[center][h1]Look Out Rock Bottom[/h1]
[img]https://blenderartists.org/uploads/default/original/4X/b/e/a/bea5582cbcd34576807a2c8dc0a366cc012dce65.jpeg[/img]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/NSe9TKN.jpg7[/img]

[h2]Pelorum, Day 2[/h2][/center]

Cal's world began to come into view through sleepy, blinking eyes. The sprays of brown and blonde hair in his arms and on his chest began to clear the cobwebs, then the headache struck with each beat of his heart. Harsh light from the Pelroum sun sliced through the askew slats of the bedroom window. Two forms began to shift and sigh in soprano as he extricated his limbs from the curves of their pillowy, soft flesh. 

He slipped into his trousers and buttoned his shirt, not looking back at the two sleeping, naked shapes sprawled over the bed. As he laced one boot, and then the other, he considered whether he ought to check in with SAM and Yuri, but decided against it, having nothing to show for his trip into town but a lighter purse. As he stood in the doorway, Cal permitted himself one look at last night's escapade. The brown-haired woman was petite yet buxom, her beautiful breasts moved in sleepy breaths, her face hidden in a pillow. The blonde woman was resting peacefully, curves completely uncovered by the clinging sheet, her relaxed face adorned with such pronounced brows that he had to swallow and rub his eye to banish the phantasm. No, it wasn't her. He knew it wasn't her. 

Taking the stairs of the brothel two at a time, Cal took in the sight of the place in the light. The whole thing was a solid wooden structure, with a tacky bar carved with tiki men stacked on each other's heads. Accenting the bar were brightly colored leis hung and sagging over each tiki head which parroted the 'hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil' trope, but with a hand filled with cards here, or a peeking eye there, each tiki naked and hung as the day was long. Above the bar and around the place woven palm fronds created a canopy from the accommodations above where patrons retired to sample the primary service of the establishment.

Mid-day, he judged by the sun through the windows, meant that he would need to make up for lost time. For his galavanting on the main floor, dedicated to gambling as was custom, he'd earned a tip by keeping his ears open, part and parcel to a good hand of Tall Card last night--one of his only good hands. By name, it was Duke's Junk Yard, and by rumor it had a mule or two to spare. 'Course the tip was followed up with 'My brother works there, sugar! Tell him Tina says hullo,' from the woman at his elbow, pressing her cleavage up against him. Cal considered if it weren't unwise to out Tina as his source; whore houses might complicate family dynamics, he reckoned. 

Cal tucked his hat onto his head and strode out into the street. Duke's was only a click from the spot and he was hoofing it to the sound of seagulls crying in paradise. True to form, the junk yard showed all the signs of disrepair he'd expected. Weeds wound in and among the chain link fence that lead to the arch which read "Duke's Junk," the sign pinned to the spot with rusted nails and covered in bird droppings. The double gate was open on one side, a hung sign read 'Open' on the other.

"Hullo," announced Cal to the burned out vehicles and parts of ships that lay spread among the weeds. The building wound around back where a dirt path had been worn. Once he rounded the corner to the garage he spied a man on his back beneath a jacked mule, decked in overalls and saturated in oil from knee to chest. 

"I say hullo," he repeated to the man who pushed back from his work and regarded him with a wary look. He rose, wiping his soiled hands on his thighs. Cal couldn't tell if his hands got cleaner or dirtier. 

"Afternoon," the middle-aged stranger replied, "I don't do deliveries, only haul-a-ways and scrap parts." His eyes measured Cal's expression, "Now, what brings you in?"

Pointing, Cal drew attention to the man's work, "That one there, does it run?"

The stranger turned to survey the mule. "It runs, the drive shaft needs replacing; shudders like an Quaker."

"How much as-is?" Cal removed his hat and approached the mule. It was in considerable condition, plenty of life in the chasis. The tires needed turning, by his eye, edgewear indicated it had been driven in the city, mostly. Shocks looked suitable, but the drive shaft enclosure was exposed as the man had been in the process of replacing it.

The man watched Cal appraise the mule while he produced a semi-white handkerchief and blew his nose. "Six hundred, once I button up the casing."

Strand fought the urge to balk and bit his tongue. "Six hundred, huh? Looks like it needs new tires and replacement shocks. Four-fifty and I'll take it off your hands."

Scratching his neck, the mechanic eyed the mule, then Cal. "Four-fifty..." the man hawked and spit. "For true, five-fifty is the lowest I'll go."

"Five-fifty," he wore his poker face to keep his smile at bay, the man went down now, he'd go down even further with a little push. "You know," Cal placed his hat on the mule, "I was told to say hullo for a little woman called Tina." He turned away from the man, looking again at the prize he'd soon secure.

The color drained from the mechanic's face and his mouth drew tight. "You saw Tina last night?"

"We talked while I played a hand or two," Strand said, turning his back to the man.

"Uh-huh, played a hand or two, didja?" He slapped his handkerchief on his thigh and stuffed it in his pocket. 

"Indeed, so what do you say to five-hundred even?" Cal turned back to him wearing his most charming smile.

"I say you can go fuck yourself for five-hundred, just like you did my sister."

"Hold on now," Cal raised his hands, "No such thing happened, she just mentioned your name during cards--that's all. I ain't laid a hand on your sister. I swear on my mother's grave."

"That so?" the man, probably called Duke, eyed Cal from stem to stern. He chewed his cheek and spat. "Seven-hundred and no less. If not? Get out."

Cal picked up his hat and spat, too. He needed a mule. Couldn't go back to the Doll empty handed. "Twist my arm."

"I'd like to," came the reply as he abruptly lowered the mule from its jack.

"Hold on, what about the casing?"

"I'll throw in a wrench, but you go on the street."

Cal threw off his jacket one arm at a time, casting it over the seat of the mule. Set to neutral, he wheeled the thing out of Duke's and into the weed-ridden street. Unceremoniously, the Captain crawled under the mule armed with a wrench and bolts to fasten the casing over the exposed rod.

"Oughtta known, with my ruttin' luck," the casing fit into place without a fuss. "Buddha-forsaken place like Pelorum, society of inbred [i]yīngōu shǔ[/i]," he turned the wrench which banged against the casing. "Core planet [i]la shi[/i]," casing fastened, he wriggled his way back out from under the mule. "Thing oughtta be made of solid gold for seven-hundred."

Tossing the wrench in the short bed, Cal mounted the mule and gave it a kick. It belched carbon and roared to life, a high-pitched idle to follow. From his meager knowledge, it told him he'd need the likes of Elias or Yuri to take a look and make sure the choke was situated. Thrown into gear, the mule eased forward with great vibration, and Strand tucked his hat around his ears. The waning sun lit the pot-hole ridden road back to the China Doll.

As he'd given Abby shore leave, not a soul greeted him as he rode the new mule up onto the ramp. He parked it where its counterpart had been and killed the gas, [i]home sweet home,[/i] he thought. Sans a medic and a pilot, this boat felt less like a home and more like those strapped years where his lonely needle and yoke respectively filled those posts aboard the shell of a ship. His left pinky never had set right from his own splinting as reigning medic. A captain without crew weren't captain of much. He scratched his chin and pursed his lips. 

After his bout with the nun, he was wary of finding her in the galley, but the smell from Edina's cooking drew him in, in spite of himself. He'd have a bite and chalk up meandering from vice to vice these last hours to the win column, seein' as he came back with something to show for it, leastwise. Finally, his silver case of little white soldiers had been reinforced, and he lit a smoke as he took the stairs to the galley.

"How we lookin'?" he asked of the empty cargo bay, hand covering the flame at his lip.

"Welcome back, Cal," came Sam's unprompted response from a wall speaker to his left. "Most of the crew is townside. Enjoying the sun, I imagine. Fuel reserves have been repleneshed, and the waste resevoirs have been drained."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, but didn't reply.

"Feeling any better?" her lilting tone sounded hopeful.

"I'm fine, was fine. Will be... fine," came the response, ignoring her subtext. That machine was becoming more insightful each time it spoke. [i]She[/i] spoke.

"Glad to hear it," Sam replied, unconvincingly, as her voice followed him through the aft opening to the galley.  

The Captain added, "Send a wave to Yuri. Tell 'im I'm back with a new mule, but the choke needs lookin' at and the drive shaft needs replacin'. Have Elias take a gander."

"Consider it done. Any word from Alana?" 

"No," he hesitated, arms planted on the counter, smoke curling from his cigarette. "No word."

In his debauchery the night before, he hazily remembered sending a wave, three-quarters-pissed, to the late medic. It weren't a beg or a plea, weren't no words at all, actually. Just static. Just empty static.