[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/de/32/ca/de32ca1bb56ed12e256aa147a7a911c4.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Newhope Docks (Prometheus, Foy's Parlor)
[b][color=f9ad81]Skills:[/color][/b] Art, Perception [hr][/center]

	It was the dawn of a new day. Yes, a shiny new day of possibility and opportunity for a man willing to make both for himself. A man of business, say. A man like Foy. Now, opportunity was the harder of the two to accomplish, but he was in an interesting position that morning: Aboard a newly registered, previously unknown ship with a fresh crew to pass association, services contracted to a Captain (a Browncoat Captain, no less!) with a contract of her own to fulfill. His bankroll was still heavy with the take from his last Alliance job, his substantial personal "per diem", and his cut from the ship's sale. Opportunities enough could be secured with the proper influx of starting capital. But this was not his aim today. 

	Foy's opportunities lay with whatever fate this ship and its crew brought to him. Until his little mess was cleared up involving Central contacts and his family's enterprises, he was bound to the Dragonfly vessel. The Captain was forward thinking enough to have provided Foy with a room suitable to establish his own tiny piece of civilization in the midst of a uncivilized 'Verse, which he did with great care and pride. Or to put it differently, the same Barbershop he had set up on board the [i]I.A.V. Retribution[/i] was now upon [i]Prometheus[/i], though with a little less legroom. And right across from his quarters, as well! 

	[color=f9ad81]"Fortuitous indeed."[/color] he spoke aloud from the confines of his room, considering many of the possible ways his week could have gone. This wasn't too bad. Foy absently wiped a swath of condensation from the smallish mirror, a temporary annoyance thanks to his efficient yet fastidious habits of personal hygiene. But more to the point, if memory served he had a small facility with which he might see to matters of style and grooming, and just short steps spanning the walkway. 

	First, clothing! Like any man of finery greeting the day, it was of importance. For today, the Esteemed Mr. Coiffeur chose a pair of black slacks and vest, snug yet mobile, over a fine, cream colored, linen shirt. His coat of the day, or at least of the hour, was dark grey with neutral grey pinstripes, and he tied a matching silk tie into an elaborate variation of a double Windsor knot, held in place by a platinum pin. A bowler hat perched top his head; a mild formality considering that etiquette suggested that he would have to remove it as soon as he left his bunk. He did want to see how it rested upon his noble head and check its match with the remainder of his outfit. Satisfied, Foy took a look at his pocketwatch, spun it a few times on its chain, and replaced it in his vest pocket. It was still early yet, so it was just the right time to set up a pot of strong, black coffee (the kind they serve in fashionable restaurants back in Londinium) and let the scent of it bring in people to fuel his conversational rumormill. And procure optimum quality care for all of their follicle-based needs, of course. He was an artist, after all. 

	And so, as sleep began to disentangle itself from the rest of the crew, Foy took a confident step outside of his quarters, made an immediate right turn, and followed the new path a good few steps until stood at the threshold of his Brand New Parlor. He felt immediately more comfortable when he walked inside. More Foy-ish, if you will. He doffed his hat and coat, saw to his grooming while the coffee drip, drip, dripped into an elegant, handled carafe, and set out a dish of wrapped candies. [color=f9ad81]"Not a Barber, indeed."[/color] he sneered, remembering the words of the buxom, blonde grifter from the night before. [color=f9ad81]"That, and more than a mere trifle in addition, I may assure."[/color] he continued speaking aloud to the room, gazing over his lovely barber's chair and professional accoutrements. [color=f9ad81]"Now, I do wonder who, if anyone, shall avail themselves to the splendor of my attentions first?"[/color] 

	The door remained open, allowing for welcoming access and for the aroma of roast coffee to escape. 

	




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://78.media.tumblr.com/aacc1bf6f19bddf2be1fa79146201331/tumblr_inline_oc87q6XOcj1tuo575_500.gif[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Newhope Docks (Prometheus, A Private Cabin)
[b][color=008080]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][/center]

	Something seemed off to Harper. Very off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was most assuredly something about his present situation that he did not immediately understand. He could have sworn that he had removed the mattress from his bunk and set it to the side, and in fact remembered that he made it a point to do exactly that late last evening. He just couldn't seem to get a full night's sleep anymore unless he was on a hard surface. It was an awful trait to pick up, even worse as it was a souvenir from his years in the Halo. Swear as he might, he could not escape the fact that he was, in fact, on a mattress not dissimilar from the one he had removed. 

	Ordinarily, this would be an occasion for him to sit bolt upright and reach for a painful blunt object, but his heightened sense of self-preservation wasn't screaming at him. He found that very curious. So instead of opening his eyes and taking a look at his surroundings, Harper kept still and began to assess his situation. He was laying in a bed that did very little for him so far as comfort was concerned. A sheet was partially draped across him  that felt as if someone had spent a little money on it, something that he likely wouldn't have done for himself, yet despite the unwanted luxury of his sleeping accommodations, he felt incredibly relaxed. Yes, that was strange. Physically tired, as if he had pulled an all-nighter working on some engineering project or another back in the Fleet; a real endurance match to meet a deadline for a superior officer. But with a profound feeling of multiple accomplishment and a heavy, solid weight of tension removed from himself. He actually felt pretty good, mild headache aside. 

	A sense of movement nearby prompted him to roll onto his side. Harper absently thought he heard an alarm going off; not a shipwide alarm nor a proximity alert, but the type that might remind someone to wake up and tend to their duties. It passed very shortly, making his sleep-addled brain wonder if it was a product of semi-consciousness and a night of drinking. But even then, that wouldn't have made any sense. Harper ate well the previous night and kept to very low alcohol drinks, precisely to maintain his wits around new people in new surroundings. Then the gnawing thought hit him - [i]Until he got back to the ship[/i]. 

	The sound of running water finally released him from any thought concerning remaining in bed. Harper gave himself a long stretch and breathed in deeply, amused to note that the bedsheets smelled faintly of flowers. Images of smooth, tanned skin and taut muscle flooded his brain, piercing hazel eyes, and brown hair cascading around him. A wickedly satisfied smile formed on his lips, and he allowed himself to open his eyes. There was a brightness to overcome before anything came into clarity, but even before it did, he was flung fully into the waking world by a simple, two word phrase of, 

	[b]"Well shit."[/b]

	To put it in terms that Harper, as a pilot, might better understand: [i]"Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed properly, because this ride is about to get real gorram bumpy."[/i]

	Very few times in his life had Harper moved as quickly as he did just then, springing from Anisa's bed and landing on his feet, a salute forming even before he had straightened fully. It was at this moment that he realized that he was completely without clothing, and suddenly felt a little self-conscious, snatching the sheet off of the bed and holding it precariously about his nethers. It did nothing to hide the ragged, poorly healed scar across his torso, but that wasn't the majority of his concern at the moment. [color=008080]"Ah, Ma'am?"[/color] he started, very unsure as to what route he wanted this conversation to take, [color=008080]"Captain? I, um... hooo..."[/color] Yeah, this was getting him nowhere, and fast. 

	Switching tactic, Harper cleared his throat and tried again, this time in a more casual tone of voice. [color=008080]"Good morning, Ma'am."[/color] He began grabbing up articles of his clothing and his gunbelt, [color=008080]"If you would prefer your privacy, Captain, I'll straighten up out here while you grab that shower and see myself out."[/color] He didn't know if this was something that had just happened or if he had been used by her. Not that he particularly minded, not at all. But she was in a position of authority over him, and more than that, she was the only one who knew the truth about him. 

	His potential for exposure aside, now that he was fully remembering the previous night, Harper realized that he had experienced the first meaningful piece of physical human contact he had in years. Literally years. His expression changed to one of gratitude toward Anisa. He took a couple of steps toward her before he stopped himself, saying, [color=008080]"Thank you. I'll um... I'll get you some coffee from the Galley once I've cleaned up a bit. How do you take it?"[/color]