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[right][hr][color=white][b][b]Smith's Rest | Transit Station[/b][/b][/color]
January 16th, 2677[hr][/right][color=silver]

Dark. Cramped. Dirty. Felt just like home, but with signifigantly more leg room. Agatha Smith enjoyed the space without reservation, stretching her legs out far and wide while in her hands was a ring. It was looped through a laynard Agatha kept tucked in her jumpsuit, but with the long journey to New Anchorage, her hands were begging for something to be occupied with. The metal was actually titanium for all the effort Albert put in to make it polish like silver. Her lips curled fondly, running her fingertip along the smooth interior till it bumped upon a single blemish.

[color=teal]"A good mechanic, but he didn't have the hands for jewelry."[/color] Agatha laughed, having many hours to get comfortable with the dirth of space around her. There was something about an aged pilot that had people wary of approaching, like she was liable to either stab them or hurl shit at them. [color=teal][i]I'm not that old. Ticker's going just fine and mind's dandy.[/i][/color]

It was something she hadn't had an issue with before, snug and out of the way amidst her scrap yard. Well, formerly her scrap yard. Whoever wanted the mountains of junk was free to move in now, or so the sign she'd left said. She lingered on that thought but couldn't muster up any regrets to see it go. 

The screech of deceleration preceeded the racket of shifting metal and groaning super structure, drawing her attention to the front of the train and the new chapter of her life ready to be written on the platform. She didn't hesitate to get to her feet, grasping an overhead rung for balance as she rode out the last stretch. Turning the ring about brough forth a socketed gem, it's yellow luster convincing sweet Albert it was Topaz.

It made for a better name for their first little one then Heliodor. 

Pressing the wedding band to her lips, she let herself enjoy the coolness of her spouseness' craftsmanship before stowing the band beneath her lays of clothing, flush against her skin. Albert never would have wanted to see this, and Agatha wouldn't fault the man for his softness.[hr]

Stepping out of the train gave Agatha her first good view of the pilots now seperate from the auxillary personnal keeping everything else afloat. Her face was the very picture of wry amusement, from the minute quirk of her lips to the loose parade rest she assumed beside a rigid Solon. Mara's stiff posture and distinctive accent made her think of some of the more righteous mercenaries she'd known in the past. Sticking to their contracts like dogs with bones, mauling subordinates who threatened it with lazieness, greed, or good old fashioned incompetance. 

As the line formed she put her attention straight ahead, finding two men overseeing the disembarkment of the train with a cool detachment that implied authority. The first she dismissed as quickly as Mathew had them, while the other was a handsome man. The kind the Companies would put on a promotional poster with him behind a desk with a great, basking in the radiance of everything the corporate ladder could reward you with. 
  
Yet here was the man she'd taken the contract from. Someone either desperate or daring enough to let her on without a fuss. Michael Graham. Commander Michael Graham, if she felt like being proper.

[color=teal]"Agatha Smith. Eager to work with you."[/color] The aged pilot said to the small gathering, holding to her ease even if it set off the Solon twins. She was far too old to worry about the feelings of those almost a third her age over something so simple as an introduction. 

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