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Tommy Pearson sat across the desk from the Alliance representative, an overweight waste of space of a man he had come to call 'Syl-lee', much to the annoyance of the representative himself. The man probably weighed a good fifty pounds more than Tommy on account of piloting a desk for most of his career, and it seemed at times like he had a habit of trying to make Tommy's life a living hell just to make his own more interesting. Like today, for example.
"Mr. Pearson, your papers are two months from expiring and you are well aware that maintaining your papers as well as updating the Alliance of your residency is a requirement of your parole for your past... misdeeds," the man, who's nametag proudly proclaimed that his name was Sylvester Leonard-Paul, said.
"Ah'm ware," Tommy replied, overemphasizing the drawl common amongst those of the 'border planets'. "But gee Mr. Officer, sir, I jus' don't know how a fella 'sposed to survive payin all these gorram fees and hold onto a good piece o' dirt."
"Mr. Pearson, cut the sarcasm if you would. The Alliance is here to help-,"
A stifled snort of a laugh nearly erupted from Tommy before he could restrain himself, interrupting the Alliance rep.
"We are here to help Mr. Pearson," the man continued, a shade of color coming to his face at Tommy's attitude. Fortunately, Tommy had made a short career out of knowing how far to push an Alliance rep.
"Of course, Syl-Lee," Tommy said, leaning in as though he was about to share a secret, "I just have a hard time trying to understand such Gǒu shǐ."
"Careful, Mr. Pearson. Expressing such... distaste for Alliance authority could be described as what got you into this mess," the man said, leaning back in his chair and glancing towards the nearby Alliance Security officer. At a word, the officer would beat Tommy within an inch of his life and throw him out into the streets for the dogs or the desperate to finish him off.
"Ahm truly sorry, Officer. I have nuthin but 'spect for the Alliance. Y'all fine boys won the war fair and square and I was just a poor mislead boy on the wrong side of the line. Sure am grateful y'all rescued me from my life of scum and villlainy," Tommy said, pressing his luck a little further than he normally would. This was the fourth time in the month he had been on Osiris that he had been called in to answer to this officer, who never missed a chance to express that there were fines for enjoying all the wonderful services the Alliance provides. Unfortunately for Tommy, his accounts were drying up, and a man like Sylvester could almost smell when that happens. When that happened, Tommy would have only three choices: get lucky and get killed in the streets doing something stupid, rot in an alliance jail for the rest of his life, or make it offworld with enough scratch to continue paying off whatever corrupt Alliance reps got assigned his particular case.
Tommy reached down and pulled a handful of paper Alliance notes to slide not too subtly to Sylvester. The man grunted and took the notes, giving Tommy a look that all but said 'is this really all?'
"This will cover about half of your late fees, Mr. Pearson. The Alliance requires the rest very, very soon," Sylvester said, the notes disappearing into his desk like magic. If he was concerned about the guard noticing, he didn't show it. Hell, Tommy would give even odds that the guard took his own cut.
"Get out, Mr. Pearson," Sylvester said.
Tommy rose, bowing with in an over the top manner before tilting his hat to the guard and walking out of the room. On the way out, he stopped at the front desk and punched in a code to a locker mounted in the wall, retrieving his Firestar M-45 and combat knife, relics of his Independent days. Tommy checked his sidearm to be sure it was untampered with, one could never trust the Alliance even with the little things these days it seemed. Satisfied that it was untouched, he slid the handgun into a holster on his right side and left the office, heading out into the city.
He needed money, or a way off this rock and there was really only one place where he might be able to accomplish one or both of those things.
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Nope, clear signs of impact damage on the port side engine, Tommy thought to himself as he all but inhaled a bowl of rice dripping with sauce while checking out the ships parked along the loading yards. He was currently looking over a Knorr-class freighter who's crewman was advertising a run to the border planets, promising stops at nearly all the most promising locations. The impact marks and the price being a little too cheap made him think the vessel was likely a 'frequent unfortunate target of pirate vessels', meaning the Captain probably cut a deal with some less than moral folks to cheat others out of their lives and property.
He was hoping to find a crew that seemed at least interested in some honest work enough to avoid tossing him out an airlock but wasn't having much luck.
The next vessel he checked was even worse. The crewman had burn marks on his hands, along with a habit of smoking entirely too much and constantly offering Tommy whiskey to sweeten the deal. Drunk mechanics tended to make for awful ships.
And then he came across the China Doll.
What made him stop was a brief pang of memory from his days in the war. He had flown a Komodo-Class in those days, but the Firefly-class was a frequent sight as the Series 3 could be customized as a gunship or a transport depending on the needs of it's side. He let out a low whistle as he studied the ships profile, already considering it the best of the finds he had come across so far. He tossed his rice bowl in a nearby receptacle and stepped closer, noting the signs of use but overall lack of serious damage or maintenance flaws.
"Nǐ shì wǔhuì shàng zuì piàoliang de nǚhái(You are the prettiest girl at this dance)," he muttered to himself. His chinese was a bit stilted, but still remarkably well pronounced on account of his adoptive parents. So what exactly, would be the boot to fall down and crush his dreams on this one?
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