[IC] Firefly - Second 'Verse

[wanderingwolf]

A Moment In Time

In the galley
assembled before the captain
the calm before the storm

This tea in my cup
Edina's calming smile
warms me in cold space

The deckhand fidgets
seats fill around the table
quiet, Abby sighs

"Have you met him--"
eyes meet eyes, a shrug
felon pilot

Heavy footfalls in
the corridor, breathe in--
stomach turns, fists ball

[sail3695]

The Welcome Wagon - Galley Meeting, Part One

OOC: Part 1 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Bugman, @Little Bill, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

Cal entered a full galley. The Sister, Abby, Edina, Elias, even Imani were all present and correct, though the looks on their faces were a cocktail of sorts. Strand wore an inscrutable expression; somewhere between that last ‘I-told-you-so’ and the somber mask he’d worn ever since Pelorum. As his gaze passed over each member of crew, the Captain pursed his lips, a herald of the silver case which was already in his palm. It ignited, a near spontaneous combustion, as the first mate–the picture of a classic jawline and fit physique–entered the room. To follow, a gargantuan tree-trunk of a man ducked as Boone crossed the threshold into the high-ceilinged galley. All eyes, including the Captain’s, were certainly glued to the China Doll’s new pilot.

Crossing to the table cigarette in his lips, Cal took a pull before gesturing toward Boone. “I’d like to introduce you to your new crew. This here’s Len Boone. He’s taken up as our pilot, and China Doll’s in good hands.” The Sister’s brow raised at the word ‘good’ from the Captain’s mouth, eyes full of those ostentatious tattoos.

“I’ll let him introduce himself,” Cal said, leaning against the table in Boone’s direction to cede him the floor.

Elias raised an eyebrow at the fellow, eventually uncrossing his arms and decided to give himself a little bit of vain hope. “My dearest gentleman, you do not appear to be of the erudite variety or of otherwise disposition that would have a reason to learn sign language, but perchance, would you know it?” Was the sentence formed in Elias’s head, and then transmitted somewhat imperfectly through his fingers. It was worth a try before writing a far more meager greeting on his card.

Edina’s eye caught the opening gesture of Elias’ response, the palm of his hand tapped twice to his chest. My, her mind reacted, drawing upon recent ASL training sessions she’d arranged with SAM. She watched as the mechanic’s hand moved upward, fingers clutching the air before a slight bow of his chin. The galley hand thought he’d signed “dear,” but there was something else there, a prolongation of the motion that left her curious.

As with any new language, sometimes discerning individual words and phrases from a native speaker’s conversation could prove daunting. She tried, her brow furrowing as occasional bits were cherry picked, You, a simple point of Elias’ index finger, was quickly followed by a negative shake of his head and arms folded across his chest. My dear…something…you don’t… but then she’d lost it. She knew he’d ended with a question, having caught know and the crook of his index finger.

And there was Yuri, offering up some sign language of his own, a subtle tilt of his head toward the Captain, followed by a more pointed glance toward the carafe and mugs in her hands. “Sorry,” she mouthed silently as she moved toward the head of the table.

The unmistakable colossal shape entering the galley drew her attention, and Imani made no deliberate effort to attempt to conceal her surprise. The reason was simple: in her mind, she’d already pictured a much smaller human on the pilot’s throne. Maybe not the same tiny frame as their previous one, but by no means had she imagined a mammoth for a counterpart. Now, the mental image was etched in her mind... The burly man hunched over the controls while the chair underneath him tried its hardest not to break apart.

Imani cleared her throat to keep from laughing, reaching for the warm cup of tea set in front of her.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The giant sheepishly said after what felt like an eternity of silence, scanning the many expressions before him. “Name’s Boone.” More silence followed, and he gave a deflated exhale somewhere between a sigh and a balloon having its air let out.

Though he had his back to the galley’s sole exit and looked to weigh about as much as Elias if he had just eaten Yuri, Boone had the body language of a frightened rabbit in a trap, holding his hands in front of himself to look as small as possible, with his head hanging low.

“Usually, on someone’s first night in Urvasi we grill ‘em with questions, so I suppose it’s my turn to answer ‘em.”

Questions. Always struck Abby funny how tha whole room’d go silent as tha grave when questions was called for. But, the deckhand conjured, when tha fella what’s askin’ for ‘em got a Cut Throat tat on ‘is neck an’ a teardrop under one eye, ain’t no mystery how folk might feel a tad bit skittish ‘bout gittin’ all up inta his business.

She took a swig from her soda, chance tah hide tha fact she’s readin’ tha room. Yuri wore a poker face, eyes down on ‘is cortex. Elias looked like he always did…pissed off. One of her books called that “resting bitch face.” Tickled her a bit, but she reasoned them scars’d wipe tha smile from any man. She couldn’t see Edina or Imani, ‘less she made a show of lookin’ at ‘em. Lyen? Sister kept an open face, but Abby had tha devil’s own time readin’ them almond eyes. Only other in her eyesight was Cap’n. She been on his crew for two and a half years now. Prided ‘erself on knowin’ tha man’s tells. There he sat, lookin’ ever’ bit tha cat what ate tha canary. She ruminated on that a spell, afore decidin’ on a question weren’t above her pay grade.

“Did they hurt?” Abby asked as her soda bottle pointed out tha new pilot’s tats. “Ain’t never got one, but I been thinkin’ I might.” A real softball, she mused. Sometimes it was good to jest be the deckhand.

“Only this one, dear.” Boone said, pointing straight to the tiny teardrop below his eye, tapping a four-fingered hand on his face. “I got it when somebody I care about happened to pass away,” He continued with all the softness of a schoolteacher in his tone, lowering his index finger to his chest, “So it hurt my heart.”

That comment cracked the porcelain visage of the nun of the Order of the Interverse, whose teacup hid the beginnings of a smile. Here, the pit fighter of a man had called Abby ‘dear,’ and had spoken with the tone one might use to speak to a cherished child. She cocked her head, taking stock a second time from behind her cup. Her chestnut, braided hair fell from her shoulder as her eyes traced from heel, the height of the man.

Placing her cup on the galley table before her, she asked, “Who was it you cared about?” The nun’s gaze glued to his shining eyes.

“Dan. Two-Thumbs Dan.” Boone said, clasping his hands in front of him and switching his gaze to look down at his own thumbs. “We’ve all got two thumbs, only Danny only had the two thumbs on account of all the mistakes he had made.” Boone smiled a silvery smile, flanking his pale eyes with a set of crow’s feet, clearly picturing some cherished memory of an old friend. “We came up together on ‘Dinium. He was a real wild card, Dan.” Boone’s smile quickly gave way to a more wistful look. “Anyway, I killed him.” Boone sniffed the air, unclasping his hands to absent-mindedly scratch his chin. There was an unnervingly casual tone of disappointment to his admission, as if he had just admitted to buying cigarettes while trying to quit. The silence in the room was somehow even stiller than before.

“That sort of thing was just a part of the life. At the time, I didn’t really feel like I had a choice when they told me to.” He looked up and met Lyen’s gaze for the first time, his tone now barely above a whisper. “But I did have a choice, sister. And I’ve spent twenty-four-and-a-half-years sittin’ on that choice, and a lot worse choices than that, just trying to get a little closer to heaven one day at a time.”

A sonata played in Elias’s head as he zoned out listening about things like tattoos which he pretended to not find cool, and also pretended to not hear the tone in the voice that also very clearly found them cool. Instead, he wrote on his card. “DOES MR BOONE HAVE RECOGNIZED QUALIFICATIONS FOR FLIGHT?”

“Just over twenty years of sim-flying.” Boone said, giving a nod to his enshrouded crewmate. “Mr. Cal didn’t put much stock in it ‘till I took off.” Under normal circumstances Boone would have asked about his covered face, though these seemed far from normal circumstances for the giant.

Jesus Christ the insurance premiums. was the thought that immediately went through Elias’s head. He wouldn’t bring that up here, he was raised too politely. But he’d have to talk to the Captain or one of the other crew that could be described as a crafty ne’erdowell about coming up with some sort of scam to not suddenly have any company automatically assume the ship is about to crash at any moment and adjust payments accordingly. For now as these new thoughts flooded in he’d let the next question go.

…TO BE CONTINUED...

[Xandrya]

The 411 - Galley Meeting, Part Two

OOC: Part 2 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Bugman, @Little Bill, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

Dear.’ Strike One. Leastways he didn’t call ‘er ‘Sweetie.’ Abby mighta tried tah bust some silver outta Boone’s mouth if he done that.

She’s ‘bout tah call Fèihuà on tha whole ‘somebody-done-died-an-hurt-my-heart’ spiel til he come clean an’ fessed up tah doin’ tha killin’ hisself. Abby had no truck with that. Killin’ was killin’. Ain’t nobody lived in tha black weren’t on reg’lar terms with folk bein’ kilt. Hell, she’s fifteen when she popped a pair ‘o’ Reavers her own self. She din’ know why Boone killed that Dan with them thumbs. Weren’t none ‘o’ her business.

But who’s flyin’ tha boat she’s in? Uh….yeah! That was a matter of some concern…’specially when it sounded like Cap’n signed off real easy like on a man ain’t never actually done tha thing. No need tah come tha acid with Boone. Instead, she fixed ‘er eyes on Cap’n, hopin’ fer all tha world he might conjure a great big WHAT THA SAM HILL YAH THINK YER PLAYIN’ AT? reachin’ his way across tha table.

Straightening up on her chair, Imani took a quick glance around to gauge the reactions of some of her fellow crewmates. “Well, we’re happy you’re with us, Boone,” Imani spoke up, offering as sincere of a smile as she could muster. “As long as you get us to each location in one piece, there won’t be any quarrels ‘tween you and I.” She took another sip of her tea before replacing the cup on the table. Here was to Strand exceeding the expectations of his captainly duties.

Yuri’s eyes were focused on the little screen in his hands. 3 meter aluminum truss, 90 pieces, he scanned the list. 6 way corner blocks, 12 pieces, weldable hinge plates, 26 pieces. He hadn’t been watching the crew, but the overall tone of conversation had remained easy. He’d heard the strike of Elias’ marker to his white board without follow up to Boone’s answer, as well as questions from Lyen and Abby. 6 chain hoist, 2 ton capacity, 32 exploding bolts @ 12.7mm. He followed the quote line for line, nodding contentedly, until a substitution request caught his eye.

Laser weld pkgs are out of stock. I have 4 EB7 kits. Acceptable?

Electron beam welders weren’t quite as friendly or quick as their laser counterparts, but he and Elias would have no trouble handling them. Both Cal and Abby were at least nodding acquaintances with spot welding, so they could be brought up to speed. EB7’s are fine, Yuri’s thumbs tapped out the response. Got an addition, he continued. Do you have any XXL flight chairs?

Cal Strand, still leaning against the galley’s table, watched the eyes of the crew as they took Boone up on his offer for answers. Abigail’s reaction brought a smirk to his face, behind the stoked ember of his cigarette. He read her message loud and clear, but he couldn’t help but feel tickled at the red rising in her eyes.

‘Til this point, the Captain had been listening as a bystander, but he did have a curiosity to voice. Turning in his lean, Strand met eyes with the pilot. “What’s with all the crossin’ and prayin’? You some sort of Shepherd on the side? We already got one ‘holy’ body onboard, and this boat can only take so many morals.” Over his shoulder, Cal shot a wary glance at Sister Lyen who met his gaze with a sincere smile. Strand quickly returned his attention to Boone.

Boone shook his head with a sheepish smile. “No sir, Mr. Cal, I’m no Shepherd.” He shifted in his boots once more, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words, pausing for a few moments before continuing.

“I did a lot of nasty things to people. No two ways about it. Left me with a lot of nasty memories when I went in and not much else. Sittin’ on all that nastiness, with nothing to do but reflect on it, day in and day out…” He shrugged, casually tossing his hefty hands in the air, “The only way I could forgive myself was to find out that I had already been forgiven. A long time ago, on a far-away desert on another planet, by a savior willing to die for what he knew I’d do.” He sighed, looking past the captain at some unseen memory. “That was the only way I could really reflect in the mirror and not smash it, I s’pose.”

Well, that’s that. Abby seen ‘erself on tha losin’ end agin. Capn’s lookin’ at ‘er over his cigarette like she’s tha butt of ‘is joke or sumpin’. Man had a way ‘o’ bein’ one arrogant sumbitch an’ takin’ pleasure seein’ her git tweaked. For sure they’s more tah this lil’ story…jest enough tah please him watchin’ his deckhand all lathered. Yeah, she conjured, he got me agin. Droppin’ her expression from ‘volcano’ tah ‘one eyebrow cocked,’ Abby leaned back in ‘er chair an’ emptied ‘er soda.

She’s ‘bout tah cut loose a powerful belch ‘til Edina give her tha eye. Abby thought tha world of Edina, ‘cept fer times like this when she gits all ‘Big Sister.’ Figgers, she mused all glum like as she swallowed tha burp. Ole Cut Throat there jest sweet talkin’ ever’body an’ I’m tha one’s gotta mind muh manners…

The room had gone quiet. Absorbed as he was in the developing equipment manifest, Yuri had taken no notice, until the nudge of a foot upon his ankle roused him from his study. Edina met his eye with arched brows and a slight incline of her head toward the Captain. Cal’s eyes delivered his order with crystal clarity.

Wrap this up.

“Um,” Yuri’s mouth fell open, “right. You’re all gonna have plenty of time to get to know Mr. Boone, but we’ve got a job to prep. Elias, Abby,” he turned to face the mechanic and deckhand, “after we’re done at the Skyplex, the three of us are gonna spend a lot of time in EV suits. Make sure you’ve got one fitted and QC’d.”

The first mate’s attention fixed upon both China Doll’s new medic and her galley hand. “Imani, Edina,” he continued, “we have to stock heavy. Conjure up your shopping lists to keep us for two months.”

That startled the crew. As he lifted a hand to quiet the galley, Yuri read surprise, alarm, even consternation. More intriguing was the keen excitement projected from two pairs of eyes. “Doc,” the colloquialism nearly tripped his tongue as he tried it out for Imani, “if one of ours gets hurt or sick, we’ll be weeks away from any dirtside med. You’ve got leeway to beef up the medbay to handle more serious stuff. Think on it, and let’s sit down before we make the Skyplex. Edina,” Yuri glanced her way, “You need to load us up on protein paste and foodstuff bars. Captain’s signed off on real coffee, the tea you like, and your favorite sodas, so everyone tell Edina what you want. But here’s the kicker.”

He paused. Once certain of everyone’s attention, Yuri said, “a Skyplex is nothing but eyes and ears. Everything we’re picking up would look normal for anyone provisioning a mining camp. That’s our story, if anyone tries to play twenty questions.” He tucked the little cortex reader into his pocket as he continued. “Most pirates won’t want to mess with all the heavy metal we’re loading. But if they get wind we’re hauling extra food and meds, that makes us a sexy target…which is why we’re gonna buy our provisions in dribs and drabs. Every one of us,” Yuri’s eyes swept the table, “will get a grocery list to take care of…pilot and mechanic included.”

He rose from his chair. “There’s a powerful lot we’re not telling you right now, but we will…once the Skyplex is in our wake. ‘Til then, get your preps and lists started for a long haul. Abby, let the passengers out to play.”

Yuri watched as the crew all stood. Abby was the first to leave, her face a tumble of emotions as she made for the stairs. From the others he read curiosity, reticence, intrigue. The tall mechanic’s eyes broadcast a deepening interest over word of his upcoming EV. “Boone,” he caught the hulking pilot on his way to the cockpit. “You’ve got your course to the Skyplex. We’ve got an extra fifteen percent of fuel beyond reserve for this run. You’re clear to get some maneuvering practice while we’re under way.”

China Doll’s crew dispersed, leaving Yuri to follow the Captain to his quarters, and some serious discussion.

[Xandrya]

Dirty Dishes

The duties that’d been delegated worked quite beautifully in her favor. The captain wouldn’t allow Imani free reigns over her position—understandably a CYA matter—therefore asking Edina for some help to come up with a list would show her willingness to cooperate and work well with others, even though she much preferred otherwise. The crew began to stagger out, and Imani grabbed the chance to rinse out her cup.

“Make that list later, yes?”

Imani walked past Edina with a smile as she was heading in the opposite direction with the rest of the crew. She pulled the faucet open and let the water run over her fingers for a moment.

"Not like that, you’re doing it wrong!” Her caretaker at the time snatched the dish from her hands and hurled it against an adjacent wall, startling a young Imani. “You left a dirty spot!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Imani began to retreat back to her room. She didn’t get far though, not with Emmanuel hastily moving to block her path. She didn’t dare look up at him and only focused on his scuffed up work boots. “I apologize, I didn’t mean...” Imani struggled to find the right words, hands nervously tugging at the hem of her white dress. It was then she felt herself getting yanked up by the arm and roughly dragged towards the back patio door, making her desperately plea for him to do otherwise. “No—please please, no!” At only nine years old, there was practically nothing she could do to defend herself from him.

“Shoulda learned better from Lena..." Emmanuel responded matter-of-factly.

Lena was his wife, his partner for supposedly a lifetime. She was nothing like him, and their union oftentimes left Imani to wonder why she would be with someone like him. Lena was loving, patient...all the qualities of a good parent. They never had any children, and that’s why they'd agreed to look after Imani. However, when she wasn’t around, Emmanuel would take out whatever frustrations were troubling him on Imani. Not that she would tell Lena either way as Emmanuel would remind Imani they could just as quickly get rid of her if she were to say something.

“Please, you did this yesterday!” Her trying to break from his grasp was futile. Imani tried to dig her heels into the ground but that only led to scratched knees as she was pulled so hard, her shoulder could have very easily dislocated. With Lena being away for work, Imani started to desperately cry knowing she would not be okay for a few days. That angered Emmanuel even more as he shoved her into the shed. Imani lost her footing and fell, her head hitting the wall. She finally looked up at him as he closed the door on her and locked it shut. She sat in complete darkness, a trembling hand reaching for the achy spot on her head.

Imani already knew the terrain so to speak, being she was locked up plenty of times before. It was a bit of a struggle to get to her feet but she eventually got there, feeling the wall as she pushed forward towards the sink to wash her face.

Her mind then changed, and Imani left the cup on the counter. She no longer had a smile on her face as she made her way to her quarters.

[sail3695]

History Lesson 3: “Survivors’ Guilt”

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

From Let’s Learn History! Grade 3

…”The arks carried all the people from Earth-That-Was for a long, long time, over 100 years! If you were a new baby when the journey began, your grandchildren would be very old when they arrived in our new home.”

From Foundations in Alliance History - Grade 12

…”While the arks carried a substantial portion of Earth’s population to the new system, there were other vessels that followed in the journey. Conditions aboard those ships could be harsh. Some didn’t survive the rigors of a 125 year spaceflight.”

From The Eternal Voyage: The Lost Generation Fleet - Banned

…”Due to the physics of inertia in spaceflight, these ‘ships of the dead’ kept pace with their living counterparts, a vast, traveling graveyard that over time hindered navigation and forced the use of precious fuel in collision avoidance burns. When the time came for the designated course correction burn to intercept the terraformed worlds of Londinium and Osiris, many ships of the following fleet lacked sufficient fuel. Some fared well, choosing pre terraformed worlds on which to land and await possible rescue. Others lost the gamble, and were subsequently doomed to join their counterparts of the ‘Graveyard Fleet’ for an unending journey.”

…………………………

For a humanity now spaceborne, the first few years were dreadful. Year One of The Migration saw an astonishing death toll. Most casualties were those whose only choice to escape their fate on Earth was a berth aboard one of the thousands of vessels ill suited for a 1.25 century voyage. The first ‘Mayday’ calls came after only a week, mechanical and structural failures outweighing the wishful thinking of those who cast their lots in the ragtag flotilla. As weeks became months, once optimistic supply manifests were reduced to ever more draconian rationing. When a vessel’s food, water, or oxygen reached critical levels, their fate was broadcast via the now customary SOS call.

The cruel truth not taught in history classes was that none of these cries for help was ever answered.

This willful ignorance was based in sound reasoning. In space, the old adage about “turning the battleship” is made exponentially more costly and difficult. The first challenge to a would-be rescuer would be their own fuel consumption. The acts of changing course and implementing acceleration/deceleration burns would greedily consume resources sorely needed for the final maneuvers at voyage’s end. The actual rescue itself was fraught with danger, from two vessels maneuvering in close quarters at speeds beyond 20,000kph to the crewmembers who’d be forced to traverse the void between them. Of course, supply was the most insidious hurdle. Those rescued and their eventual progeny would spend the rest of the voyage consuming their savior vessel’s food, water, and oxygen. Long story short, a rescue attempt could very well be a death sentence for the rescuer.

Many bridge crew personnel suffered neurological trauma, relative to the ongoing litany of exceedingly desperate distress calls. For those tortured souls, relief did not come when a ship would eventually fall silent. One had only to glance at the radar screen, or in some cases, look through a viewport to witness the fate of their fellow travelers. The corpse ships would glide along their course headings, a ghostly reminder of unanswered distress calls that drove many a conscientious survivor to madness.

Most of those afflicted fell into deep bouts of depression. More serious cases retreated into delusional thought, manic judgment, or suicidal tendencies. Some lapsed into a wanton depravity that present day Alliance officials are quick to point toward as counterpoint to the assertion that their Miranda experiments might have created Reavers.

Though it is rumored that some records of the Graveyard Fleet exist, the Alliance firmly refutes this claim.

[Xandrya]

No Flyin’ Solo

JP/Collab between @wanderingwolf and @Xandrya. Scene set sometime prior to the galley meeting.

It’d been a spell since that fateful night on Pelorum–he’d put it completely out of his mind. In fact, he hadn’t touched mango wine at all for fear of the specters it might conjure. No, instead, the Captain had decided nothing but whiskey, scotch, and bourbon would do–and it would do just nicely to drift off into oblivion when his head and his heart were at odds. There was only one person there who stood as witness, one shoulder who had stood resolute and made calls he was in no fit state to make.

He’d been meaning to express his thanks, served cold as they were these many ticks later, to the woman herself, and that’s the very reason which drew the Captain to the infirmary. His knuckles rapped on the door frame, their custom and his motorized memory. Cal strode into the infirmary to find Imani there, busy with something or other, and that suited him just fine. When he’d hired her on, he had in mind the particular feats of strength she’d shown full-boar in that bar-brawl-turned-tussle that she could handle herself, replete with a knife to boot. He cocked his head to the side just to take in a general assessment of how many sharp objects might be within reach of the abundantly capable woman. Pure curiosity. Nothin’ he was going to say ought cause ire, but he’d never really drawn a bead on what put a woman in a state.

Cal cleared his throat, “Imani, might I have a word?” he asked, sidling opposite her, the treatment bed between them.

"Uh oh," she smiled, not diverting her gaze away from her still arm laid out in front of her and now pointing towards the captain. Imani was currently applying disinfectant foam to a cut that'd occurred maybe 20 minutes prior. Some scrap of metal she wasn't paying much mind to slashed her as she went on by. Given the stitching was expertly done already, she now was focusing on the final touches. "If it's bad news just give it to me straight, don't beat 'round the bush." His tone of voice was neutral; no use reading into it. "If it's 'bout me dirtying up yer boat with a drop or two of blood, well she started it,"

Imani placed the bottle aside and looked up at Cal. "How may I be of assistance?"

“No bad news, least not today. Now, wouldja look at that! Looks like a mean cut. You say the Doll gave you that? Oughtta get Elias to smooth out what caught-ya.” He clicked his tongue as he leaned in a mite to take a look. Cal’s brow raised when, to his surprise, the lack of medic aboard hadn’t resulted in a Frankenstein-esque array of stitches, but a neat row of tightly-tucked laces on Imani’s forearm. He whistled, “Where’d you learn to stitch yourself up like that?” Cal asked, lips pursed.

“Hold on, before you answer that, I actually came down here because it’s been a tick since Pelorum, but I haven’t forgotten.” He stood up straighter now, to look Imani in the eyes. “What you did for me back there is somethin’ I’m not likely to forget. Thank you. Made a call when I couldn’t, and your gut steered you right. Even got me to the China Doll in one piece.” He leaned over her arm again, “Now as to why she’d want to go and do a thing like this, I’m vexed.” Idly, his hand reached for the bottle Imani had set aside to read the label. Disinfectant, he mused, she knows her way around both sides of a knife, I wager.

“Losing a partner’s only accompanied by a great deal of pain, especially when it’s sudden, no warning…no nothing. Just figured ya needed the support during such unfortunate circumstances.” Imani, then satisfied with the work on herself, pulled the bandaged arm closer to the rest of her. “And just so you know,” she added, shifting the conversation. “since you’re ‘er captain, I’ll hold ya to this not happening again.”

That got a chuckle from Cal as she eyed him. He raised his hands in surrender, “Ship’s alive, in more ways than one. You got to square with her yourself.”

Imani got on her feet to clean up after herself. "Very keen eyes you got there too." Imani had her back to him putting away some items she'd used. Somehow, she was feeling reluctant to let him know another one of her skills. She felt it to be a touchy subject given the doctor's recent passing. "I apply no drunk stitches ‘cause I've been trained not to. I'm no means a doctor, but I can do more than slap a bandage on your pi gu. Cal, if you’ll allow it, I can fill in here until you find yourself another doctor…whatcha say?” Imani turned to face him.

That request caught him out, eyes frozen where he was looking, mouth agape–but only for a moment. Recovering, the Captain circled the infirmary, checking the state of things. The space was clean and orderly, tools and tinctures were in their places; Imani had kept things clean since… since their last medic. That’s what she was becoming now, Alana, the ship’s last medic. It was less complicated that way. Cal turned toward Imani.

“The place looks good,” he paused. “Said you’ve been trained, whereabouts?” He leveled his eyes with hers.

“Ah, well, I did my time as a squad medic for a few years.” She came back around, settling across Cal once more. “A lieutenant of mine gave me plenty of training and I gained some field experience but course, I could never measure up... If needed, I’m able to fix someone up temporarily, though any extensive and long-term care is out of my reach I’m afraid.” Imani let her gaze fall to the deck. “Never brought it up cause there was no need, y’know?”

“We got need now. Squad medic, huh? Was that with the Brown or the Purple?” his eyes were steely.

“I was a browncoat,” Imani responded, feeling almost as if she were in the hot chair. Clearly the captain held strong beliefs, and who could blame him.

Strand nodded, “Either way, folk need to be stitched up, and lookin’ at your work, I reckon you’ve got the chops. If you do this, it’ll be on top of what you got on your plate, you hear? When a body needs fixin’, you’re Jane-on-the-spot, otherwise, it’s business as usual. Shiny? Talk to Yuri and he’ll settle your share, plus extra as you’re needed in here.”

“I’m glad you’re open to this, just figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a temp until we find a proper replacement…and I promise not to overstep. If I may just ask for your complete trust when I make my decisions, I’d be beyond thankful. I’ve gone on with full blown arguments and it nearly cost a life therefore I’d rather not repeat.”

Complete trust–he shook his head. Such a thing Strand reserved only for his own two hands. “This here’s my boat, and on my boat I reserve the right to question, veto, and kibosh anythin’ I cotton to. Since you’re fillin’ in on stitches and scrapes, here, that’s your wheelhouse. When the ante gets upped, and there’re lives on the line, you pull in a body. You don’t fly solo, hear?” Cal’s face had hardened, but now he arched a brow, “That Sister; I reckon she might have some experience. Ask her to help you out.” His brown eyes were still on hers, watching for comprehension.

“I meant-” a sigh of defeat replaced the words that would follow. Imani thought on what he’d said for a moment, knowing his mind was fixed on his decision. She had no blame to place on him, the loss of Alana had hurt him beyond suffering the loss of his love. “Two heads are better than one if she happens to have the right kinda knowledge. I’ll chat her up with the idea, I’m sure we’ll make a mighty fine team here in the med bay.”

Imani couldn’t conjure up what else to say, anything to ease him up. She began to make her way towards the door to go searching for Sister Lyen.

The Captain watched Imani’s back fade from the infirmary. He’d come to say thank you; he’d come to say he’d been a leaf in the stream at that moment, and she was the wind; he’d come to put his hat in his hands. He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

Whether he’d communicated any of that, he wasn’t sure. Imani was bright. No doubt, she’d make a good medic. No doubt, he could trust her. So why did he sour her ask? Because he was the Captain of his own ship. Because, now and probably ever, he could only trust himself. Because it was easy to grandstand, if he was being a mite honest.

And so it was to an empty medbay that Cal straightened his lean, alone with the ghosts, and uttered, “Dismissed.”

[sail3695]

”The Courtesy of a Reply…"

“Gorram it.”

The draw weren’t feelin’ right, like her whole body done fergot how. Truth be told, Abby ain’t had practice in a coon’s age, and brother, did it show. She’s still fast, leastways to her own thinkin’, but with each draw before her mirror the deckhand conjured just how much she’d left the muscle to atrophy. Her right shoulder’s dippin’, one of the worst tells to anyone might choose to square up with her some day. Gotta calm that la shi right down, she pondered as Daddy’s Colt slipped back inside the holster.

”Ye gotta be loose, Chick Pea.” Uncle Bob told her that a thousand times. ”It’s like what them monks an’ nuns call meditation. Ye gotta clear yer head til they’s nothin’ left but yew, yer pistol, and the fella done been stupid enough to call ye out.”

She waved her arms a spell, slippin’ ‘em out like she’s balancin’ on a tightrope. Abby crooked her neck, tryna summon the sort of limber she knowed she had. ‘Cept it weren’t comin’. Meditation…maybe I should ask Sister Lyen about that, Way she figgered, gettin’ ‘er head right was tha whole sitchiation. And it weren’t no mystery what had her nickers in a twist.

<TJinks>:
Hey, can we talk?

After so long silent, seein’ his message at first robbed all common sense outta her. She opened it soon’s her cortex pinged its’ arrival…before remembrin’ he’d git word she done seen it. Abby’s still cringin’ over herself when Thomas’ next wave hit.

<TJinks>:
I miss you.

She let two days pass with no reply. Not that she ain't wrote one…or three…or six, afore deletin’ each. She wanted to rage, tear inta him with a buzzsaw of harsh words. She wanted ta hear him apologize, tell ‘er how wrong he was fer goin’ silent so gorram long. She wanted tah remind him that she’s a growed woman and she’d make ‘er own choices, thank yew very much. But underneath it all, Abby wanted most to hear his feelin’s. He said he missed ‘er. Well, that was kinda goin’ the direction she hoped.

But no way was she just gon’ go runnin’ back now he had a mind tah pallaver.

First she thought was tah make him wait a spell. Seemed only fair, after all tha weeks an’ weeks he done left her waves hangin’. But as days went by, she come tah conjure she couldn’t know how her silence measured on him, but it sure as hell was playin’ Merry Hob with her equilibrium.

That, and Alana, the girl reasoned as she slipped outta her gunbelt. China Doll just seemed all dumbstruck by the doc’s passin’. Nobody talked about ‘er, leastways not in sense of some kinda memorial. It’s jest like she’s never a part of tha crew tah begin with, and deep down, that weren’t sittin’ right with Abby. Folk come an’ go in tha ‘verse. How many times had she held ‘er own feelin’s in check with that old sayin’? She weren’t thinkin’ tah argue tha wisdom of it, seein’s how she could count plenty folk left China Doll over the two and a half years she worked aboard. Pen left tah reunite with ‘er pa. Rex joined the bikers what had kidnapped her. Hook? Man had demons tah smoke out.

But they’re all alive, she mused. Alana’s gone forever…and it’s like nobody’s allowed to say goodbye or feel sad about it. It was then that one of them connections snapped home in Abby’s head. So I’m not talking, she realized, about Alana, or to Thomas…and all I’m doing is hurting me.

The truth of that couldn’t be denied. She sat down on ‘er bunk, beside tha pistol and gunbelt, her mind connecting the dots between issue and resolution. As she thought on it, her eye traced them captures of ‘er fam’ly taped onta tha bulkhead. They was all there, tha folk she loved, mem’reis and bonds explained through a rainbow of colorful chalk connections. It was then she got her idea. Don’t need to talk about Alana, the girl’s expression brightened, not when there’s a better way to remember her.

With a freshening resolve, Abby took on her next vexation. The cortex reader slipped into her hands. Her thumbs went to work on a fresh response. This time, she sent it.

<Abn8r>:
What do you want to talk about?

This time, Thomas didn’t make her wait. Weren’t more’n a minute before he banged out a fresh wave.

<TJinks>:
About how I’m a real idiot for puffing up and trying to tell you how to manage. When you shared the pic of all your bruises I just went all ‘male gorilla.’ I’m really sorry, Abby.

“Puffin’ up.” Seemed like the first time in forever that Abby smiled. She dashed off a response.

<Abn8r>:
I conjure you were feeling protective. Next time, let me tell you when I need a hero?

<TJinks>:
Shiny. My sister said the same thing while she was whacking me with a dead mackerel.

That got Abby gigglin’. The Jinks fam’ly must be out on another fishin’ run.

<Abn8r>:
Tell her to hit you one for me.

<TJinks>:
How about we save future assault and battery for the next time you’re back on New Melbourne?

<Abn8r>:
Deal.

She checked the time. ‘Bout three hours left til they docked at tha Skyplex. Her chores was all done, an’ the passengers was just fed, so Abby had some time tah kill. Judgin’ by tha way he’s tryin’ tah catch up, so did Thomas. As she traded wits an’ stories with him, Abby come tah realize that her world was brightenin’ right up.

[sail3695]

Prepare for Docking, and Other Double Entendres

“Lesson Number One. If it can move, it will.” During their time together in China Doll’s galley, Hook made double certain that if she learned nothing else, Edina had that one down pat. On a boat in space, loose objects weren’t just a nuisance; they could be downright catastrophic. And the galley, with its’ heavy pots and pans, not to mention all manner of things with pointy ends and stuff that would make even more pointy ends if it broke, was a whole passel of catastrophes just waiting to happen.

And so, Edina was careful. During his tenure as cook, Joe Hooker had meticulously organized the galley, his vision taking not only the sense of utility, but also an abiding respect for safety. Each pan and utensil had an outline drawn to indicate its’ place in the cabinets. He had taken pains to secure these objects by means of bungee loops anchored into shelves and trays. His pupil was only too glad to continue the practice.

“This is your friendly galley girl,” Edina piped up on the shipwide comm. “The galley is officially closed until after we’ve docked at Little Moriah Skyplex. There are sodas and bottled water in the cooler. If you’re jonesing for just one more cup of coffee…I’m looking at you, Captain…you’ll find a fresh pot in the thermos, next to some paper cups. And maybe, if you ask me real nice, you might just get a cookie or two. Thank you for flying China Doll!” she quipped before cutting the mic.

“Hey, Galley Girl!” Yuri stood across the serving counter, fixing Edina with a good humored smile. “I take it I missed lunch?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You take that right. Where’ve you been?”

“With Elias,” he set the clipboard down. “Giving him the lowdown on the truss cage.”

Ah, the infamous truss cage, Edina recalled silently. She was nigh on certain he’d managed to successfully talk everyone’s ear off about that little piece of engineering. Especially hers. Edina wouldn’t ever say that Yuri had become insufferable, but when she found herself kissing him just to shut him up, she had to admit that she was more than a little worn out with the topic. After making a silent promise to thank Elias for his service, she replied, “Sorry, but we’re all scrubbed and buttoned up for docking. If I’m honest, I think Boone ate your portion, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” the First Mate observed. “Seein’s he’s still a growing boy and such.” He then met her eyes once again. “You said there were cookies?” he asked hopefully.

China Doll’s Galley Chief folded her arms. “I said there might be cookies.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Boys who can’t remember to make it for lunch usually don’t qualify.”

Yuri chuckled, “I see,” he gave a nod and a lift of an index finger. “The punishment for not eating is…not eating some more? That about sum it up?”

“Perfectly,” she answered, flashing her ‘this is me picking on you’ grin.

He appeared to think on that. Presently, Yuri turned. “Can we work out something? Favor for favor? A barter, maybe?”

Edina crooked her finger. “Follow me,” she smiled, before stepping inside the pantry. “Get the door.”

“Uhhhh,” Yuri hesitated. “What are we doing?”

“You want my cookies,” Edina teased, “you gotta give me your cookies.”

“I am totally lost here,”

She heaved a sigh which lifted a stray wisp of hair. “If Abby was here, she’d say something like, “That thar was one ‘o’ them double entendrees, yah dumbass!”

“Oh…OH!” Yuri finally caught wise. “Thank Buddha she’s not here!”

Edina’s hand shot out of the pantry, grabbing Yuri by the collar. “Come here,” she ordered, before yanking the First Mate inside.

[wanderingwolf]

The Sacrifice at Moriah

In the Black on the way to Skyplex “Little Moriah”

JP from @Wanderingwolf and [@little-bill]

There is a calm in open space–in nothing but the winking stars light years away that lulled the captain. Out in the black there was space to think, to plot a course, but Cal wasn’t considering bearings for the China Doll. Just like the Doll floating in the dead of space, Cal felt the same floating feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t like it.

Hands folded at the back of his neck, boots resting on the console from the Captain’s chair, Strand considered his only viable anchor: the job ahead of them. Yuri had done a bang-up job with his requisitions, from the report Cal had carefully scrutinized. He was every bit the best first mate the Doll had ever seen. Yuri’s sense of no-nonsense felt like an extension of his own, he thought, nodding. Where they had differed on the pilot Cal had plucked from prison was an open issue, but Strand knew his mate would come around.

Speaking of, Boone had lumbered off for a break, saying something about Edina’s fare being mana from heaven. It had given the Captain time to drift and think. Which turned to stewing.

Cal asked the empty bridge, “Sam, you there?”

“Always, Cal,” the AI’s tone was comforting and chiding at the same time. “What can I do for you?”

“Take a gander at Little Moriah, for me? I wanna know about any surprises that might spring up–cause any delays.”

“What kind of delays are you worried about?” Came that lilting, Bostonian accent in response.

“Old friends, new enemies, a postmaster with a grudge, Alliance presence. That sort, shiny?”

“I’ll need some time to check all the variables,” Sam’s voice betrayed a digital cadence through the matter-of-fact response emanating from the bulkhead com.

Cal scratched the back of his neck, “Fine.”

The stars were blinking in a pinkish, red nebula out the viewport. “Feels like the calm before the storm,” he muttered to himself, hearing Boone approaching the bridge.

“Ahoy, cap’n.” Boone said, holding a small bundle of cookies with the bottom half of his shirt the way a child might carry more treats than they can hold. For all his stomping and looming, sometimes even Cal could briefly forget the massive pilot had just spent the better half of his life in a cell. The cookies themselves were pucks of powdered protein bars and malt-flavored syrup, but Boone seemed to think they were ambrosia the way he tucked them away. By now, Boone no longer wore the gray prison uniform he had arrived in – that had been ceremoniously jettisoned into the black weeks ago – but instead, a previous passenger’s polo shirt that had been left behind after being stretched and dyed pink in the laundry, and an old extra-large boilersuit that had been untouched in the back of the China Doll’s cargo bay for years.

“You want a cookie?” He asked, extending his shirt-basket towards the captain.

The Captain turned his head to regard the gigantic pilot; the blank expression on his face holding as his eyes darted from Boone’s eyes to his shirt and back again. A quick jerk of his head was all the response he offered. The man certainly had his quirks, as Cal and crew had begun to learn. A little bit of hoarding, a dash of disregard for his presentation–save that orientation toward the color pink–even a bit of humor which struck a strange chord, given the face of the comedian.

Strand abandoned his posture and set to scanning his console. In the display, the radar ping of Little Moriah rapidly gained size out on the edge of the screen, but nothing showed out the eyes of the China Doll. Cal turned a few knobs to dial in measurements before relaying to his pilot, “Looks like Little Moriah’s within range at one A.U. You ready to bring her in?” His glance and arched eyebrow said something akin to: ‘Put down the cookies and pick up the yoke’ but he let the question stand.

In contrast to Cal’s tone, a lilting, feminine voice echoed from the comm in Boone’s bulkhead, “We’re in range of comms with Little Moriah’s docking control, Boone. Have you hailed a station’s traffic controller in your simulations?” Her question sounded inquisitive with no subtext to indicate anything other than a genuine question.

Boone chuckled softly, a hint of nerves underlying his usual jolliness. "Of course, dear! If there’s one thing they made sure we knew at prison, it was protocol," he responded, nodding to his invisible copilot. His fingers danced over the console, years of simulated flight having etched basic control inputs such as engine checks and hailing frequencies into muscle memory – and for a man of Boone’s size, this left a great deal of room for such memories.

As he guided the China Doll closer towards Little Moriah, a shiver of nerves went down his spine like electricity. For all his expertise in flying the old Firefly, he had only needed to go through the motions of piloting aboard the China Doll until now, he realized. A virtual stationmaster only had so many responses, and a failure to respond correctly had only ever meant a restart – the crew had been in the black for too long to consider any kind of “restart” on a new pilot’s behalf, and that was if they had enough fuel to turn around and dock elsewhere, which was far from the case. The station was only breaking into view, and already, it loomed over Boone’s mind.

“Mr. Cal, are you familiar with Moriah’s significance in the good book?” Boone asked, fixing his eyes on the skyplex in the distance.

“Can’t say that I am,” the Captain had his eyes glued to the console and bulkhead looking busy, shoulders tensing. Pursing his lips, Strand gave in, “But I reckon you’re gonna tell me anyhow…”

“It’s a mountain on Earth-that-was where God tested Abraham’s faith, by having him bring his only child Isaac and telling him to sacrifice him.” Boone said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixing on the skyplex, “Abraham got as far as tying him down and raising the knife before God brought him a ram to sacrifice instead, to reward him for following even the commands he didn’t want to carry out. For not withholding anything from Him.”

Strand took a beat before replying, “Off your only son, huh? That’s a funny way to test a body. What happened to ‘God is good’?”
From the comm speaker to Strand’s left, “Religion, from my research, has little to do with logic and more to do with faith, Cal. Faith can be defined as belief in something for which there is no proof.” Her lilting accent dipped before continuing, “The parable Boone shared is designed to be uncomfortable and impossible to grasp so as to highlight the imperative for faith.”
“From that yarn I don’t cotton proof of a ‘good’ God.” Cal cocked his head and added, “Ram in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.” The Captain tipped his head back to take in the view of the skyplex, finally visible out the nose of the Doll. When he looked out into the deep of space, Cal didn’t see a benevolent or malevolent creator, testing folk and vetting them to be ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ He saw gray. The Black had a way of bleeding into all the corners of the ‘Verse. From where he sat, that just left shades of gray.

Boone gave a weak shrug, placing the hailing communicator in his beefy hand. “He’s full of mysteries, cap’n. I think the mystery is part of the point in that tale, that he doesn’t ask any questions…” Boone trailed off, still staring at the incoming skyplex. “Let’s hope the stationmaster here follows suit.”

"Little Moriah Skyplex, this is the shipping vessel China Doll requesting permission to board," Boone hailed, his voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through him. “Do you copy, Little Moriah? This is the shipping vessel China Doll, requesting permission to board, over.”
There was a long pause of crackling static before a stern, no-nonsense voice responded. "This is Stationmaster Dao. Maintain course and speed for vessel scan. State your business and submit your docking code for verification. Over."
Boone glanced at Cal, who nodded in reassurance before he replied, "Stationmaster Dao, we're here for a routine resupply, and then we’ll be on our way. Transmitting docking code now, over."
After a tense more few moments, the crackling silence was broken up once again by the stationmaster.
"State the nature of your cargo, China Doll.”

"The nature of our cargo?" Boone paused, squinting in disbelief. This was a question no simulated stationmaster had ever asked of him, and one he had no answer for but to stammer. Before Boone could utter a word, Cal smoothly stepped in, his voice projecting the confidence befitting a captain.

“Moriah, we’re laden with passengers, dry goods, and cattle; sending you the B.O.L. now.” Cal pressed a few buttons on the console with a glance at Boone. Placing one palm on the mute signal and making a show of wiping his chin with the other, he added to Boone, “Less questions this way. Less inspections, too, if they reckon we’re full of cow la shi.” He straightened, removing his palm from the console, and after a few moments the station master continued.

“Permission granted, China Doll. Proceed to docking bay three-zero-niner. Any deviation from your assigned path will result in immediate action," Stationmaster Dao's voice crackled over the comm. “Over and out.”
Boone acknowledged the instructions with a curt "Understood, Little Moriah. Proceeding to docking bay three-zero-niner, over and out." Boone clicked the hailing communicator and clipped it back into place on the console.“Thanks for that, Mr. Cal. Always time for an old dog like me to learn a new trick.”
“We got a few tricks to teach here on the Doll.” Cal lifted the comm at his left and held down the button, “Elias, we’re comin’ in to dock.” He let the button go, as an aside to Boone, “That’s so engineering can start down-cyclin’ and divert power to positional thrust.” He set the comm down and added, “Elias ain’t chatty, counta his condition, but his ears work fine, and he appreciates the heads up from the bridge.”

The Captain rose from his chair, sliding arms into his duster. “Now feel free to make the announcement on the shipwide comm that we’re dockin’. I’m off to make sure Yuri’s got our list all buttoned up, shiny?” He didn’t wait for the pilot’s response as he exited the bridge, taking the stairs two-at-a-time.

Boone gave a salutatory nod, taking up the comm one last time.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!" Boone’s voice concluded over the intercom as he leaned back in his small seat, a sense of satisfaction evident in his expression. With a contented sigh, he allowed himself a moment to relax, feeling the gentle hum of the ship beneath him. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a nice ram on this Moriah too, he thought to himself.

[sail3695]

”Read The Room”

Thing she come tah like most ‘bout Mr. Eleanor was he didn’t cut ‘er no slack in his teachin’. Diff’rence was after he done whupped her ass, he’d take time tah show ‘er how he done it. Abby watched as fer the last time, he snatched ‘er queen from tha board.

“So,” the old man peered above horn rimmed glasses. “How did I take your queen?”

She studied an’ studied afore answerin’. One thing he taught ‘er ‘bout chess was how important it was tah keep relationships with all yer pieces. And now, without the black queen fer an anchor, what she put tahgether weren’t gon’ hold off his attack fer long. “I’s too busy chasin’ yer bishop,” she said.

“It’s ‘I was…too busy chasing your bishop.’ Ever heard of diction, Squirt?”

Matter ‘o’ fact, she had. The mem’ry took ‘er right back tah her first days on China Doll, when ole Rex come struttin’ up like he done owned tha boat. Weren’t but a tick afore they’s thowin’ barbs like squabblin’ kids when he taught ‘er that word. “Ah have,” Abby’s eyes come up from tha board. “Why Ah need tah sound like ever’body else?”

“Ah!” Cyrus Eleanor gave her a rare smile. “Do you know the old phrase ‘Read The Room?’ Do you understand the meaning?”

“Sure’n Ah do,” the deckhand give a quick nod. “It’s like knowin’ all tha exits, never sittin’ with yer back tah tha door…sizin’ up them as like tah come at yah.”

Her response wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but it was nonetheless correct. “True,” replied with a nod. “Now, change the scene from that dingy barroom. Head uptown to a really fine establishment.”

Abby shook ‘er head. “Ah never go tah places like that. Don’t aim tah start now.”

“But that,” he lifted an index finger, “is where you can find the really big coin. Read the room,” he waved her attention to the chessboard, “and you’ll always come out ahead.” Without preamble, he reached across, plucking one of her a black pawns from the line to make a two space initial move.

“But why’dja…” She went silent. Abby always tried keepin’ as solid a wall ‘o’ pawns as she could tah protect ‘er king, but Mr. Eleanor done made an opening. She then looked on that pawn, try’na figger out his meanin’. He sat quiet as she conjured. Fer true they’s now a lane tah her back line, but that pawn just saved ‘er knight…and, she come tah see, give ‘er a whole new advantage. He’d have tah back ‘is queen, and that meant all the white queen protected would have tah back up too. “Ohhhhh,” the girl give a slow nod. “Ah see it now…but how’s that connect tah muh speakin’?”

“Read…the…room.” Cyrus retreated, his queen taking a diagonal path out of danger. “It’s the little things,” he offered with a touch upon her pawn, “that will win the day. Diction, Squirt. If you find yourself in a room with kings and queens, dialing that twang down and the skill to play at their parlance can help give you power.” He flipped his palm upward, gesturing as he continued. “Under all that rough and tumble, you’re a pretty girl, Abigail. That’s an advantage. Your move.”

Tha whole board done changed afore her eyes. Inwardly, she thought tah bristle at his boldness. Ever’ time in her life a man come tellin’ her she’s perty ended up with tha Colt persuadin’ him tah keep his hands tah hisself. But Mr. Eleanor weren’t makin’ no move tah touch ‘er. Hell, from what she could see in ‘is eyes he’s jest tellin’ somethin’ he felt was true, alot like somebody’d speak about tha weather. “Ain’t no whore,” Abby finally said as she pushed a knight two left, one forward.

He nodded his satisfaction. “Good…good. You see it. You don’t have to be a concubine, Squirt. But when the times demand, proper diction, a little charm, and some upgrades to your appearance can transform you from Abby to Abigail…and the marks will be eating out of your hand.” He pushed a pawn up to cover the queen’s retreat.

“Yah mean like a Companion?” Quill Cassidy come tah mind. Abby never conjured no taste fer girls, but Quill…she’s just so gorram beautiful an’...elegant. “Seems a mighty high mountain fer such as me tah climb.”

“Somewhat,” Cyrus’ hands rested on the tabletop. “But what if you only had to act the part for a few hours? Suddenly it becomes manageable. Do you follow?”

“Like a caper…runnin’ a job?”

“Exactly!” His queen broke left, a last ditch effort to protect an exposed king.

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “What’dja say yer line ‘o’ work was, Mr. Eleanor?” She could take that queen with her knight…wait. Then he’d kill tha knight with his king. But if her bishop done the deed, with tha knight guardin’...

Cyrus offered a contented smile in return. “I don’t believe that I did.” He watched as Abby removed his queen from the board, her bishop/knight combination posing an intractable threat to his king. “But, my dear Ms. Travis, I accomplish much of my task through reading the room…” He fell to silence as China Doll’s intercom squawked to life.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!"

Abby took to her feet. “Ah got work,” she said. “Need a hand gittin’...getting…your steamer trunk off?”

Cyrus dismissed her with a casual wave. “I’m shiny,” he quipped as his threatened king was laid to rest on the board. “Good game, Squirt.”

“Didn’t think Ah was gon’...excuse me…I didn’t think I was going to like you,” she admitted.

He offered his hand, and they shook. “I don’t suffer fools unless there’s coin to be had. And you, Abigail, are no fool.” Cyrus Eleanor hoisted his steamer trunk onto a pair of inset casters. “Please take care of the chessboard for me. We will be playing again.”

*********************************************************************************

Docking Berth Three-Oh-Nine.

China Doll was secure, pulling power and vitals from Skyplex umbilicals. Abby lowered the cargo ramp, then watched as one by one, the passengers disappeared into moving sea of humanity. “Read tha room,” she whispered, afore Yuri’s voice come over the com.

”Attention all hands, this is the first mate. Due to the length of time and remote location of our next job, Captain’s ordered everyone to report to Medbay for a complete physical exam. Abby, you’re up first. Imani will be ready for you in thirty ticks….”

The deckhand shrugged. “Guess them rooms...I suppose cleaning those guest rooms will have to wait."

[Xandrya]

Hand-to-Hand Healthcare

OOC: JP from @Xandrya and @sail3695

”Attention all hands, this is the first mate. Due to the length of time and remote location of our next job, Captain’s ordered everyone to report to Medbay for a complete physical exam. Abby, you’re up first. Imani will be ready for you in thirty ticks….”

Thirty ticks was jest enough time fer a proper shower an’ fresh clothes what didn’t stink of sweat. Afore today, only times Abby seen inside Medbay was if she got somethin’ hurt. She weren’t sure at all of what to expect, so she double scrubbed ever’ place, just tah be safe. Brushed ‘er teeth twice, too. Not knowin’ what Imani might wanna poke or prod at, the deckhand conjured less clothes might be better. With two minutes to spare, she showed up outside Medbay in a pair ‘o’ shorts an’ a tank top what read:

HAP’S LA FRONTERA
- Greenleaf -
So many great bars…and you came here?

The door was hangin’ open. “Imani…doc? Doc Imani?” She tapped on the doorframe. “Here fer muh phys’cal?”

“Come on in, Abby,” Imani looked over her shoulder at the redhead who was cutting it close with time, not that Imani was a stickler for punctuality. In fact, she herself had the occasional tardiness or two on record.

“Given my new position, I need to go down this checklist if ya don’t mind…” She turned to face the young girl, directing her to a scale that wasn’t there before. Once Abby settled in place, Imani recorded the displayed weight on her datapad. “Don’t move just yet…” From the corner of the scale, a green laser shone up adjacent to Abby which reached the height of the topmost part of her head. The scale then read her height. Imani then added that information in her datapad, which would automatically calculate the girl’s BMI, showing it was well within normal range.

Abby held still as numbers flipped an’ come tah rest, tellin’ her weight an’ height. “Five foot six,” the deckhand read aloud. “And one seventeen. Funny,” she shook ‘er head. “Ain’t grown any taller, but looks like Ah’m gittin’ wider. Is that normal?”

She smiled reassuringly, head slightly cocked to the side. “As normal as can get. You’re growing into womanhood, that’s all. And the labor the captain’s got you doing…that’s gonna tone you up. Alright, you may step down. Aside from recent injuries that have been previously recorded, are there any other medical issues I should know about?”

Abby thought on that one a spell. “Nah,” she finally answered. “Not really. Reg’lar pulled muscles an’ scrapes from hossin’ crates in tha cargo bay. Aside from that,” she give a shrug, “nada. All shiny.” Fer a sec she pondered why ever’ medbay she ever been in had tah be so gorram cold. I wager it’s a test, she finally decided. Goose flesh check, or some such.

Walking over, Imani patted the exam bed beside her. She reached for a band that when placed around someone’s arm, would give that person’s vitals amongst other things. “Have a seat if you will, just gonna handle this real quick.” Imani pushed a button and waited a few moments. While so, she turned to Abby. “Everything good in there?” she motioned towards the girl’s head.

That one sorta threw Abby. “In muh head?” she asked. “I s’pose. Ain’t zackly been all tea an’ biscuits around here of late, but Ah’m makin’ it.” The arm band commenced inflatin’, gettin’ tight on ‘er bicep so she could feel tha blood pumpin’ in ‘er veins. Then she remembered Thomas, a thought tah brighten her face. “It’s all lookin’ up, I reckon.”

Suddenly, she wondered if this kinda stuff was what Imani was askin’ about. “Yah did mean ‘what’s on muh mind, dinya?” she asked the new doc.

“It’s certainly what I mean.” This last reading was automatically saved on the datapad, a small beep later and she was removing the band from Abby’s arm. “Ya know, mental health affects your general health and I'm making it so you’re all good.” She placed the items down then turned to Abby, leaning with her back to the counter. “Any other concerns, health-related or otherwise?"

The girl smiled as a quick mem’ry of tha last time she’s asked that question crossed ‘er mind. Tha time Alana asked, she had tah admit some embarrassment fer worryin’ ‘bout tha bullet scar on ‘er pi gu and wonderin’ if she could ever wear a bikini. The Doc had been kind in her assurances, all proved right when Abby did hit tha beach on Pelorum.

After dousin’ tha smirk, she opened ‘er mouth with another question. “Cap’n’s told us yer really good in a scrap,” Abby began. “Ain’t seen yah in action but once, when that Shepherd put ‘is hands on yah. Weren’t even a tussle,” she shook ‘er head. “Jest one really slick move an’ he’s beggin’ fer mercy.” She stepped down from tha treatment table. “Them bikers what took me? They’s on me an’ I didn’t have a chance,” Abby said. “Can’t help wonderin’ how that mighta ended if Ah could handle muhself better.”

Abby’s eyes lifted toward Imani’s. “I’s wonderin’ if yah could teach me a few things? So I ain’t so helpless when somethin’ like that happens again?”

“Hope nothing like that happens again soon...but if it did, you want me to train ya some? I’ll gladly teach you a thing or two. For example—“ Imani motioned for Abby to move closer to her. She then turned around, taking Abby’s arm as she went and placed it around her neck. “If someone grabs you from behind, you can do a shin strike and scrape.” The interim medic demonstrated what she meant, placing the side of her shoe on Abby’s shin and guiding it down without putting force in the movement. “You’re first striking their shin, then dragging your foot down forcibly and with some strength behind it.” Imani tapped her arm twice and turned to face the girl. “It works best if his shin’s exposed but then that’d mean he wasn’t wearing any pants.” Imani smiled then laughed a little at her own terrible joke. “You think you got it? That’s just one of a multitude of techniques you can try."

The deckhand followed Imani’s lead, slippin’ ‘er arm about tha woman’s neck from behind. Tha new doc’s move weren’t nothin’ she’d seen afore, let alone expected. A shoe touched ‘er shin with a mild push, then slid down, tha heel trailin’ her shinbone til Imani’s foot come softly down on ‘er own.

“You’re first striking their shin, then dragging your foot down forcibly and with some strength behind it.”

She couldn’t quite conjure how well it worked. When Imani give ‘er arm coupla taps to let go, Abby’s all set tah try it herself, an’ was jest ‘bout tah ask as much.

“It works best if his shin’s exposed but then that’d mean he wasn’t wearing any pants.”

Like tha crack of a whip, she was right back there. The bag on ‘er head smelled somethin’ horrible. Filthy burlap itched on ‘er face where she was bent down on tha table. She could hear tha knife, workin’ its’ way through her tee shirt an’ bra as Lido cut ‘em tah scraps.

“Aaaaabby…” His voice in ‘er ear…a hand gropin’ ‘er bosoms til it slid down tah pull ‘er denims off.

She growed up bein’ tough, jest like Uncle Bob taught ‘er. ”Don’t show no weakness, Chick Pea.” An’ she tried. All ‘er life, she tried. But that one moment, as that man…that Lido..hauled ‘er unders down, Abby cried, an’ she begged. She…begged.

“Aaaaabby…”

The response Imani got wasn’t one she was expecting. It was as if Abby’s mind was suddenly elsewhere. A blank expression on her face, those distant eyes... Imani quickly grew concerned, her hand hovering over the girl’s shoulder but not wanting to scare her.

Her hand clutched tha exam table, holdin’ ‘er steady as Uncle Bob said it again, clear as day. ”Don’t let it show….don’t let it show…” From deep inside come tha shame; she fought tah push it back. It was shiny. Ever’thing’s shiny. She’s in Medbay. Imani’s teachin’ her…teachin’ ‘er some fightin’ moves.

“You alrighty, Abby? I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

At last, Abby turned toward ‘er newfound instructor. “Nah,” she tried shakin’ it off. “It’s all shiny. But can Ah ask a favor? Can we do that again? Fer real? Ah wanna know how it feels.”

Imani thought on that for a moment. Abby was big enough to know what she wanted; what she needed. If it’d help her sort out her business in that head of hers, then Imani was more than happy to oblige. “Try to make it realistic then, yeah? Come at me as if you want to choke me ‘til my body gives...” With that, Imani turned away from Abby and walked a few paces away, waiting for the young deckhand to strike.

“Like a choke hold, yeah? Okay.” Imani’s back was turnt, an’ she’d moved off coupla paces. Fer a sec, Abby pondered how much arm strength she oughtta use. She kinda feared what she’s feelin’, tucked jest beneath ‘er skin as she come forward. Abby never put nobody in a choke hold afore, but she seen it enough in some of them spy shows she watched. And fer now, thinkin’ about that was one helluva lot better’n recallin’ that what haunted ‘er dreams most nights.

”When you’re a spy, violence is a tool. Use it deliberately, and without emotion…”

Everythin’ she ever seen…ever’ time she heard it told, she s’posed tah bury her feelin’s…not let ‘em cloud ‘er judgment or purpose. Til right now, Abby always thought she did that part right well. So, why come it is that a joke ‘bout a man not wearin’ pants could knock ‘er so far off kilter? It was plain as day she’s gon’ need tah think on that a spell. She’s doin’ it again, gorramit! Clear your head, jackass!

Abby conjured it wise tah keep ‘er dominant hand, tha gun hand, free. She closed tha gap in a single stride, right foot forward, her left arm goin’ around Imani’s neck. Her bicep tensed enough tah make this feel kinda real. The gun hand hovered behind Imani’s right elbow.

Do no harm.

An ethical code she'd not strayed from. Not yet anyway. Imani was not a licensed physician but she followed similar guidelines.

First it was the couple of steps approaching her, then the arm snaking around her neck. Imani would follow through with Abby's request, though she'd dial it back to prevent major bruising.

When the arm around her tensed, Imani kicked her foot back to make contact with Abby's shin. There was a small jump, as expected. She then scraped down her leg with enough force to make Abby let go, but she didn't dig a much as she could have were she being truly attacked.

Abby stiffened, knowin’ she’s ‘bout tah get hit, waitin’ fer Imani’s backblow. I kinda wish I didn’t know… “OOOOOOOAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHH!” First, tha kick startled ‘er, then a sheet ‘o’ pain rocked Abby from kneecap tah ankle. It was like that word in her books…ex-cru-ciat-ing…..

”...It works best if his shin’s exposed…”
As Imani’s heel done its’ work, Abby nearabouts regretted wearin’ shorts tah her physical. She lost ‘er grip on tha medic, doublin’ over afore her hand clutched tha exam table. ”Xiā hóuzi de érzi!!!, she hollered. “THAT GORRAM HURT!”

She turned around. The instant regret in the form of a slew of lively language was somewhat satisfying. Imani smirked, shaking her head as if taunting Abby. “I told ya it’d hurt, but now you know it works.”

Funny thing was, a sharp jolt ‘o’ pain like that done more’n jest promise a bruise on Abby’s shin. All sudden like,her mind was blasted clear of all its’ cobwebs. An’ that, she reckoned, felt mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed. “Hooo, la shi!” she swore as she took tah hobblin’ about. “Damn if that don’t work!” A giggle passed ‘er lips. One blow an’ she’s staggerin’ like ole Rex on a bender. “Wow, Imani!” Abby bust out laughin’ at herself, “that hurts somethin’ fierce! Can yah teach me more? Mebbe have some practices?”

“There’s plenty for your learning, I’ll be glad to teach ya.” She gently guided Abby back onto the table. With a smile, she underhanded the girl’s leg just above the ankle to take a look at the damage. Imani figured it was nothing time wouldn’t solve as she slightly rotated Abby’s leg one way and then the other. The minor scrape and bruising would likely be gone in a couple of days. “Here, let me give ya some aftercare cream,” Imani briefly left Abby’s side, “It ain’t miracle in a bottle but you’ll get a nice tingling feel on your shin. Think of it as my peace offering to you.”

[wanderingwolf]

Oryoki at Little Moriah

Skyplex Little Moriah

To Lyen, a skyplex was a fascinating hub of commerce and beautiful sights and smells. On Santo, the idea of a skyplex had been completely foreign. Now, the nun had been to her share of skyplexes in her journeys since leaving the temple, but each time it felt, to her, like a marvel; a complete culture in and of itself. Though her Order was cast to the corners of the 'Verse, she usually happened to find a practitioner with which to commune and exchange blessings. This thought gave heart to her step as she exited her home of the China Doll, coiffed in her orange kasaya robe, her hair neatly braided in a long tail behind her.

Immediately, Little Moriah made itself known through the sizzling smell of kebabs, melted synth cheeses, and spices both familiar and unknown. The man behind a cart flagged her down, wafting the smell of his fare in her direction, "Finest meats in Little Moriah! No better prices from here to the rim!" The nun politely raised a hand in greeting, but continued on her sojourn toward the heart of Moriah. The station was roomy, with about ten foot high ceilings through the thoroughfare, clad in what had once been shining aluminum or steel--now scuffed and plastered over with flyers, posters, and wanted signs. She wandered up to a particularly covered alcove and perused the offerings. "Wanted: Castor Callum, $10,000.00, Alliance deserter and miscreant" and "Real canines, $4,000.00 OBO, healthy and ready to breed" along with "Synthflute lessons, cyberkeys, and drumpads, only $100.00 an hour!" She grasped a tearaway for lessons between a slender forefinger and thumb, pocketing the paper in the pouch that hung at her hip.

'Synthflute,' she thought, 'that might be a fun way to pass the time on this long leg ahead.' The tearaway had all the relevant details, indicating a music shop at the heart of Little Moriah: "Thames Court." The Order of the Interverse supplied their sojourning Sisters with a stipend each month, to an account wired through Londinium. Alliance credits would reach most of the civilized skyplexes and terraformed worlds without issue, simply through her ident card. For those occasions where Alliance credits wouldn't do, the Captain had provided a tidy sum in cash as a part of her limited work aboard the China Doll.

Continuing from the corridor, Lyen watched the way open up from the outer circle of docking stations to the skyplex proper. Here, all sorts of shops and services had been set up, from money lending to old-timey portraits. The portrait booth had costumes from eras on Earth-That-Was. Their display consisted of boas and sequins, top hats and canes with a large sign which said, "Travel back in time to the 19-20's! Paper portraits for your travels!" She considered asking Edina and Abby if they'd be interested in a portrait before they left. The sheer size of this place was staggering; countless alleys and doors led to a spiderweb of connected passages to travel the whole length of the skyplex.

Through to the next ring, Lyen finally laid her almond eyes on the purpose of her trip: the Interverse shrine. A single monk sat on a mat out front of the shrine, clothed in the same color kasaya robe she wore, his eyes closed in meditation. "Amituofo, brother," Lyen said in greeting to the monk, who opened his eyes and inclined his head to see her bow, hands clasped in the prayer pose.

The man was stocky, with a heavy, but kempt, salt-and-pepper beard covering his lips and chin. His eyes were a stone blue, and the lines on his face rested high on his eyes, above pronounced cheek bones. His shaved head shone in the fluorescent lights of the cooridor. He returned the gesture and rose from his position, "Sis-tear, I welcome ye. May the In-ter-verse guide yer pahth." He gestured for her to follow him into the shrine through the decorated, wooden archway, which had been crafted onto the nondescript steel opening to an inner room. She acquiesced, following him.

The shrine was humble, but ornately covered in carved wood; most were room partitions and dividers stacked against he cold, hard steel of the Little Moriah's meager rooms. An astounding amount of plants were present here, too, so much so that the air took on a heavy, moist texture as Lyen breathed in the fresh scent of wet soil. The space was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide, but somehow it felt expansive with wooden statues of Buddha leading the viewer toward the far end of the room where the shrine opened up to depict the largest statue of the Enlightened one, with the flames from myriad candles dancing, and offering bowls waiting to be filled. About halfway, an alcove had been constructed and coyly hidden behind some flowering bushes which offered the sound of a crackling fire.

"Please, take som' tea wit meh, and we c'n speak of yer journey," he said in a strong accent of what Lyen recognized to be Northern Scotland on Earth-That-Was; the experience was pleasing to her ear, and she replied, "Of course Brother, it would be my pleasure." The monk nodded, and indicated a small plastic chair and table covered in an elaborate table cloth indicating the symbolic pillars of their faith.

The cozy spot was warmed by a furnace on which the monk set a kettle to boil. It was customary for traveling Sisters and Brothers to carry a donation to shrines on the farthest reaches of the 'Verse. Lyen had packed her coin purse just for this express purpose. The stipend her temple on Santo supplied her was more than sufficient for her needs. Today, she carried this month's allowance in full.  The monk straightened at the table, from attending to the kettle. Lyen asked, "Brother, do you have a bowl? I wish to practice oryoki."

"Aye," the monk replied, he craned toward the furnace and produced a cloth-wrapped bowl and a bell, setting them on the table cloth between them. He unwrapped the bowl with measured gestures, the cloth unfolding into a diamond shape which he then tucked on each side to resemble the lotus' petal. Utensils were also present in his bundle, as the Brother must have participated in oryoki for each meal, even alone here on Little Moriah. Today, however, he would gladly receive any gift from the Interverse which would meet the physical needs of the shrine. 

Oryoki is the practice of 'just enough.' It traditionally refers to meals, being an intricate ceremony of bowls for rice and soup. As a practice, though, it branches farther than the body's physical needs. We are oryoki ourselves. Everything should be appreciated as the container of the Buddha. Lyen reached for her coin purse and fished out the credits she had set aside for this purpose. She began chanting rhythmic phrases memorized while taking meals on Santo, and her cohort joined in her chant, lifting the bell. To Ly, the sound of the bell was most appealing, having none aboard the China Doll. Its clear, low sound filled the modest shrine as their voices joined it. Then, her slender hands placed the coin in the Brother's bowl. At oryoki's conclusion, the monk bowed to her, and she reciprocated, her long, flowing braid falling to her side. 

There was a palpable magic to the inclusion of common practice, even across these great distances. The 'Verse was as wide as the Interverse is deep. It is all around us, Ly thought, and it is inside all of us, connecting us. The practice of giving and participating in oryoki, filled her with strength. As she quit the shrine and the Brother, Lyen followed her feet to the center of Little Moriah's busy trade, almond eyes filled with care for each gaze that matched her own.