a good, hot meal in front of him. He had to remind himself that he was not in those circumstances anymore, and forced himself to slow down some, stay in his seat, and actually enjoy his supper. Besides, if he finished up too early and called it an evening, he might miss the opportunity to be seen by the newer people. Socialization wasn't his forte, obviously. Establishing pecking order within a new group was pure survival instinct, however. 

	The Pilot formerly known as Lieutenant Harper (and presently, if Foy had his way) took a deep breath, wiped his hands on a disposable serviette, and took up his chopsticks. One piece at a time, one piece at a time. Hunger would abate soon enough. And if all he did was finish his meal quietly, with some semblance of the manners he was taught as a child, all the better. He could stand to get some rest in the relative safety of a private bunk in a ship outside of Alliance military control; he could also stand to get back in the habit of eating like a normal person. It was good for him.