OOC: Joint post from Wandering Wolf and Sail3695 For Abby Travis, the day began feelin’ ‘bout as off as off could be. Wakin’ up in her own bunk an’ that comfortable feelin’ ever’thing was alright...til her brain kicked in an’ told her that nothin’ was what she expected. Uncle Bob, last of any kin she had knowledge of, was dead. And today, Mariposa, the boat she’d called home since she could put a meanin’ to the word, was on Persephone, ‘bout to be ripped apart by the Consolidated Spacecraft Salvage Company. Leastways they’d been kind enough to give her a lift off of Silverhold. Now that she was on her own, Persephone offered at least a chance of...somethin’. A knock sounded through the open ladder hatch above. “Ma’am? Salvage crew’s fixin’ to git started. Time to go.” [i]“Wèilái.”[/i] She strapped her duffel down tight. Next came the gunbelt, buckled firmly, the holster tip knotted down to her right thigh. After checking the Colt Navy’s target scan, she slipped the pistol into place. The long rifle was slung over her right shoulder. With the duffel swinging from the left, Abby Travis took the ladder, climbing out of the last fourteen years. She conjured right quick that if you were tryin’ to get a grip, Eavesdown docks wasn’t prone to help the matter. People seen her for what she was, a young girl on her own, obviously twixt stations. “Hey, Angel Cakes! Aw, c’mon, why you gotta be that way?” “You lookin’ fer a place? I got one for a pretty girl like you...oh yeah? Well [i]ta ma de[/i] you too...stuck up lil’ bitch!” “Hey! Kid!” Fella had fallen in beside her, walking just outside the radius of her swing. He was just a little bit taller, kinda old...not Uncle Bob old, but he had some miles on. “Who you callin’ kid?” she demanded. “Looks like you’re after a job,” the stranger replied. “I got a job if you want.” “What kinda job?” “Working on a boat,” he replied. “That’s her, right there.” Abby stopped short. The stranger had his finger pointed right at a Firefly, a Class Three. Like Mariposa...well, she had to admit that this one looked a sight better. She took in the cargo ramp and the darkened bay beyond, the two plump atmo engines. Her eye trailed up the boat’s lifted ‘neck’ until it settled upon some hand painted art. [i]China Doll,[/i] she thought. [i]Mighty fine name for a floating brothel…[/i] “No whorin, right? Don’t do no whorin’.” This amused the fella. “No whoring,” he chuckled. “Name’s Cal. Captain and owner.” “Abby.” She’d taken her eyes from him to study the Firefly once again. “She’s a Class Three. Grew up on one.” She turned her gaze toward Cal. “What yew want me to do...Cal?” He beckoned her up the ramp. “For now,” the captain said, “stow your gear. Take this.” He shoved a clipboard into her hands. “Here’s a folding chair. Take a seat down front, get us passengers, crew, cargo, anything that folk would pay for us to carry. Rates are all on that sheet. You can read, right?” She scowled. “Yes...and I can add, too. Where ya goin’?” “Supplies!” Cal called over his shoulder. “Where we goin’?” “New Melbourne...it’s on the sheet!” he shouted as the crowd enveloped him. “Welcome aboard the China Doll, kid!”