[center][h3]The Perils of Abigail Travis, Part 1 - “Road Angel”[/h3][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/WDKkmMW.jpg[/img] [/center] OOC: Next to Serenity, there is no cooler ship than Bebop. [hider=California Babylon][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuVenfL6_y0 [/youtube][/hider] She was old, and rough around the edges, but when Slack hit the throttles, Road Angel would run like a scalded dog. Of all the spaceships fondly referred to as “boat,” she was one of the few that would actually qualify. Her center hull and outboard stabilizers met the classic definition of a trimaran, designed to fill her holds with water for transport to arid, non terraformed worlds. In those days, she was known as ‘Quench,’ scraping out sustenance for her crew until high capacity haulers and soil leeching technology forced her sale. She’d been property of the Headhunters MC ever since. Refitting for cargo hadn’t been difficult. The old boat’s many crawlspaces and nooks provided numerous hideaways for smuggling. Her upper decks were subdivided to offer twelve crew cabins, leaving room for a spacious eat-in galley, a lounge area with its’ essential bar and viewscreens, and finally, an abbreviated ‘table room’ for use by the President and his lieutenants. The boat’s shuttle bay now contained eight of the MC’s orbital cycles. At present, most of their owners were sprawled on sofas in the lounge. Root and Nips were in the table room. The kid from China Doll was parked on a mattress in the mechanic’s workshop, wrists ziptied behind her back and her head encased in a dirty burlap sack. “Yeah,” Root said as he pressed the cortex reader to his ear. “They’re on their way.” “Shiny,” the MC president said. “What kinda numbers did you see?” “Just a couple guys loadin’ our cargo,” Roach answered. “Some tall dude and a dark skin looked to be the fella killed Lip.” [i]Ku,[/i] Root grunted. “You take five and saddle up. Ellsbeth’s waiting at the Rabbit. Time for her to deliver our modest proposal to our pal Hafez.” “Roger that.” Root cut the channel and set the little device down. “China Doll’s away. We’ve got an hour and a half head start, and they’ve got our guy on board.” Nips tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Still not liking what we don’t know,” her brow furrowed. “Boat like that could have a squad of gun hands and we're none the wiser.” “I take it the kid hasn’t been helpful?” “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she sighed. “We can’t even get her to spill her own name.” Root’s hands folded across his stomach. “Let Cottonmouth and the boys have a few more cracks at her. Little girl like that’s gotta be scared shitless.” “They’ve already rearranged her face,” Nips groused. “What the hell else you gonna do?” “Eh,” he shrugged, “couple more knockarounds. She’s still not playing ball, we give her to Lido.” “Root,” the lieutenant stiffened in her seat. “She’s just a kid, for fuck’s sake.” “Already got one corpse on our hands, thanks to that [i]kid’s[/i] boat. If Lido takin’ her for a test drive keeps us from losin’ any more of our folk, I’d wager that’s one cherry worth the price.” His expression softened. “Besides, I conjure one more go around with Cottonmouth and she’ll be all ready to hear you play ‘good cop,’ anyway.” “Man, I hope so.” Root lifted his cortex from the table. “I’ll take care of our numbers problem right now. If Hafez welched on us us at this end, most like the Cap City crew got screwed on theirs. I’ll get Pacho to roll out with a dozen or so…” A loud, insistent knock cut him off. “Yeah!” The door slid open to reveal Mouse, the MC’s newest prospect. Girl was a tiny thing, but she’d met all the qualifications for a full patch by working a job, swinging a piece, and pounding on three of her newfound brothers. “It’s Cheesedick,” she exclaimed. “He just got [i]gǎo zále[/i].” Root sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he traded a glance with Nips. “C’mon,” he ordered. “Let’s go.” Cheesedick had been led by his brothers to one of the lounge sofas. For all the machismo of bike culture over the centuries, watching these tough characters dither and panic over their comrade struck the president a tad bit funny. All the skills of biker medicine were being deployed upon the wounded man. Root noted the whiskey bottle and it’s much smaller mate, the narcotic drops masquerading as Schuler’s Hair Restoration Tonic. “Make a hole,” he commanded. Cheesedick lay sprawled on the couch, a fat spliff hanging from lips that couldn’t quite close to draw smoke. His entire jaw hung left, turning his mouth into a crooked, drooling maw. “Damn,” Root uttered as he examined the wound. “Either broken, or one hell of a dislocation. What happened?” “...at…ish,” the victim tried to speak “Chhhick…ne.” “Mouse?” The gang leader turned his man’s head to examine the bootheel mark now purpling along the jawline. “Translate?” “That bitch,” the prospect gestured toward the workshop. “She kicked him in the jaw.” “I see she’s still wearing her boots.” “Not any more,” Mouse replied. “Cottonmouth pulled ‘em off. He’s wailing on her with one of them right now.” Root’s eye turned toward Nips. “Better get ‘Good Cop’ in there while our bargaining chip is still breathing.” “Copy,” she replied over her shoulder.